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hammering and shouting before he even got out of his car. He walked up his front steps and through the open door.
    A moment later he ducked as a man in overalls carrying a bundle of two-by-fours swung around the corner from the basement steps. He barely glanced at Paul.
    “Hey, toss me that hammer, will ya?” a voice called down from the stair landing. “Right there on the tool-box—the claw with the blue handle.”
    Paul looked around, found the hammer and made the mistake—one he still frequently made—of tossing it withhis right hand. The pain made him suck in his breath. The hammer clattered to the staircase several steps down from the man who needed it.
    “Sorry,” Paul said, and moved to retrieve it.
    “Okay, I got it.” The man disappeared behind the stair railing. A moment later Paul heard the thud of the hammer against one of his balusters.
    “Hey! Should you be taking that thing out? Won’t the banister fall off?”
    The man reared. He was thin with graying hair and skin like old cypress left too long in the creek. “Yeah, I should be taking it off and no, the banister won’t fall down. All right with you?”
    Chastened and feeling way out of his element, Paul went in search of Buddy.
    He found him and a crew in the basement removing rotten joists and replacing them with good wood. Paul backed out without disturbing them.
    At the rate they were going, the structural work could be done in a week. He hadn’t even talked to Buddy about any schedule, and he had no idea whether the plumbers came before the electricians or the telephone linemen or the utilities. He had a sudden longing to be sitting in his rented condo in New Jersey. But he’d sublet it.
    He could take Giselle up on her offer of a bed.
    No way. That house with two teenaged boys was considerably noisier and more confused than this one.
    He needed an island of peace and quiet. Simply slipping out and taking up more or less permanent residence at the café next door seemed cowardly. Before the accident he’d have pitched in and at least swung a sledgehammer at thebroken concrete of the parking area behind the house. Now he couldn’t even do that.
    “You look like somebody’s poleaxed you.”
    He heard Ann’s voice from behind him with a mixture of relief and happiness that surprised him.
    A moment later Dante thrust his slobbery maw into his hand. “Next time you warn me about chaos I’ll listen to you.” He removed his palm from Dante’s jowls and rubbed it dry on the dog’s broad head.
    Her gray-blue eyes danced and she grinned at him.
    “You get off on this, don’t you,” he said.
    “You caught me.” She turned away from him, her arms spread wide, embracing the entire house. “I adore helping old buildings spring to life again, and since I love this house, this job is pure joy.”
    “It’s pure madness, is what it is.” He had to shout over the sound of at least three power saws and three or four hammers.
    “Come on upstairs, it’s quieter there.” She slipped past him and then hugged the staircase wall to avoid falling through the space left by the missing posts. Dante sighed and trudged up behind her.
    She walked into the back bedroom, held the door until Paul and Dante had cleared it, then shut it firmly against the noise. March had turned cool even during the day, and the caulking between the sleeping-porch windows and this bedroom left much to be desired.
    “You’re going to freeze in that shirt,” she said practically, and perched her bottom on the nearest windowsill. “You still planning on staying here at night?”
    He ran his hand over his forehead. “At this point, Ihave no idea. I’ve checked out of my motel, but I’m sure they’d take me back.”
    “Work quits about five, so if you can stand the chill and the possibility of a cold shower—and if you don’t mind the occasional ghost—I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay here. Just don’t try cooking on that stove.”
    “Buddy warned me about