The next week was a blur of activity.

Suzanne’s cleaning crew, an efficient team of five young women, showed up the day after the party and got to work. They tore through the house, scrubbing walls and washing floors, exclaiming in surprise that the place wasn’t as dirty as they anticipated. I wondered who’d gotten rid of the cobwebs and swept before I moved in, but forgot about it in the press of everything else that had to be attended to.

I called three contractors from Portland to come out and give me a bid, only two of whom showed up. One of the contractors was a guy in his sixties who looked at my ass one too many times for comfort. The other one was a perfect gentleman, but the quote he gave me was so high, it made me laugh out loud before I tore it in two.

The following week, I got two more quotes from two more contractors. One was closer to my budget, but the owner said he couldn’t start the work for ninety days. The other was from a guy who kept suggesting I’d be more comfortable having my husband deal with “this kind of thing,” as if my vagina were a handicap to rational thinking.

Meanwhile, the lights flickered, the pipes in the walls clanged, the ceiling in the master bedroom sagged so badly in one corner, it looked like a boil ready to burst, and the shingles on the roof flew off one by one anytime there was a strong gust of wind.

Worst of all, an ominous crackling coming from one of the electrical outlets in the parlor made me fear that a fire would break out, and I’d die of smoke inhalation in my sleep.

So on a Friday evening when the fog is so dense I can’t see the rose bushes that had gone wild around the path leading to the front door, I dial the number Suzanne originally gave me when I asked for a referral for a contractor.

I assumed Hillrise Construction would have an answering service which answered the phones, considering the owner’s general hostility and disinclination to speak, so I’m not surprised when a machine picks up. The outgoing message is one of those toneless, electronic voices you get when you neglect to customize it.

“Please. Leave. A message. After. The tone.” Beep.

“Hi. My name is Megan Dunn, and I was referred to you by Suzanne Martin. I bought the Buttercup Inn and need a quote for repairs.”

I leave my cell phone number and am about to hang up when the distinct click of the line being picked up stops me. Then I’m listening to silence.

“Hello?”

I could swear I hear a low exhalation, but no one speaks.

Holy shit. It must be him. No-talking Theo with the crazy eyes. “Um…is anyone there?” More silence, but someone is definitely there. I hear rustling and a faint creak in the background, as if whoever answered has sat down.

Why the hell would he pick up the phone if he doesn’t talk?

I start to get irritated, because I’ve got the patience of a four-year old who’s missed a nap. “Okay, well, look. I need to get a quote on repairs for the Buttercup Inn. Is that something you can help me with?”

I never knew silence could be so loud. It’s absolutely deafening.

I’m about to tell him to go jump off a bridge, but it occurs to me that I could have fun with this instead of letting it aggravate me. “Hey, here’s an idea. I saw this on TV once, some dumb show I forget the name of where a guy had laryngitis but had to try to warn his girlfriend a killer was headed over to her house. I’ll ask a question, and you can answer by using the phone buttons. One beep for yes, two beeps for no. And three beeps for maybe, if you feel like you might need that option. Okay?”

The silence lasts so long I start to worry he already hung up and I’m listening to a dead line, but then I hear it. A single, sharp electronic beep.

Son of a bitch.

“Good. Okay, so…is this Theo?”

A slight pause, then a beep that somehow sounds resigned.

“Hi, Theo, this is Megan Dunn. We’ve already met. Twice, actually. Once at Cal’s Diner, and once in the backyard at Sunday and Chris’s house party a few weeks back. Do you remember?”

Beeep.

The tone is longer. More emphatic. He remembers. For some strange reason, my pulse picks up and my armpits go damp.

“Right. So anyway, Suzanne says you’re the best contractor around and I’ve already been through five other guys—that sounded wrong, but you know what I mean—so I was wondering if you’d have time to come out this week and take a look at the place.”

Two sharp, successive beeps, and that’s an unequivocal No. But I have to confirm, just in case. “No? You won’t come out?”

Beep. Beep.

Jesus. How can someone sound like such a dick using only a single button on a telephone?

“Well, fine,” I say curtly, heat creeping into my cheeks. “Sorry to have wasted your time. Have a nice life.” I’m about to throw my cell phone across the room when over the line comes a rapid mess of electronic noises.

He’s pushing all the buttons at once.

When the cacophony stops, I’m livid. Through gritted teeth, I ask, “Were you trying to tell me something there, Sunshine?”

BEEEEEP!

I decide I need a drink if I’m going to continue this bizarre conversation, so I head into the kitchen and unscrew the top of the crappy bottle of wine I bought at the store the other night. I pour some into a glass, guzzle half of it down, swallow, then blow out a breath, all the while acutely aware of the throbbing silence on the other end of the line.

Then my mouth falls open because I’m listening to a telephone rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” played by hitting the right keys to make the correct notes of the song.

Moody Theo has a sense of humor.

“That was interesting. Are you having fun?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Maybe.

I burst out laughing, because this is total insanity. “Can I just take a moment to say that this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my entire life? This even beats the time I walked in on my dad wearing my mother’s underwear. I don’t expect an answer to that, by the way, I’m just thinking out loud here.”

We breathe at each other for what feels like a long time. “Okay. Starting over. When you say you don’t have time to come out this week, does that mean you won’t come out, period?”

Beep. Beep.

Why that should make me feel relieved, I have no idea. I clear my throat and try to proceed in an orderly fashion. “So would it be correct for me to infer that you might have time…the week after next?”

Beep. Beep.

“So like, what? Next month?”

Beep. Beep.

Not next week, not the week after that, and not next month. Before I give my temper free rein and decide he’s screwing with me, I try a last resort. “This weekend?”

Beep.

Oh. Okay. “Tomorrow?”

Beep.

“Morning or afternoon?” When I don’t hear a beep, I realize my mistake. “One beep for morning—say between nine and noon—two beeps for afternoon between twelve and fiveish.”

Beep.

“Okay, then. Morning it is. Uh…thanks, I guess?”

When he exhales, hard, I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s looking out at the ocean, or lying on his back on his bed staring at the ceiling, or sitting in a chair with the phone held to his ear, his eyes closed and his heart thumping the way mine is.

“Theo?”

Beep.

I don’t know what moves me to say it. I don’t know why I feel the strange skittering over my skin that raises goose bumps on my arms, or why my stomach is in knots, or why it’s become so imperative to have an understanding with this odd, mysterious man. All I know is that the words rise from my throat and leave my mouth unbidden and unrehearsed, in a voice that’s undeniably raw.

“I know what it’s like to have life pull the rug out from under you.”

I hang up before he can respond. Then I stand in my empty kitchen, the relentless boom of waves crashing against the shore the only sound besides my labored breath.

* * *

I don’t sleep that night, because I never do. Chronic insomnia is one of those things I’ve learned to live with, like soul-crushing grief and people who talk too loudly on their cell phones in public. When a knock comes on the front door in the morning, I’m ready. I’ve psyched myself up for another weird encounter with the Hulk Who Does Not Speak, but when I open the door, I’m surprised to find a stranger with cornflower-blue eyes, a huge grin, and a square jaw garnished by an unruly blond beard. He’s carrying a manila envelope.

“Hi!” he booms, sticking out his hand. “Preston Cooper, Ms. Dunn, but everyone calls me Coop. Pleasure to meet you!”

When I stand there looking at him askance, wondering what he’s selling, he adds, “I’m the foreman at Hillrise Construction.”

“Oh! Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.” Though I suppose his flannel shirt and work boots should’ve been a clue. “Please, call me Megan.”

We shake hands, then his broad forehead crinkles into a frown. “Did I get my days wrong? I coulda swore Theo said today.”

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean I wasn’t expecting Hillrise. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought Theo would be coming out to meet me.”

He smiles broadly, shaking his head. He has an overbite, which I’ve always found charming. “Naw, no need. He’s got your quote all put together already.” He hands me the manila envelope.

Puzzled, I open the flap, pull out a sheaf of papers, and look them over. After a moment, I glance up at Coop, who’s beaming.

“How could he have put this together without looking at the house?”

“He’s the best in the business is how. Theo knows everything about every house in town.”

It’s more likely he’s buddies with one of the other contractors and got a copy of their quote. Maybe he’s going to give them a kickback on the job. Whatever, that’s his business. I flip to the last page of the papers in my hands, frowning when I see the total. “He’s missing a zero here.”

“Yeah, you’d think. But that’s not a mistake. That’s the price for the job.”

The cries of the seagulls wheeling overhead punctuate the ensuing silence. I stare at Coop, feeling like I’m missing something. “Is your boss a little…?” I make a circular motion next to my ear.

Coop looks disturbed by my question. His smile is hesitant. “That’s funny. He said you were a firecracker.”

My eyebrows hike so far up my forehead, they might have melded with my hairline. “He told you about me?”

“No,” he says emphatically, which is an obvious lie.

I cock my head and stare at him, which makes him squirm. “Coop.”

“What?”

“Is Hillrise’s office nearby?”

He looks worried. “Why do you ask?”

If I’m going to hire Hillrise Construction for this job, I need to have a real conversation with its owner. Two unsettling stare-offs and a bizarro phone call aren’t going to cut it. I spot Coop’s truck—an enormous red Ford—at the curb.

“Let’s take a ride. I need to have a chat with your boss.”

Coop’s split-second pause is odd. “That’s not such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say he doesn’t appreciate people showin’ up unannounced.”

“So text him. Tell him we’re on our way.”

Coop thoughtfully rubs his beard, looks up at the sky, then checks his watch. Sucking his teeth, he looks back up at the sky, and now I’m done with this ridiculous stalling.

“Spit it out, Coop.”

He props his hands on his hips and stares at his boots for a while. Then he clears his throat before carefully choosing his words. “He’s not exactly a people person.”

“I know he doesn’t talk, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“There are…other issues.”

“I’m also well aware of his sunny disposition. The man could frighten Frankenstein. But he doesn’t scare me. And if I’m going to invest a substantial amount of money with Hillrise, I need to have a face-to-face meeting with the owner, so I can look in his eyes and feel like I can trust him to do a good job. Because, honestly, our two meetings so far have left me with the impression that his elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor, if you know what I mean.”

Uncomfortable under my hard stare, Coop shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Okay, look. The way it works is that I meet with the clients to get the specs, then Theo puts together the quote and hires the subs, then I manage the job from start to finish. He’ll come out to check on the work, but he doesn’t have much one-on-one contact with the clients.”

There’s another tiny pause wherein Coop almost says something else, but he stops himself and just looks at me. The air is thick with unspoken words.

Suzanne had told me Theo was very hands-on with all his projects, overseeing everything from start to finish, but that’s the opposite of what Coop just said…

“Wait. He doesn’t want to meet with me, does he?”

Coop looks startled, then guilty.

Bingo.

He holds up a hand, shaking his big blond head. “Hold on, I didn’t say that at all—”

“Why would he not want to meet a potential client?” I ignore his denial, jerking my thumb toward the house. “This is a huge job. What’s the problem?”

Coop inhales a long breath, searching for words, but my patience expires before he can find them.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. You text Theo right now—or however it is you communicate with him—and tell him I’m coming over. Or he can come here, whatever’s more convenient. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to do business with someone who won’t even give me the courtesy of a meeting.”

I fold my arms over my chest and stare at Coop, my gaze unblinking.

His cheeks puff out as he slowly exhales. Then he digs his cell phone from the front pocket of his jeans, muttering, “Well, hell.”

It takes a geological epoch for Coop to send a text message, because he uses one finger, squinting and pecking at the keyboard on his iPhone until I want to tear my hair out. When he finally presses Send, he glances up at me with a hesitant smile.

Apparently, Theo is much quicker on the draw, because the chime from an answering text comes through within seconds. Coop reads the message, but is silent.

“What did he say?”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Um.”

“Give me the phone.”

Coop’s blue eyes grow wide.

“Coop,” I insist, holding out my hand. “Give me. The phone.”

He hands it over with an expression like a puppy who’s been scolded. I look at the screen.

The message is all in caps and bolded, like Theo’s shouting from the other side of the screen.

I waver for a moment between feeling insulted or wanting to laugh. This is so odd and unexpected, I can’t decide how to feel about it. Logic tells me there’s nothing I could have possibly done to earn this stranger’s dislike, but he clearly has a strong aversion to my presence. He’s like a bear with a thorn in its paw—only the thorn is me.

“That woman,” he wrote. Like I’m a carrier of the plague.

I look up at Coop with my brows drawn together. “Have you known Theo a long time?”

“Sure. We both grew up in Seaside. We were on the football team together in high school. He was one of the groomsmen at my wedding.”

Gathering my thoughts, I hand him his phone. “Okay. I won’t put you in an awkward position by trying to force you to tell me why your friend doesn’t like me, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell Theo that I said…ouch.”

Coop lifts his brows. “Ouch?”

“Yeah. Ouch. Just tell him that. And that if I see him again, I’ll cross the street first so he doesn’t have to. Thanks for coming out.”

I hand him the manila envelope with the quote in it and close the door.