Nothing but Trouble by Susan May Warren Read Free Book Online

Park. She’d cashed Burke’s life insurance check as well as his parents’ inheritance and moved the thirty miles back to Kellogg, settling in a fifty-three-hundred-square-foot Craftsman home, built at the height of the roaring twenties, with ten-foot ceilings and a maid’s quarters.
    Connie had written to her, sent her pictures. Still, PJ hadn’t expected this much grandeur. The house, situated on nearly a half acre of groomed landscape, sat back from the street, an island of grace with its dark cream siding, milky white porch columns, and rich mahogany door. Three floors, two chimneys, and a third-story dormer window overlooked a front walk lined with hostas. Two lilac trees, heavy with flowers, flanked the row of purple viburnum and dwarfed cedar trees on either side of the wide steps. They led to a porch adorned with potted impatiens and a white rocking chair.
    If PJ had a choice, she would have picked exactly the same house. She and Connie at least shared tastes, if not incomes.
    PJ tapped her brakes as she pulled into Connie’s driveway. She half expected to see the Great Gatsby stroll out on the porch, lean against the white columns, and stare down at her with prejudice.
    For a second, she longed for her floral sheets.
    Davy was out of his car seat before she could put the car in park. She reached over and released the door, and he pitched out.
    While he ran up the steps, PJ retrieved her duffel bag from the trunk. She stopped for a moment, watching her mother pry herself out of her car, hopping to grab her crutches from the backseat. “You need some help, Mom?”
    Elizabeth ignored her.
    PJ wondered if her mother would start holding her breath too.
    She climbed the stairs, old phone conversations playing in her mind   —Connie’s rants as she supervised a battalion of subcontractors who restored the home to its natural hand-scrolled oak trim and wood floors, installed replica period light fixtures, and turned the tiled fireplaces to gas.
    PJ opened the door to the scent of lemony wax and oil, the floor groaning as she stepped inside, cutting into the hushed reverence.
    All her earthly belongings made a thump as she dropped the bag.
    “Are you sure you’ll be okay here?” her mother said, clunking up the steps.
    “I think I’ll manage.”
    “You won’t have to clean. Your sister has a service   —comes in once a week   —and a lawn company too.”
    Of course she did.
    “And the Russians are in the old maid’s quarters off the back of the house. So you and Davy will have the upstairs.”
    “I’m not even going to ask whose idea it was to put them in the servant’s quarters. Really, Mom?”
    “It’s a very nice room. And it has its own bathroom. Remember, PJ, your sister has gone to a lot of work. The stained glass window is original, and she shopped for weeks before she found the right tile   —had it imported from a store in New York that specializes in historical restorations   —”
    “I’ll try to keep from breaking anything.”
    Elizabeth sighed. Then she lowered her voice and glanced behind her. “What about the Russians?”
    “Seriously, it’s not the 1950s. Joe McCarthy is dead.”
    Elizabeth didn’t even blink.
    “I think we can take ’em, despite all their propaganda   —”
    “For pete’s sake, PJ, you know what I mean.” She gave a head bob toward the couple now climbing out of a green Taurus. Vera gave a tug on her dress, the neckline having migrated south.
    Their driver left them the second they had their doors shut.
    “I guess I’ll just feed them and tuck them into bed.”
    Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “They don’t speak any English. I mentioned that, didn’t I?”
    “Listen, I spent a summer as a cook at a camp in Seattle. They had a couple weeks of Russian-only immersion. I’ll remember the basics. But do you know why Connie told me not to let them sunbathe?”
    Elizabeth raised her plucked eyebrows, and PJ could nearly see her contemplating the images.