My stomach clenched, and I took another gulp of my coffee. Not that it would help, but it was better than standing around twiddling my thumbs. Babysitting a house I couldn’t sell while waiting for a flaky contractor wasn’t on my list of things to do today.
My phone rang just as Mr. Franklin pulled up in the drive. I let the call go to voice mail. Whatever it was, I could deal with it later. Right now, I had to rip the contractor a new one.
“Morning Miss Winslow.” He didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry as he got out of the truck, a cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth.
“Maybe for you. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour waiting for you to show up. You were supposed to start this job yesterday.” Frustration clawed at me, but I kept a tight lid on it. I couldn’t afford to explode. Not yet.
He walked around to the back of his truck, unaffected by my accusation. “Left you a message yesterday that I got hung up over at the festival site. As for this morning, it took longer than it should have to pick up supplies. You ought to know this business can be pretty unpredictable.”
Gaslighting his customer, that was original. I wouldn’t stand for it. “Don’t try to tell me how this business goes. I’ve been in real estate a long time and worked with dozens of contractors.”
He lifted his foot to rest on the bumper and flicked his cigarette to the ground. “I’m sure you have. And I bet not a single one of them has had a schedule change.”
Why couldn’t he just apologize and get on with things? I’d had a bad feeling about him all along and the longer I tried working with him, the worse it got. No point adding delays by chasing an apology I wasn’t going to get. “Well, you’re here now. Please tell me where you plan to start and what my client can expect.”
He went over the plan… bolster the supports, back fill with dirt, and regrade the area around the house. It was exactly what he’d talked about before and exactly what my client had agreed to. I just hoped the work held. It had taken several days of back and forth phone calls to talk my client into investing in the repair. He’d made it crystal clear he expected the house to sell easily as soon as the work was done.
“And you’re starting today,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“As soon as the materials are delivered.” He glanced up and pointed to a huge truck that stopped in front of the house. “Looks like they’re here now.”
The truck beeped as the driver put it in reverse and backed up the driveway. The driveway where my car sat.
“You need to tell him to move. I’m not sticking around. I’ve got too many things to do.” I stalked toward my car, ready to back it out.
As Mr. Franklin walked toward the driver’s side window, the back of the truck lifted.
I stood there, my mouth open wide as the truck dumped an entire load of fill dirt onto the driveway behind my car. “No, no, no.”
The driver hopped out with a clipboard in his hand. Franklin scrawled his signature, confirming delivery. I didn’t move, too shocked to form words. What was I supposed to do now?
“Sorry, Miss Winslow. Looks like you’re not going anywhere for a while.” Franklin pulled a couple of shovels out of the back of his truck and handed one to a young guy who stepped up next to him.
I held out my hand, palm open. “Give me your keys.”
“What?” His brow creased and he let out a sharp laugh.
“You blocked me in here, but I’ve got places to be. I’ll have to take your truck.” I thrust my hand closer to him. “Give me your keys.”
“I’ve got equipment in there. You can’t just take off in it.”
If he thought I wasn’t serious, he didn’t know me or my family as well as he thought he did. “Then I suggest you put down that shovel and start unloading what you need for the day. Call me once you move this dirt, and I’ll bring the truck back.”
He might have muttered something unfavorable under his breath, but he handed me his keychain and moved to the back of the truck to grab what he needed.
Twenty minutes later, I was on my way to meet with a local photographer to talk about taking pictures for a new listing when I remembered the voicemail message. Franklin’s truckrumbled under my ass, almost too loud for me to hear the message play through my speaker. I swear it said something about our headliner band canceling, but I must have heard wrong.
With my heart pounding, I pulled to the side of the road and played it again. The band’s manager said they’d heard rumors the festival wasn’t happening because construction wouldn’t be done in time.
That was ridiculous. I’d been out there myself over the weekend to check on things. Franklin might be behind schedule on the house repair, but the festival construction was happening right on time. My hands shook as I dialed Mayor Nelson’s number.
“Mayor Nelson here,” Orville answered.
“Hi, it’s Peyton Winslow. Our headline band is canceling because they heard the construction at the fairgrounds won’t be done in time for the festival. Do you know where they might have gotten that impression?” It didn’t make sense. Tumbleweed Crossing wasn’t even local, though the lead singer was related to one of the guys in the Mustang Mountain Riders somehow. That’s how we’d been able to convince a band so big to come play in our tiny town.
“I thought everything was on schedule out there,” Orville said.
“As far as I know, it is. I’ll go check after I’m done with my appointments. If you hear anything, please let me know.” I crossed my fingers, hoping it was just some bad information that got passed along.
