Читать книгу What the Heart Wants - Cynthia Reese - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

KYLE RUBBED HIS eyes and groaned as he took in what had to be the most horrendous response to his essay question on the causes of the Boston Tea Party. “Because they were ‘tea’d’ off,” the freshman had scrawled. To better his chances at getting at least partial credit, he had doodled a drawing of a stick figure in a passable tricorne hat, shoving a crate.

Kyle squinted. Yep. That was steam coming out from under the brim.

The student wouldn’t remain a freshman for long with answers like that, Kyle thought. He riffled through the thick stack of exams and saw he still had at least two dozen left to go. If they were all like this one, at least grading them would be quicker than the first twenty-five test papers.

Just appreciate the fact that you’re not in Afghanistan like your big brother. Or even herding teenage football players around the state like your little brother. Teaching history is a lot cushier than either of those two jobs. Plus, you could have graded papers yesterday instead of volunteering free labor for Allison.

Ah, but then he wouldn’t have been granted admittance to the mysterious Belle Paix. And it was worth every sore muscle and the double dose of ibuprofen he’d gulped down this morning.

Beautiful.

For a flash, it wasn’t Belle Paix’s intact side hall with its intricate carved banister that came into his mind.

No. It was red hair. Yards of it. And the barest hint of freckles. And how her dimples danced when she smiled.

Kyle yanked his attention back to the next essay question. The hapless freshman had made a better stab at describing the opening battles of the American Revolution, but had still managed to make a total hash of it.

Unbidden, Allison ambushed Kyle’s thoughts again. He liked her. And that surprised him, because she didn’t seem to appreciate historical preservation in the slightest.

Amazing how one woman could invade his mind. Why, he could almost swear he heard her voice now, floating down the narrow hall that ran the length of the social sciences faculty members’ offices. With a determined sigh, Kyle fixed his focus back where it belonged. He was just bored with grading, that’s all.

But then a sharp rap brought his attention to his open door. He looked up—to see Allison.

She wasn’t in jeans or shorts today. No, today she sported a light summery dress just right for the unseasonably hot temperatures. Her long legs were beautifully punctuated by delicate, strappy sandals that showed off her toned calves.

“Don’t look so blown away.” Her mouth quirked a bit at the corners as she seemed to smother a smile. “I promise, I’m not here to ask for help moving another china cabinet.”

“Good, because I don’t think my muscles will cooperate,” he admitted. “No, I’m zoned out by these absolute hideous exams I’m grading. I think I should have done a better job teaching the course material.”

Allison wrinkled her nose. “It’s not your fault. It’s the topic. History. Lotta dates. Lotta names. No offense, but history’s a dead subject. I never could get interested in people who lived a hundred years ago.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been told that. He’d heard it so often that it was the kiss of death for any blind date that his ever-hopeful colleagues kept setting up for him.

Usually the comment inspired a guilty feeling of superciliousness, as if he was somehow wiser than whoever it was talking to him—that and the sure knowledge that no serious relationship could really develop between two people who didn’t appreciate the same things.

But Allison...Allison made him think differently. He wanted to drag Allison to the chair by his desk and keep her there until he could convince her that history was interesting. History was a story, and he was addicted to a good story.

She, however, seemed fairly convinced already—of the opposite, unfortunately. Kyle bit back a tart response. “Well, if it’s not a burning need to hear a good history lecture,” he asked, “what does bring you to my corner of the world?”

Allison beamed. “Ah! Thought you’d never ask. Is this a good time?”

“Yes, of course. Have a seat.”

She dropped down into the chair he had for students during conference sessions, and gazed around. “Somehow this is not what I expected,” she commented.

“Oh. You were thinking that it would be the typical history professor’s lair—stacks of papers and books and—”

“Junk,” Allison interjected. “It’s wonderfully bare. Did you just move into this office?”

“No. I’ve been chair here for, mmm, about three years now. I just like things neat. Easier to concentrate.” He followed her gaze.

The office was bare. Yes, he had the requisite diplomas up, and a bookshelf filled with texts and other sources. But he needed the quiet that a Zenlike bareness helped him achieve.

“I was expecting a lot of artifacts. Isn’t that what you history folks call them? The detritus you collect over the years?”

“Oh, I have artifacts. See?” Kyle pointed to some shadow boxes mounted on the wall. “My collection of bullets rescued from battlefields. And that center box has political campaign buttons. And then for the prehistory folks, I’ve got a middling collection of arrowheads.”

“My college history professors’ offices were a nightmare. Really gosh-awful,” Allison said. “But this? This is nice. I like it. Very modern. Very clean. No gewgaws anywhere.”

Kyle regarded her for a long moment, detecting an unintentional insult to his profession, but certain from Allison’s winsome smile that she had meant no malice. “So...”

“Oh! You must think I’m an idiot. Here I am, blabbering away about interior design choices and wasting your time.” Her smile widened. “I stopped by the historical society office. Good thing I went this morning, as it closes at lunch.”

“Yeah, we can only afford a part-time secretary.” Was Allison thinking about taking up his invitation to attend some of the society’s events? Maybe there was hope, after all.

“The very nice lady there...Trish? Yes. Trish. She told me that I would need to see you about some of the paperwork I need,” Allison said.

“Paperwork? You don’t need to fill out any paperwork to attend a meeting.” What had Trish gotten so confused?

“No, no...very nice of you to invite me, and maybe I’ll get around to it, but you know...well, yeah, you do know that I’ve got my hands full, what with working on the house and getting it ready for Gran and all. No, a waiver request. I need a waiver request.”

“A what?” Now he was the one totally confused. What on earth was Allison talking about?

“There’s gotta be a way, right? To request an exemption? From the ordinances? You know, the ones you were telling me about earlier. I looked at the code, and it did say that any exemption was to be made by the city council at the recommendation of the historic preservation committee.”

“Wait.” Kyle had managed to ground himself back in the present, not distracted by the way the sunlight from the window bounced off Allison’s red hair, nor by the way her smile made him want to smile right back at her and say, “Yes, anything, just name it.”

“Trish said she wasn’t familiar with any sort of paperwork like that. But there has to be, right? I mean, come on, you’re a bureaucracy—oh, not you, I mean the committee. No offense.”

“None taken.” That was a tiny fib. But Kyle didn’t think it counted against him too much. “Honestly, I can’t think—oh. Oh. Wait.” He held up a hand. “I know what you mean. Sorry. It took me a minute.”

He turned back to his computer and gave the mouse a nudge. The screen flickered to life, and he typed “historical variance hearing request” into the file search. A few whirs from the printer, and he pulled a thick sheaf of paper from the hopper.

Allison blinked at the pile. “That’s a lot of paper. I think my application to grad school was thinner.”

“Yeah, probably. It’s...it’s an intensive process,” Kyle told her. He decided he’d better not confess that he’d intentionally made the process as hard as possible to discourage people from even applying. It had been one of the suggestions he’d made when the committee had asked him to come up with ways to safeguard the historic section and the tourist dollars the area brought in.

“Okay. So...any pointers?” Allison reached for the application.

He didn’t give it to her. “Are you...sure?”

“Sure?” Now some of yesterday’s determination slipped by the cheery “I’m game” mask that she’d kept plastered on her face for the past few moments. “Yes. If this is how I have to get a waiver approved...”

“I’m just saying...” Kyle cleared his throat. He glanced down at the application. “This is a request for a hearing. And basically we—the historic preservation committee members—ask that you explain the project, describe how it is at variance with existing ordinances and historical integrity, and then tell why you feel the need to depart from that.”

“In five hundred words or less,” she joked.

“Oh, no. The, er, more detailed, the better.” He couldn’t help but glance back at the unfortunate essay response about colonists being ‘tea’d off.’

“So I work through all this, and then I get my variance?”

“Not exactly,” he said. Why did he feel guilty about this?

Belle Paix would look horrid with modern windows. Allison’s zeal for “modernizing” the house reminded him strongly of the man who’d bought his family home. A sour taste rose in the back of Kyle’s mouth as he remembered how the new owner had quickly stripped the venerable old structure of its character.

A perfectly good house. Ruined.

“Then what? Exactly?” Her cheerfulness had a distinct half-life, and it was approaching that point fast.

“Then you get your hearing. If the application is thorough and well thought out.”

“That makes no sense. Why can’t I just go before the committee and explain it? Rather than write it all down?”

Because then we’d have to tell you no. This way, you don’t fill out the paperwork, you don’t get the hearing and you blame yourself. Not us.

But Kyle didn’t say that. He cleared his throat again. “It’s a way to make sure you’ve thought it all through and explored your options.”

She harrumphed. “Busywork.”

“What?” He hoped that note of guilt in his strangled response hadn’t been as evident to her as it had to him.

“Okay. Hand it over. If this is what I’ve got to do, this is what I’ve got to do.” She stood up and reached for the paperwork again.

“Would you...like me to help you with it?”

“You would?” Allison’s face lit up. Her smile was absolutely breathtaking.

That. That is why you offered.

“Sure. On one condition.”

She frowned. “What?” she asked suspiciously.

“That you come to the historical society meeting. You’d find it interesting—this month’s program’s about Victorian homes. And you could share your story about how Belle Paix was built that you were telling me when we first met. That was fun. Entertaining. Our members would love it.”

“I dunno,” she said. She put a hand to her head as though warding off a sudden headache. “I was really never good at history.”

“I promise you won’t have to remember a single date. Or name. Except mine.”

Allison laughed. “I wouldn’t forget the guy who volunteered his elbow grease to help me out.”

“So?” Kyle couldn’t believe that he was holding his breath in hopes she’d say yes.

“I was planning on painting Gran’s room Thursday—I feel fairly confident in tackling the interior paint job on my own, though the exterior, what with three tall stories and all that scraping, well, that’s a horse of a different color. Anyway, you did say when you first mentioned it that the meeting was Thursday, right? I have to work this weekend—I’m a nurse on weekends at the ER at the hospital. So...I really need to get some work done at the house.”

“I love to paint. And I’ve been told I’m very good at it. If I help you tomorrow night, and maybe Friday afternoon when my classes are done...then you’d be free Thursday?”

“You don’t quit, do you?” Allison gave a bemused chuckle. It made his heart skip a beat.

“I just think...” He looked down at the paperwork. The meeting would be a way for history to come alive for her, to help her understand why people in Lombard were so passionate about protecting their architectural treasures. Not only that, the historic section was an economic engine for the community, bringing in tens of thousands of tourist dollars each year. “I think that anyone who grew up in that marvelous house ought to know about the time the house was built.”

“You really don’t mind helping me paint? Or...” Allison pointed at the stack of papers he had clasped in his hand “...working through that monstrosity of an application?”

“I really don’t mind.”

“Okay, then. That’s a deal I can’t refuse. Wow.”

She took the papers from him. He saw her skim through them, frown in puzzlement and then shake her head. “I really am going to need your help. Half of this reads like a foreign language.”

Again, a twinge of guilt assailed him. He’d made the language as opaque as possible to intimidate would-be variance seekers.

And until now, it had worked. Not a single person had ever actually taken an application once he or she had seen it.

But Kyle had a nagging suspicion that Allison wasn’t like anybody else he’d ever met before.