The women got busy. It wasn’t eight yet, but the sun was strong and the day promised to be warm. Along with tool-boxes and rolls of blueprints, two large thermoses of iced tea were tossed in the back of the 1969 Chevy truck, the pride, joy, and money pit of Island Contracting.

The house that was being remodeled was on the bay side of the seven-mile barrier island where Island Contracting was located. Built nearly forty years earlier on speculation by a man who had gone bankrupt waiting for an economic surge that had occurred one year too late, the house was the only one of the dozen original homes that had not been extensively remodeled during the building booms of the early seventies and late eighties, when families had discovered the joys of owning a second home where a boat or two could be docked.

The women chatted as they traveled and Josie was left to wonder-for the millionth time-whether or not she should have accepted the opportunity to appear on television.

The offer had been made a few weeks earlier via a message left on Island Contracting’s answering machine from the show’s producer, Bobby Valentine. That was how he referred to himself. “Bobby Valentine here,” he had answered his phone. Josie, working on the assumption that each and every call to Island Contracting’s office might be a potential client, had, initially, called back immediately. Bobby Valentine had a proposition-that’s how he put it after a few minutes of flattery.

“We’ve heard about Island Contracting. You hire only women. Right?” Before Josie could explain that while there were only women on her crew, it wasn’t really a company hiring policy, Bobby Valentine continued. Josie later learned that although he asked many questions, he usually didn’t wait for any answers. “Make a great bit on the show, it will. Courtney loves to do something different, you know?”

“I-” This was before Josie had learned not to bother trying to answer.

“Yeah, I can see it now. Women crawling around on beams with the sun shining off their muscular biceps-that image makes a statement. Women can do anything men can do, right?”

“Certainly, and-”

“Maybe a short segment on what you women eat for lunch. You know, whether it’s best to bulk up on carbs or if natural foods give you the most energy. Maybe we could even include your favorite recipes. Sort of a combination cooking and remodeling show. What do you think?”

She didn’t think much of the idea, but since he didn’t give her the opportunity to answer, he was never to know this.

“Yeah, we could emphasize the healthy lifestyle that you women live. Working outdoors, getting lots of exercise. Maybe include a segment on stretching. How you all prepare to do the backbreaking labor you do without… ah, without breaking your backs. How about that?”

She had no idea how to respond this time.

“We can work out the details later. So what do you think? Have we a great idea or what?”

It took Josie a few minutes to realize that it was time for her to speak up. “You… you want to hire us to be in a movie?”

“No movie. No way! Think video, not film. Think cable, not theaters. We’re asking you to be on Courtney Castle’s Castles. Turn your home into your castle. You know. On television.”

“Oh, well-”

“We don’t pay you, you know. But the publicity is priceless. Courtney’s name is a household word. You’d be really happy if that could be said about Josie Pigeon and Island Construction, wouldn’t you?”

“ Island Contracting,” Josie corrected him faintly. She had no idea what to make of this unusual offer.

“We understand you ladies are going to be starting work on an old A-frame down on the bay. The job’s unusual and would fit right into our shooting schedule. How about it? I need an answer ASAP. You know how it is. I promise you we won’t get in your way. If anything, the job will go faster. You’ll have our crew to help out. What do you think? Can we make a deal?”

That had been three weeks ago, and to this day Josie had absolutely no idea why she had said yes so quickly. In fact, every day since then she had wondered why she had said yes at all, every single day, right after Bobby Valentine’s daily phone call.

It didn’t take long for Josie to begin expecting those calls. Generally they came around noon; always they contained a bit of information and a lot of lunacy. Bobby Valentine, as he had told her himself, was full of ideas. She just wished that he would keep them to himself and that they wouldn’t have anything to do with her or with her company. About half of his ideas were easy to turn down. After all, Courtney Castle wasn’t paying for the renovation. The owners of the house were. And Josie was able to contact them through a New York City law firm. A series of faxes had gotten all the legalities out of the way. The owners agreed that the job could be taped and shown on TV. All they asked was that they not be disturbed. They were considering selling the house. That it would be on television for all the world to see was a big plus as far as they were concerned. So that part had been easy. Dealing with Bobby Valentine was proving not to be.

So far, she had agreed to be interviewed in her wonderful little office, which overhung the water, on the Friday before filming began, to pose walking up the beach as the sun was rising, (actually, Bobby Valentine had wanted a shot as the sun was setting, but when Josie explained it was difficult to arrange on the East Coast, he had changed his shooting schedule), and to sit with her entire staff and talk over the plans. She had refused to be interviewed in her home. She knew that anyone who saw the mess in her apartment would be unlikely to hire her or her company. She had refused to allow her son to be interviewed-in fact, she had insisted that Tyler not be asked about it, as she was pretty sure he would be thrilled to get his sixteen-year-old face on the boob tube. She had refused to answer questions about her relationship with a man Bobby referred to as a hotshot lawyer from New York City before she even asked how he knew about Sam Richardson. When she woke up in the middle of the night, worried that she had made a terrible mistake agreeing to do it at all, she wondered why a producer from what her crew claimed was a popular television show was so interested in her life.

And now, as she turned the last corner to the house, it was time to get some answers. And the first question she was going to ask was: What the hell is going on here?

"DON’T YOU REMEMBER? I’m absolutely positive I told you I was bringing some people by this week to start taping.”

But that wasn’t the answer to the first question Josie had asked. The first question out of her mouth had been “Where is Bobby Valentine?” She asked a half-dozen people and she got six different answers. Bobby Valentine was “out back.” Bobby Valentine was “inside.” Bobby Valentine was “in the van.” Bobby Valentine was “in the truck.” Bobby Valentine was “in the living room.” Or, possibly, Bobby Valentine was “off site for the morning.” He might have been in all those places at one time, but right now he was by her side.

“Josie Pigeon, right?”

She turned and looked at the man standing beside her. “You’re Bobby Valentine?”

“In the flesh. Don’t I look the way you imagined?”

Josie didn’t answer. She hadn’t, in fact, imagined Bobby Valentine at all. But if she had, she had dressed him in more urbane clothing-the type of sports jacket and slacks that Sam wore in his store or possibly an Armani pinstripe. But Bobby Valentine was wearing pressed jeans and a shirt made of smooth white Egyptian cotton. Pigskin loafers covered sockless feet and a gold Rolex hung on his tanned wrist. He resembled one of the Wall Street moguls who vacationed on the island.