Free Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) by Kate Canterbary

paying you enough?”
    “I was filling in for a buddy, and I just like it,” he shrugged. “But if you’re looking to unload some cash, I won’t stop you.”
    “And what about you, Sammy?” Shannon asked.
    I glared at her, waiting for her to realize she stood me up at Commonwealth, didn’t return my calls, and ignored every single one of my fucking texts this weekend. She went right on typing and sipping her coffee.
    “My weekend was sensational, Shannon. I went to six different music festivals in four states, got drunk at the Feast of St. Anthony, passed out in Cambridge, and almost died in a goddamn elevator crash. Where the fuck were you on Friday and why the fuck weren’t you answering your phone?”
    No one moved for a full minute, and then Riley said, “Did you get to the Thomas Point Beach Bluegrass show? I heard that was good this year.”
    “Is that a metaphor for something? Or are you talking about an actual elevator?” Patrick asked.
    “Yeah. What do you mean, you almost died?” Matt said.
    “The power went out in the Back Bay, and I was trapped in an elevator at the Comm Ave. property for eight hours,” I said.
    “The same elevator that slammed into the basement of that building?” Matt asked. “The one I read about, with the massive system failure compounded by the outage?”
    “Same fucking one,” I said. “So I’d love to know, Shannon. How was your weekend?”
    “Did you go somewhere?” Patrick asked her. “You didn’t mention anything . . . I thought you were staying in town.”
    “That’s because I don’t need you to approve my weekend plans, Patrick,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going, or what I’m doing, or who I’m with.”
    “But it would be good if you tell me, so I don’t wait around at a property and get stuck in a fucking elevator,” I replied.
    “Jesus Christ, Sam, I’m sorry! I lost track of things, okay? I’m sorry.” She slammed her coffee cup down and crossed her arms over her chest. “I went away with some friends, and I forgot about the appointment at Comm Ave., and—”
    “The only person you spend time with who isn’t presently accounted for in this room is my wife,” Matt said. “And she was with me, on the Cape.”
    I turned to Matt. “Do you ever get tired of saying it with that sanctimonious tone? ‘My wife’?”
    He shot me a smug grin. “Never.”
    “But you’re okay, yeah?” Riley asked. He pointed to the yellowing bruise on my face. “Is this from the elevator or blacking out in Cambridge?”
    “Elevator,” I said.
    Waking up in Tiel’s apartment left its marks, but they weren’t bruises.
    “Why didn’t you call one of us?” Andy asked, angling her pen at Riley, Patrick, and Matt.
    I lifted a shoulder and mumbled a response into my coffee cup.
    “All right,” Patrick murmured. “Let’s get back on track here. Sam’s alive. Shannon can’t manage her appointments. Moving on.”
    We reviewed the active projects, as well as the ones we were considering. I didn’t mention the Commonwealth property; I wasn’t convinced I wanted to see the inside of that building ever again.
    “Sam . . .” Shannon held up her hand while she paged through her notebook. “I can’t go with you to the ASNE event in November.”
    The Architectural Society of New England’s annual banquet didn’t matter to me, and if Shannon hadn’t insisted that I attend and personally collect my awards each year, I wouldn’t go. But she claimed it was great networking—even though none of those people agreed with our approach to preservation—and she made a point of attending, and befriending everyone in the room.
    “And where will you be?” I asked.
    She continued turning the pages, stopping occasionally to rearrange the sticky notes and mark reminders on her daily checklists, and murmured, “It’s personal. If you need me to find someone to go and hold your hand, I will, but don’t pout over it.”
    I snapped my laptop