Читать книгу What the Heart Wants - Cynthia Reese - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

AS USUAL, the old house showed her who was boss. By the time Allison managed to coax hot water out of a cantankerous set of hundred-year-old pipes for a bath in the claw-foot tub, she had managed to shift from on-time-just-barely to well-and-truly-late.

She rushed down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen, all the while making a blood oath to find a plumber. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be one insane enough or broke enough or some combination of both to tackle the old house’s hodgepodge of patched pipes, and yank that upstairs bath into the twenty-first century.

How had Gran survived? Allison hadn’t remembered the house being so...obstinate. Okay, she thought to herself as she pulled out of the drive and made the turn toward Gran’s rehab facility, so houses don’t have souls, exactly, but this one sure does have a cantankerous personality. In the rehab facility, way down the hall from the physical therapy suite, she could hear her grandmother—just as cranky and stubborn as those old pipes had been, Allison thought with a chuckle.

“Young man, in my day, people didn’t rush their elders, no sirree! I’m moving, yes, I am, but I don’t trust that contraption.”

Allison heard the poor physical therapist’s low, conciliatory mumble, and in response, her gran came roaring back with, “Why, yes, I do want to go home! I’m doing these exercises, aren’t I? My goodness, you are a strong fellow, aren’t you? Are you single? My granddaughter is in need of a good husband—but notice I said good, not just any old husband. A girl would do worse to have the wrong fellow than none at all, if you ask me.”

Allison paused outside the door to allow her cheeks to cool off from the embarrassment. Her grandmother, huffing and puffing from her exertion, spoke up again. “That girl is a hard worker—a nurse, so you two ought to have plenty to talk about, you being in the medical field. She’s given up a big career in Atlanta to come back to Lombard to live with me, so that I can go home. And that’s why I’m doing these ridiculous exercises! As if I need to be on a bicycle at my age! Do you know how old I am? I’m eighty-nine! And before I broke my hip, I lived by myself and drove myself and did all my shopping and housekeeping. Oh, but these old bones...What’s that? Save my breath?”

Allison covered her mouth to hold back her giggle. Poor fellow. Some people might call Gran standoffish, but once she decided she liked you, you couldn’t get her to hush.

Allison decided she’d better rescue the therapist. Sure enough, he looked as done in as Gran when she came in the room. Still, Allison was glad to see her tiny grandmother with her fluffy white hair, pink-cheeked and determined. That was Gran—a tiger when it came to any sort of goal.

I guess I got that honestly, huh?

The therapist called it quits soon after Allison had taken a seat near Gran’s stationary bike to cheer her on. “You’re doing good, ma’am,” he told her. “Let’s give you a chance to recover.”

“Now, I’m no wimp,” Gran assured him. “I’ve got Davinia Shepherd’s blood in my veins, I have. And I’ve got to get back on my feet. I am determined that I’m going to be strong enough to climb the stairs to my old bedroom. No more sleeping in the library for this old gal.”

It took the man another ten minutes to convince Gran of the law of diminishing returns, and that he wasn’t going easy on her because “you think I’m some frail old lady.” At that point, Allison helped her to her walker and assisted her down the hall.

Halfway to Gran’s room, Allison had to tactfully suggest that they take a seat.

“No, no, I’ll get there—”

“No, Gran, it’s not you. I’m tired out from working on the house this morning. Can’t I have a little bit of a break?” Allison didn’t like lying to her grandmother, but what choice did she have?

Gran gave her a sharp-eyed glance. “Well, maybe a few minutes. Help me to that bench over there.”

Allison noted how Gran blew out a long breath as she lowered herself onto the bench. Yes, the physical therapy had worn her out. Still, she gave Allison a beautiful smile and patted the seat beside her.

“Sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing to the old place. I can’t believe how much I miss it. How many days is it until I can go home?”

“Now, Gran,” she hedged. “You know the deal. You work hard on the therapy and I work hard on the house, and when both of us get done—”

“Pish-posh, that house has been standing since 1888. It’s tougher than I am. It doesn’t need much—just a good airing out, most likely.”

Allison rolled her eyes. “No, not much—just new wiring, a new heat pump, about four tons of insulation, and new windows. And a swimming pool’s worth of paint.”

“Now, did I raise you to be sarcastic? Oh, heavens, I guess I did. You have taken up my sharp tongue, haven’t you?” Gran folded her hand over Allison’s, and it shocked her afresh to see how thin her grandmother’s fingers were. Lillian Shepherd Bell Thomas had always seemed a force of nature. Now Allison could detect a new frailty—as though her grandmother’s eighty-nine years had caught up with her in two short months.

She’s much stronger than she was. I have to remember that. The rehab facility wouldn’t let her plan on going home unless they thought she would be well enough.

It was as if Gran had read her mind. “Not much longer until I can be home—and don’t you worry too much about fixing up that old white elephant of a house, Allison.”

She squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “I have to do some things, Gran. You fell because of that old place—”

“I fell because I was stupid and forgot about that ragged edge on that carpet. I knew it was there.”

Allison decided not to rile her with another debate about whether it was the carpet that had tripped her. “Never mind, I fixed it. That’s what I was doing this morning—ripping all that stuff out, and it’s down to the heart pine again.”

“Land sakes.” Gran shook her head. “It’s a wonder with all that fat light wood the place didn’t go up in smoke years ago. I’ll bet it looks pretty. Once I had the carpet installed, I never did like that old mess your Pops talked me into putting in. Too much vacuuming. But he teased me so much about the color, I didn’t want to let him know I regretted it.”

“It was a lovely shade of pink,” Allison observed in the mildest of tones, knowing what the comment would provoke.

Her grandmother harrumphed. “Whatever possessed me to think Mamie pink was the cat’s pajamas, I’ll never know! Thank goodness I didn’t have the money to redo the bathrooms then—else it would look like somebody had spilled Pepto-Bismol over everything.”

In a more serious tone, Allison broached the topic she knew they had to discuss. “Gran, another reason I was late was that I had to talk with the man about installing the chair lift. He came first thing this morning, and that put me behind.”

“The chair lift?” Gran’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “We don’t need to bother with putting in that. These legs will do all the lifting I need.” She patted her thigh, which was much too bony to reassure Allison. “That’s money wasted. My grandmother never had to have a chair lift.”

Allison swallowed and prayed for some patience and more of that tact. “It’s not anything permanent, Gran. And we’ll put it on the back staircase, so it won’t be ugly, like you were afraid of. But it would mean you could come home sooner.”

Gran appeared appeased by this. “Well, now...”

“But...” Might as well say it. “The man told me the wiring needs to be updated before he could install it.”

“I’ll say. Not enough outlets in that house—never were. That’s going to be a bear of a job, sweetie, and pricey, even if you can find somebody willing to tackle it. Why, I’ve had electricians and plumbers not even get out of their trucks when they got a gander of the old place. They knew it was going to be a nightmare.”

“I have some money. And...Gran, I’d like to put in better windows...and maybe some siding.”

“Vinyl siding? Now that’s an idea. I’d looked at some—they got a kind that really looks good these days, made for old houses, not that stuff on double-wides. No more painting to have to contend with.”

Allison let out a breath. She had expected her to blow her top over the siding, but apparently pragmatism had won out. Sometimes Gran would surprise her like that.

Her grandmother’s expression soured and the lines in her face seemed to be etched more deeply.

“But it won’t get you too far,” she told Allison. “Not with the historical committee running roughshod over you, no sirree. Ha. More like the hysterical committee. Tried to tell ’em I needed to put siding on the house, to save on painting, but no-o-o. Got to have historically accurate paint, you do. Five colors!”

“I think the siding is probably doable—just a lot of paperwork, maybe talk to the committee members—” Allison stated, but her grandmother broke in.

“You’d better just skip all that, Allie, girl. Because that what’s-his-name—Mitchell? Some sort of professor, he is, but he’s the head honcho of that committee. He’s never going to approve any of that.”

“Kyle Mitchell? I met him today—”

“Well, then, you know what I mean, don’t you? Surprised he didn’t run off the chair lift guy, because they didn’t have such things in 1888. They didn’t have air-conditioning or penicillin back then, either, but I don’t imagine Kyle Mitchell would like to go back to those days, now would he?”

“I can’t believe the committee won’t see reason and use common sense,” Allison protested. “If I explain the situation—”

“Common sense? That’s why I call it the ‘hysterical committee.’ It doesn’t matter what the committee members think. It only matters what Kyle Mitchell tells ’em. Nope, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, not when dealing with that Kyle Mitchell.”