Читать книгу Saved by the Fireman - Allie Pleiter - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Jesse watched Charlotte reading through his written proposal on her back porch the next afternoon. Despite how easy it was to chat with her—and how unfairly easy she was to like—the entire situation still hung off-kilter and uncomfortable inside him like a bad joke. He admired her enthusiasm, but it felt like a punch to his ribs at the same time. Had he shown that kind of energy, the singular focus she now displayed toward this house, he’d already own the cottage by now.

Even though she’d been in town only a few days, he’d heard from several people—Chief Bradens, Melba, his fellow firefighter JJ, even JJ’s brother, Max—about how Charlotte had gushed over her affection for the cottage. For crying out loud, it seemed even Karl at the coffee shop had gotten a speech about what she planned to do with the place. She’d spout off her plans to anyone who would listen.

Had he shown her initiative, acting more aggressively, more single-mindedly on his plans—the way Randy always acted when it came to business deals—Helen Bearson might have tipped him off that someone else had shown interest in the property. He could have found a way to inch past those final two months and purchase the property now. But no, his claim never went further than a comment to his folks or a vague remark to the other guys on the truck when they went past the vacant house. He’d never done anything more than occasional blue-sky thinking aloud. The plans had been there: real and detailed, meticulously compiled. But he’d kept them to himself, not wanting to be made the butt of more jokes or criticism if things didn’t work out. Now the spreadsheet calculating his accrued savings toward the goal felt like a misfire. No, worse: a dud.

Of course, Jesse knew better. His nobler side told him he had no right to his resentment. He had no practical claim to the cottage. This was just another example of his biggest flaw: always hatching plans and spending too long perfecting them to get around to acting on them. Dad would probably be gratified that his trademark inaction had once again come back to bite him. He’d lost the cottage, fair and square. You snooze, you lose. You’ve always known that. Maybe now you know it for real.

The only consolation—and it was slim consolation at that—was how Jesse’s gut still told him she belonged in that house. She had on these old-fashioned-looking shoes that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but with her flowing pastel dress and the fluttery scarf she wore, she looked as though she belonged right there on the cottage steps. “Vintage chic,” his mom would probably call it. All soft and frilly around the edges but definitely not stodgy, and with an artsy edge that let him know she’d have great taste. She wouldn’t gut the place and modernize it, stripping away all the history and charm—she’d do it right.

She flipped over the final page of the document he’d given her. “Wow, it’s a lot, isn’t it?” Despite her bright optimism, he could still read hints of sadness and confusion in her eyes. Trouble was, that determination just made him like her more. This job was starting to feel as though it could become a tangled mess all too easily—and even a mess-up like him knew it was never smart to mix business with pleasure. Even when the pleasure could land him a fat paycheck.

“It’s a big job, yes. The results will be fantastic, though. You’d double your money if you ever sold.”

“I won’t sell.” No buyer’s remorse from this buyer, that was certain. He got the feeling that once Charlotte Taylor set her course, she was unstoppable.

“Okay, so you want to stay. Well, we know there are some basic repairs you’ll need no matter what—like the stove and the upstairs bathroom—even if you do change your mind and decide to sell....”

“Which I won’t.”

“Which you won’t,” he echoed. “We can start with those and schedule out the cosmetic fixes and upgrades later. That way you start basic, but keep your options wide open.”

She leaned back against the porch stair railing. At least this railing held, not like the wobbly one at her front door. Jesse grimaced as he remembered the photo of the gorgeous wrought-iron railing sitting in his file back home. “Maybe, but first on the list has to be my new claw-footed bathtub.”

She’d gushed over the style of the old tub in the upstairs bathroom, saying she’d picked out some newfangled Jacuzzi version that still looked antique. “New is great, but you could also repair the one you already have. Old fixtures like that are hard to find and worth keeping—especially if you want to go the sensible route.”

Her eyes flashed at the mention of sensible, and she straightened her back with an air of defiance. “Or maybe I don’t compromise. Maybe I use all this free time to do the renovation exactly the way I want while I can.”

“Free time?” Jesse couldn’t help asking.

“I’m between jobs at the moment.” There was a flash of hurt in her eyes as she said the words, but it faded quickly. “It’s just a temporary situation. It’s not like I won’t find a new job. I’m very good at what I do. Lots of companies are ramping up their online commerce. Textile arts are big business these days, you know.”

She didn’t strike Jesse as the sensible type. More the artistic, impulsive type. Those customers were always the most fun—provided they had pockets as deep as their imaginations—which maybe still applied to Charlotte Taylor. He didn’t really know many details about what her financial situation was, nor was it his place to ask. Still, he’d seen this before, watching a customer compensate for some loss in their life by going overboard on a build. A guy’s divorce-driven five-car garage had bought Jesse his new truck. After all, a smart businessman gives the customer what they want, not necessarily what they need. “You could do that.”

“I could do that.” Her face took on the most amazing energy when she got an idea. She was going to be a fun client to work with, and certainly easy on the eyes.

Jesse suddenly found himself wondering if he could walk the line on this. Could he encourage her, suggest the smartest choices for what she wanted? Could he balance the indulgence of her whims while warning her against something that would prove to be a foolish purchase? Viewed practically, her windfall of free time might allow him to get more work done in less time.

He nodded to the proposal. “I’m not saying you have to compromise. A job this big would be hard to do while you were working full-time. If you set your mind to it, we could be done by September. If you’ve got the cash now, the timing might be perfect.”

She pointed at him, jangling the slew of silver bangles on her wrist. “Exactly how I see it. God’s never late and He’s never early.”

“Huh?”

“Something Mima always said. About God’s timing always being perfect, just like you mentioned. And I’ve always taken Mima’s advice.”

“You don’t have to decide right this minute. You want some time to think about it?” He had to give her at least that much of an out.

She squinted up at the sky, making Jesse wonder if she was consulting her grandmother or God or both. After a long minute, she held out her hand for the pen he was holding. “Nope. I don’t need any more time. This is what I want. I want it to be perfect.” She signed the proposal in a swirly, artistic hand.

This was going to be fun. In the end, they’d both end up with a showpiece—his to boast about to clients, hers to call home. Win-win, right? “Then the pursuit of perfect begins tomorrow afternoon.”

* * *

Charlotte 1, Cottage 0.

Charlotte congratulated herself on the tiny victory her cup of tea represented.

A few days ago, the scorecard might have looked a lot more like Kitchen 1, Charlotte 0, but a visit from the electrician Jesse had recommended and two hours of vigilant scouring this morning had put the kitchen in working order. Stopping in at the local housewares store, Charlotte had purchased an electric kettle to hold her over until a wonderfully vintage-looking but thoroughly modern stove came in on special order. At another downtown boutique, she’d found a charming bistro table with two chairs. It felt so satisfying to buy things for the house, to launch the project that was coming to mean so much to her. It made her long-overdue Owner of Cottage tea on her back deck just about perfect. Add one of Mima’s teacups and her favorite teapot, and life was wonderful.

See? I’m still here, she thought, smirking at the bright green leaves of the overhead tree. I will not be beaten by this bump in the road. “You know what Eleanor Roosevelt says,” Charlotte addressed a gray squirrel that was perched on the deck railing with a quivering tail and greedy black eyes, peering at the bag of cookies she’d just opened. “Women are like tea bags—you never know how strong they are until you get them in hot water.”

“Quoting first ladies to the wildlife, are we?” Jesse came around the corner of the house lugging a clanking canvas bag and an armful of cut lumber. “Look at you, having a proper tea on your back deck and all.”

Charlotte laughed. “This is not a proper tea. It’s barely even an improper tea.”

Jesse settled his equipment on the bottom step, leaning against the railing to look up at her. “A Mulligan, then.”

“A what?”

He grinned, looking so handsome that Charlotte was suddenly aware she was probably covered in kitchen grime. “You don’t golf, do you?”

“Not even mini.”

“A Mulligan is a do-over. The chance to retake a shot that went wrong.”

Well, that certainly fit. “Yes, I suppose this is a Mulligan tea. I’d rather think of it as a victory lap. I’m declaring myself the winner in the epic battle of Charlotte versus the Filthy Kitchen.” At least that was one thing she felt as though she’d won in this whole mess her life had become. “With a little backup from Mike the electrician, that is.”

Jesse started rummaging through the canvas bag he had set down. “Mike made sure all your other appliances are going to work safely?”

“Everything’s safe. He told me to tell you he’s going to come back and do the upstairs bathroom wiring once you let him know the plaster is down.”

Jesse’s eyes lit up. “Demolition. My favorite part.”

She cringed. “Somehow I’m not fond of the idea of you going at my bathroom with a sledgehammer.” My bathroom. Funny how little things like that made her heart go zing today in a way that almost made up for her lack of incoming paychecks.

“Oh, I’m not going at it today.” He held Charlotte’s eyes for a dizzying moment. “You are.”

Charlotte nearly toppled her teacup. “Me?”

“It’s a thing of mine. First swing of demo always goes to the customer. If they’re around, which you most definitely are.”

“I’m sending a sledgehammer through my bathroom wall?” She’d seen such rituals on the home improvement networks, but she didn’t think stuff like that actually took place on real jobs.

“Actually, it’ll be more like a crowbar to the feet of your bathtub. Since you agreed to re-enamel it, I’m pulling it out today. Are you ready to start talking about color?”

Charlotte felt as if she’d been waiting a decade to pick the color of something, even though that was far from true. Colors—and how they went together—were a wondrous obsession for her, and part of the lure of the textile industry. Still, this choice felt new and exciting, in a way she couldn’t quite define. She snatched the top issue from a pile of home decor magazines that were sitting next to the teapot. “I already have one picked out.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Jesse walked up the last of the stairs. “Let’s see.”

She thumbed through the magazine to the dog-eared page, then held it up to Jesse to see. “That sink? The buttercream color with the brass fixtures? That’s it, right there.”

Jesse took the magazine. “Good choice. For a minute there I thought you were going to show me something purple or zebra striped. The guy who does the re-enameling work is good, but he’s not a magician.”

For a moment, Charlotte tried to imagine a zebra-striped claw-footed bathtub. Such a thing should never exist. “I have much better taste than animal prints for bathroom fixtures. He can do the sink to match, can’t he?”

Jesse peered closer at the photograph. “It won’t matter. You’ll need a new sink no matter what—the newer fixtures won’t fit on a sink like you’ve got. I’ll bring you some catalogues with sinks that come in a color close to that tomorrow. When you pick the style and finish, Jack will make sure the bathtub matches perfectly.” He looked up at her. “You’re going to want one of those old-fashioned circle shower curtains, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. And in the brass finish. Not that cheap nickel finish.”

“That brass finish is exactly that—not cheap. Are you sure?”

Parts of her were completely sure. Other parts—the edges of her chest that turned dark and trembling when she allowed herself to think of how her perfect life plan had been upended—balked at the extra price. Still, how many times in life did a girl get to pick out bathroom fixtures? Ones that would last for decades? A woman’s bathroom was her sanctuary, her private escape from life’s tensions. Hers had to be just right—especially when nothing else in life was. She nodded. Did he find that charming or annoying? His expression was unreadable, and she was growing a little nervous knot in her stomach. “I’ve even got the shower curtain and window treatment fabric picked out.”

“You’re going to be fun to work with, you know that?”

“I hope so.” She really did. There was something so immensely satisfying about bringing the cottage back to life. As if the house had been waiting for her, holding its structural breath for her to come and pour her ideas inside. Charlotte had engineered some major achievements at Monarch, but those hadn’t given her any security, had they? This cottage offered security, right down to the soul-nurturing buttercream color of her soon-to-be-reborn bathtub.

Jesse returned to his bag, making all kinds of rattling noises until he straightened back up with a crowbar, a pair of safety glasses and the daintiest pair of work gloves Charlotte had ever seen. Her astonishment must have shown all over her face, because Jesse waved the gloves and admitted, “These are from my mother. Don’t ask.”

She wanted to. The gloves were adorable, white canvas with a vintage-looking print of bright pink roses. They looked like garden gloves from a 1950s issue of Better Homes and Gardens. “I love them.” Then, because she couldn’t hold the curiosity in any longer, “Your mother sent these?”

He ran his hands down his face, but it didn’t hide the flush she saw creep across his cheeks. “I said don’t ask.”

Charlotte pulled her knees up onto the chair and hugged them to her chest, utterly amused. “Do all your customers get adorable work gloves on their first day?” Jesse’s mix of amusement and embarrassment was just too much fun to watch.

“Was there something about ‘don’t ask’ that wasn’t clear here? Or do you want me to take away your crowbar and just have at the bathtub on my own?”

“No!” she cried, leaping off her chair. The thought of starting, of finally getting this project underway, whizzed through her like electricity. She lunged for the gloves and the crowbar, but Jesse dodged her easily.

“Wait a minute, Ms. Taylor. If we’re going to demo together, there are some rules. I can’t have customers getting hurt on the job or letting their enthusiasm run away with their good sense.”

Charlotte planted her hands on her hips and squared off against Jesse, even though he had a good six inches on her five-six frame. She raised her chin in defiance. “I never let my enthusiasm run away with my good sense.”

The irony of that played out in Jesse’s eyes the same moment her brain caught on to the idiocy of that statement made by an unemployed woman about to launch a major renovation project. He just raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turning up in an unspoken, “Really?”

Charlotte used the distraction to pluck the crowbar from Jesse’s hand. “Until now,” she said, turning toward the door that led into what would be the dining room.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”