Читать книгу A Father's Second Chance - Mindy Obenhaus - Страница 11
ОглавлениеGet in, and get out.
Gage slammed the lid on the aluminum storage box in the bed of his pickup. He really wasn’t interested in meeting with Celeste Thompson today. True, his project at the Schmidts’ was drawing to a close, and he didn’t have anything else on the books, but he was fairly certain that the type of work Celeste wanted was not going to match up with the kind of work he specialized in.
A breeze rustled the golden leaves of an oak in the Schmidts’ front yard. Their Queen Anne-style house, with its sprawling porch on the west side, had been one of his favorites long before they hired him to renovate the first-floor bathroom. He loved all the old buildings in Ouray. Appreciated the architecture and intricate details that made them grand. Restoring them was his forte. But he’d encountered one too many city dwellers who didn’t see the value in “old stuff.” They were only interested in removing the old and making everything modern.
That was like tearing out the heart of a home. Something he could not—would not—do.
He climbed into the cab of his truck, eyeing the burnt-orange landscape that spread up the mountainsides. He supposed it wasn’t fair to judge Ms. Thompson based on the actions of others, but she definitely fit the demographic—young urban professionals trading everything for the good life in Ouray, Colorado. What they failed to realize was that while life was indeed good in Ouray, it could also be tough. Many people worked two or three jobs, unless they owned their own business. In that case they had only one job to which they were on call 24/7. Which was why so many people threw in the towel after only one season.
Celeste might be a good cook, but did she have the guts, the tenacity, to embrace Ouray and its oft-difficult way of life? Not to mention its historic architecture.
He fired up the engine and dropped it into gear, deciding he’d find out the latter soon enough.
Heading toward Main Street, he rolled down the windows to take advantage of the mild autumn air. Who knew how many more days they’d have like this? The thirteen-and fourteen-thousand-foot peaks that surrounded the tiny town were already topped with white.
A few blocks down Main, he pulled into a parking spot across from Granny’s Kitchen. The place had changed hands several times over the past twenty-some years, but he still remembered it as the Miner’s Café. The owner, Mrs. Ward, used to make the best cinnamon rolls he’d ever tasted.
He hopped out of the truck and ambled across the street to the two-story brick and stone Victorian building. Seemed like he’d heard someone mention that Celeste was Mrs. Ward’s granddaughter. If that were true, maybe he’d find cinnamon rolls on the menu.
Opening the right half of the wood and glass double door, he was greeted by the most amazing aroma. A colorful dry-erase board to his left boasted tonight’s special—Granny’s pot roast with onions, carrots and homemade smashed potatoes.
His mouth watered, the two bologna sandwiches he’d had for lunch a distant memory. He inhaled deeper. Yep, that was pot roast, all right.
Above the menu, a double row of iron hooks lined the wall. Part function, part decor, they were currently home to a well-worn cowboy hat, a fedora that had seen better days and a faded denim jacket.
“Welcome to Granny’s Kitchen.” Behind the wood-topped counter to his right, Ms. Thompson slid a tray of cookies into a glass case. Her blond hair was again pulled back in a ponytail, her smile easy and relaxed.
“Nice place you have here.” He scanned the almost-empty restaurant. Lace curtains covered the lower half of the front windows, adding privacy to the row of wooden booths, while a Texas flag and some old mining pieces adorned the back wall. All in all, the place was warm and homey.
“Thank you.” She started to close the case, then paused. “Care for a chocolate chip cookie? They’re still warm.”
He eyed the treats, his stomach growling. “Sure.” He reached for his wallet.
She waved him off, though. “It’s on the house.” Using a small wax paper sheet, she grabbed a cookie and passed it over the counter.
As promised, it was warm. Not to mention loaded with pecans and some of the biggest chocolate chips he’d ever seen.
He took a bite, savoring the melted chocolate that mingled with a hint of cinnamon. “Delicious.” Even better than his mother’s. Not that he’d ever admit that to her.
Celeste’s smile sparkled in her deep brown eyes. “I do my best to live up to Granny’s reputation.”
“Hello, Gage.”
He turned as the door closed behind Blakely Lockridge, owner of Ouray’s finest Jeep tour company, Adventures in Pink. “Hey, Blakely.”
His sister’s best friend moved toward the counter, a hand resting on her very pregnant belly. “I see Celeste has lured you in with her amazing cookies.” She wriggled onto the bar stool beside him, looking like an overinflated party balloon about to pop.
Considering Blakely was down to her last month, her cheerful disposition was a welcome surprise. Tracy, his ex-wife, had been miserable throughout her pregnancies. And never hesitated to let anyone know it.
“You’re right on time, Blakely.” Celeste pulled another cookie from the case. “They just came out of the oven.” She handed it to Blakely. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good. The wedding wore me out, but Trent doted on me all day yesterday.” She took a bite. “Yum. Did you add more pecans this time?”
“I did.” Celeste rested her forearms on the counter.
“This is perfect.” Blakely closed her eyes and took another bite. “Just the way I like them.”
Gage had to agree. His mother usually left out the nuts, but he preferred them. “Sounds like you’re a regular customer.”
“Are you kidding?” Blakely smiled up at him. “I’ve been craving Celeste’s cookies and cinnamon rolls for the past three months.”
His head jerked toward Celeste. “You make cinnamon rolls?”
“Every morning. Just like Granny did.”
“I used to love your grandmother’s cinnamon rolls.”
“Guess you’ll have to stop in and try one then.” She regarded Blakely again. “Would you like another?”
Blakely held up a hand. “No, I need to get back to the shop and finish up some stuff before Austin gets out of school.” She slid off the stool.
“Speaking of school—” he caught Celeste’s attention “—we need to get started.”
“Yes.” She peered over the stainless steel pass-through into the kitchen. “Karla, I’ll be upstairs for a little bit, so keep an eye on things, please.”
“What are you guys up to?” Blakely waddled toward the door.
“Gage is here to take a look at the space upstairs.” Celeste removed her apron as she rounded the eating counter and dropped it on one of the chairs.
She looked far too dressed up for a diner. He expected casual. But the navy slacks and tailored button-down shirt were more like business casual. He did a double take. Heels? Women didn’t wear heels in Ouray.
“Ah, so you finally decided what to do with it?” The two women continued on ahead of him and outside.
“I did. Now I’m eager to get the ball rolling.”
Blakely eyed him. “Well, I can tell you that Gage is the best. He did some work on our house and we couldn’t be more pleased.”
Celeste smiled and nodded. “Guess we’d better have a look then.” She turned toward the stairs that flanked the side of the building. “See you tomorrow, Blakely.”
He followed Celeste up the old iron staircase. “So is this the only entrance to the space?”
“Yes.” She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “I’ve tried to air it out, but it still has that musty smell.”
“Let’s hope it’s not from water damage.” The barely-there foyer was dark and drab, the only light coming from the small window on the door. “Might want to see if we can bring some more natural light in here. Maybe a door with a larger window and some sidelights.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Celeste flipped a switch and fluorescent lights hummed down the narrow hallway that spread to the right and left.
He admired the flat-panel wainscoting with bead board insets, certain that beneath the yellowed white paint lay some incredible hardwood. The vintage wallpaper above the wainscoting, though, had definitely seen better days.
“Currently, there are six bedrooms and two baths.” She moved down the hallway to the left, opening doors as she went. “My grandparents used it as a bed-and-breakfast.”
He peered into the first bedroom, which was big enough only for the full-size bed and small dresser it housed. However, the fluted window trim and rosettes were a welcome sight.
“Here’s the first bathroom.” She opened a door on the right. “I love the claw-foot tub.”
“Do you plan on reusing it?”
“Absolutely.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to salvage and reuse whatever possible. So—” her eyebrows lifted in a defiant manner “—if your idea would be to gut the whole place and start fresh, we can call this meeting over.”
* * *
Call her cynical, but Celeste had no intention of wasting time on another contractor who didn’t see eye to eye with her about preserving the character of this space. Ouray’s ice festival was only three months away. She’d hoped to have the units ready to lease by then. But by no means was she going to settle for some contractor who didn’t give a hoot about the building’s history. She knew what she wanted, and she had every intention of getting it.
Gage removed his worn Ouray Mountain Rescue Team ball cap and scratched his head before tugging the brim back in place. “You do realize this building is over a hundred years old?”
“Part of the appeal.”
“That the electrical and plumbing will have to be brought up to code? That can get expensive.”
She took a step closer. “I’ve done my research. However, there are some things I refuse to compromise on.” She smoothed a hand over the wide molding around the door. “Like the millwork. Any fixtures that can be reused or repurposed.”
“You mean like those?” He pointed to the horrendous fluorescent strips overhead, a smirk firmly in place.
She brushed past him on her way to the door. “If you don’t have an appreciation for old buildings and what they have to offer, then I’ll find another contractor who does.”
“I never said I didn’t have an appreciation.”
She paused in the foyer and slowly turned to face him. “You didn’t have to. Your cavalier attitude said it for you.”
Hands resting low on his denim-clad hips, he stared at her with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. “Actually, historic buildings are my specialty. I don’t believe in wasting, and I’m adamant about remaining true to the architecture.”
“You—?”
“Which is why I was quizzing you.” He closed the distance between them in only a few steps. “Many people like the idea of a historic building until they find out the cost and time involved. Then they take the easy way out—gut it and start new.” He glared at her, his blue eyes darkening to a deep midnight.
Squaring her shoulders, she fixed her gaze on his. “Lucky for you, I’m not one of those people.”
“Good. Then it sounds like we’re on the same page.” He turned his back to her and wandered down the hall. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a look at everything, take some notes and then I need to pick up my daughters.”
She followed him. “I believe you’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t told you about my vision.”
He twisted her way. Quirked a brow. “Your...vision?”
“For the new layout. It took me six months to come up with it, but I think it’ll work.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Even the most challenging executives hadn’t irritated her this much. “Do you plan to fight me every step of the way?”
“No. However, when you’re dealing with plumbing and load-bearing walls, you have to be flexible. But, go ahead.”
“Thank you. As I was saying...” Over the next fifteen minutes, she did her best to verbalize the image she saw in her mind.
Gage asked questions and voiced concerns. Even made a few suggestions she found difficult to argue with.
“I have a drawing I could give you.” She waited by the main door.
“That would be helpful.”
She tilted her head to look at him as he rounded the corner. “Just so you’ll know, I plan to be heavily involved in this project. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“Neither do I.” He looked over his notes. “So if you’ll give me your drawing, I will be out of your hair.”
She studied him a moment. Despite Gage’s appreciation for the architecture, not to mention Blakely’s glowing recommendation, Celeste wasn’t convinced he was the right contractor for her. How could she work with someone who didn’t value her opinion?
Then again, if she wanted these units up and running by January...
“It’s in the restaurant.” She pushed open the door and stepped onto the small landing. The sun and fresh air were a welcome respite from the stale, musty smell of the long-closed-up space. She continued down the stairs. “When can I expect your quote?”
He followed behind her. “A day or two. Depends how cooperative my girls are.”
She could hear the smile in his voice when he mentioned his daughters.
“How old are they?” She faced him as they reached the sidewalk.
“Seven and five.”
“Busy ages. I guess they keep you on your toes.”
He chuckled, holding the door as she walked inside. “You have no idea.”
She retrieved a copy of her drawing from the small office beside the stockroom, remembering the sight of Gage dancing with his daughters. Must be difficult, trying to be both parents and run a business. She couldn’t begin to imagine. Though she was curious. What would it be like to have a family? Children? Someone who looked up to you and hung on your every word?
We aren’t cut out to be mothers, Celeste. She always found it odd when her mother said those words. As though she were apologizing or making excuses. Still, Celeste understood what her mother was saying. Her mother wanted to give her the world. At least the world as Hillary Ward-Thompson saw it.
Shaking off the conflicting thoughts, Celeste returned to the dining room and handed Gage the file folder. “Would it be all right if I sent cookies for Emma and Cassidy?”
“Oh, man...they’d love that.”
She bagged the treats for him.
“What’s this?” He pointed to a stack of fliers she had beside the cash register.
“Now that the high season is over and things have slowed down, I thought I’d offer some kids cooking classes.”
The look he gave her made her think she’d sprouted horns. “In my experience, kids and cooking don’t always go together so well.”
Considering Emma’s actions the other night, she could understand his skepticism. Though the thought of Emma’s mischievous grin made her smile.
“Well, they’re not exactly cooking classes.” She picked up one of the orange fliers and gave it to him, along with the cookies. “Our first one is called Cupcake Mania. We’ll provide the cupcakes and icing, and then each child gets to design four custom cupcakes to take home.”
“You’re talking Emma’s language, all right.” He studied the paper. “Both girls would be gaga over this.”
“Good. I hope you’ll consider signing them up, then.”
He turned for the door, grabbed hold of the handle. “I’ll be in touch.”
She watched as he continued past the front windows. How could someone be so infuriating yet so appealing? Gage’s disposition left much to be desired. However, the way his face lit up when he talked about his daughters was enough to have women swooning all over Ouray.
Donning her apron, she went to check things in the kitchen. “Are the potatoes on yet?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Karla, the closest thing Celeste had to an assistant, looked up from the apples she was peeling for tonight’s dessert and pointed to the proofing cabinet along the wall. “And the rolls should be ready to go in the oven any time.”
“Perfect.” Celeste pushed up her sleeves and headed for the pastry table to roll out the crusts. “Thanks for taking care of that for me, Karla.”
“Not a problem.”
Celeste’s cell vibrated against her hip. She pulled it from her pocket, hating the sense of dread that fell over her when she saw her mother’s name on the screen.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Celeste, darling. How are you?”
“Wonderful.” She sprinkled flour over the table’s marble surface.
“You don’t sound wonderful. You sound tired.” Hillary Ward-Thompson always thought Celeste sounded tired.
“Mom, I’m very well rested.” She slept a thousand times better in Ouray than she ever even dreamed of in Fort Worth. “So where are you today?”
“Istanbul.”
She balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Hey, if you happen to make it to the Bazaar, pick me up some spices.” Of course, her mother rarely did any sightseeing. She was all business, all the time.
“Or you could hop a plane and join me. That way you could pick out your own spices.”
Realizing where this conversation was headed, Celeste wiped her hands on a bar towel and wandered into her office. “You know I can’t do that, Mom. I have a business to run.”
“Celeste, you and I both know a restaurant— especially one in a tiny little place like Ouray—is not where you belong. I didn’t bring you up to be slinging hash in some greasy spoon.”
She paced beside her desk. Since moving here in April, her conversations with her mother were always the same. Celeste knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ouray was part of God’s plan for her. Though it definitely was not a part of her mother’s plan. “I do not sling hash, nor is Granny’s Kitchen a greasy spoon.”
“Oh, now you’re getting defensive. I’m sorry, darling.”
“You’re criticizing my livelihood.”
“I am not criticizing, Celeste. I’m merely stating facts.”
Stay calm. Don’t let her get to you. “You haven’t even seen my restaurant.”
“Are you forgetting that I grew up in that restaurant? I know what it’s like.” Mom’s last sentence held a hint of disdain. She paused for a moment before forging on. “By the way, I ran into Andrew Hemsworth from Golden Triangle Finance the other day. I was telling him all about you and he has a position that would be perfect for you.”
“Mom...I’m not interested in any position. I have my own business. I’m happy where I’m at.”
“Celeste, you might think you’re happy, but you haven’t even been through a winter in Ouray.”
“No, but I can’t wait. I love snow.”
“Hmmph.”
Celeste took a deep breath and stared at the mountains outside the window. Twin Peaks, was it? She had yet to learn the names of all the summits, but just the sight of them made her frustration wane. “You’ve got to let this go, Mom. I’m not you. I have to live my own life.”
“I know, darling. I just want you to be happy.”
Hadn’t they just been over this? “I am. Happier than I’ve been in years.”
“If you say so.” A moment of silence passed. “Well, I must run. It’s late, and I have meetings all day tomorrow.”
Celeste knew better than to think her mother was complaining. Mom thrived on those meetings, mostly because she was the one in control. Not to mention good at what she did. Magnet Oil would be lost without her.
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, darling. Love you.” The sound of kisses filtered through the line, just as when she was a little girl.
“I love you, too.” Celeste ended the call, her gaze focusing on a worn piece of paper tacked to the bulletin board over her desk.
Follow your dreams. The word your was underlined.
After Granny’s stroke, she couldn’t walk or talk, so when Celeste went to see her, she’d talk enough for the both of them. She’d talk about work and her dislike thereof, the promotion she was up for, but really didn’t want. And she’d talk about her dreams. How she longed to escape the big city and find a simpler way of life. A life she could enjoy and call her own.
Apparently Granny’s mind had fared better than her body. Because, somehow, she’d managed to scrawl those three words.
Celeste would never forget the look of urgency in her grandmother’s eyes when she tucked the note into Celeste’s hand. As though it were the most important document in the world.
Perhaps it was.
Since coming to Ouray, the headaches that used to be Celeste’s constant companion were history. She looked forward to getting up every morning, no matter how early, because each new day meant she got to do something that she loved.
Yes, Ouray was where she belonged. And she was determined to make this work. Even if she had to work with a cranky Gage Purcell.
