Chapter 3
John crossed his arms. This woman drove him nuts. He hadn’t known the lady more than twenty minutes, but that was twenty minutes too long. Lesley DeLoach was crazy to be romanticizing a home that had absolutely nothing romantic about it. As a contractor—and as broke as he was—it was in his best interest to agree with her, take on the job…but even he knew when to call a spade a spade. This house was a goner. Her aunt had seemed a little cuckoo; maybe the trait ran in the family.
Besides, he could read her like a book. Just like those other city slickers, this big town, northern hippy probably thought she could come in, boss people around, and insult Bakersville and its small-town ways. He wanted nothing to do with that.
No thank you.
But if his ears weren’t deceiving him, he could swear he heard a bit of a southern drawl mixed in with that Yankee talk.
Why is she here, really?
“Well, are you?” Lesley asked, breaking his concentration.
“Am I what?”
“Up for the challenge of this big project. If not, I’m sure I can find someone else.”
Find someone else. Ha!
Maybe his uncle did call on him specifically to handle her tour of the place, and just maybe Milton did try to help him get back on his feet. If this princess didn’t think he could handle the job, then he was more than ready to prove her wrong.
She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips and her nose wrinkled. Her obvious exasperation was kind of cute.
Whoa! Where’d that come from?
Nuts and cute didn’t go together. Besides, in the past twenty minutes, she’d also sustained two injuries. Add clumsy to her list of glowing character traits.
She tapped her foot against the wood floor, and he wondered if that was her way of scratching it without actually scratching. The vibrations that echoed up her leg would surely send a slight reprieve from the burning and itching she had to be experiencing right about now. The top of her foot had started to swell, and the coloring matched that of her red toenail polish.
Damn, now he was staring at her toes. He turned his head to study the old house.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Hambrice. Are you up for the challenge?”
Add impatient to the list.
“Maybe.” John turned in a circle, taking in all the problems. The entire place would almost have to be gutted. Between the damage on the outside and spending the time and effort to get the home up to code on the inside, the dollar signs kept rising. “But, from a money standpoint, you’re better off knocking this whole thing down and starting from the ground up.”
The woman let out a gasp. “I wouldn’t dare. This place is rich in history. There’s got to be something you can save. Take this.” She held out her hand and walked over to the stairwell. “This banister rail is gorgeous, and you couldn’t possibly think to get rid of that could you?” She leaned against the railing, and the whole thing shifted with a grinding noise.
“Watch out.” John lunged, catching her around the waist just before she hit the floor along with the rail. He held her as if he’d just dipped her from a private dance they’d shared. He hadn’t held a woman so intimate since Sandra.
Hastily, he righted them both. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” She moved her hands to his arms, squeezing his biceps as she regained her footing. Her cheeks reddened. “Maybe the banister could use a few nails to secure it a little more.”
He peered down at her. “Why don’t you avoid leaning on anything else until I can check the quality first?”
Lesley nodded, and her gaze traveled toward her waist…where he still held her.
Shit.
John released his grip and pulled his arms back to his sides. “Let’s keep going, shall we?”
She stepped left. “You first.”
He hurried back into the living room to put some space between them. The family area connected to a small sitting room that Myrtle had made into a makeshift office and craft room. An old, wooden desk, piled high with skeins of yarn, sat in one corner. Baskets lined the floor with half-finished knitting projects.
“This is where a lot of entertaining used to take place.” Lesley picked up an unfinished sweater. “At least, that’s what the history books lead you to believe about a house like this.” She sneezed and tossed the yarn back on the floor. Dust flew in the air.
“By the looks of things…” He ran his finger over the chair railing. Black grime covered his fingertip. “I would say there hasn’t been much entertaining in this house in a long while, if ever.” The old chandelier above flickered, making him wonder about the condition of the wiring.
He crossed the room and continued into the library, Lesley close on his heels. Stacks of papers lined almost every available walking surface. Tripping hazards.
She let out a loud gasp behind him and he turned, automatically holding his hands out in front of him, ready to catch her. Instead of her body meeting his arms, he met her gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes glossed over as she stared into the room.
“Are you…crying?” John stepped beside her and faced the direction she did. He raised his arm to pat her back, but then thought better of it. Crazy people liked to get clingy.
“It’s just so, so…” she sniffled.
“Much work?” He nodded and placed his hands in his back pockets.
“Beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
She really was nuts. Broken bookshelves covered nearly every surface of the walls. An old rung ladder hung from a bar, allowing access to the books on the top shelves—a ladder he wouldn’t trust to hold the weight of a mouse. The room smelled of old paper mixed with the fragrance of mothballs, and the slight undercurrent of cat urine. The acidic smell was enough to make him want to turn and leave. Or throw up.
The princess wiped a tear from her eye. “This house is going to be beautiful again. I just know it.” She offered him a slight smile. A small freckle dotted the left side of her mouth.
Double shit. Now I’m staring at her mouth.
“Let’s talk numbers,” she said. “And how fast can you get started?”
“You’re serious about this?” Don’t look at the freckle. He glanced down at his feet and kicked some papers with the toe of his boot.
“Yes.” She walked to the shelves and ran a dainty hand over some of the dusty book spines. “I want to be open for business as soon as possible.”
“Open for business?” What kind of business was this princess involved in? A hoity-toity knick-knack shop? She looked the type.
“A bed and breakfast.” She picked up a dirty spine from the shelf and stared at him. “Now, give me a price.”
Surely, this lady realized Bakersville didn’t get that many tourists?
Not my problem.
“Honestly, I haven’t decided if I want the job. This is going to take a lot of manpower, time, and money.” Not to mention, he didn’t want to get himself involved with another cheap-paying city girl. But, damn it if he didn’t need the money. “Let me sleep on it. Run some numbers. I’ll get back with you tomorrow.”
“Oh, I see.” She placed the book down. “Can you be sure to let me know first thing tomorrow? I don’t have time to waste getting started on this project.”
“Sure.” What was her hurry? He studied her, avoiding her lips. She crossed her arms over her chest, and refused to meet his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, go ahead.” She turned to the shelves, her back to him; her blonde hair cascaded between narrow shoulder blades.
He stopped his gaze short of her behind. Crazy. Remember that. “What’s your hurry?” he asked.
“My hurry?”
“Yeah. Why are you in such a rush to get this place back to a livable space?”
She tossed him a glance, and for a split second, he could have sworn he saw her lower lip tremble, but then she straightened and stared at him square on. “I told you, to open Rosalyn for business. Besides, time is money, and I don’t like to waste either.”
“Right.” He nodded. “Money.”
Nothing more than a city slicker after all.
He stepped toward the doorway. “Well, I’ll get back to you tomorrow then.”
“Mr. Hambrice?”
He turned. “It’s John.”
“Okay, John. Do you mind—” She hesitated and bit her bottom lip before she continued. “Do you mind helping me unload my things?”
“Your things? You want to store them here?”
“Well, where else would I keep them?” She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know. Maybe at your hotel or wherever it is you’re staying.”
“This is where I’m staying. The manor is my home now. So please, would you mind helping me?”
“Here? You’re staying here?”
She nodded and pushed her gaze to the floor.
His disbelief had obviously embarrassed her. Damn it. No wonder she was in such a rush.
“Yeah, sure,” he sighed. “Lead the way.”
“Thank you.”
A slight smile crinkled her eyes, and to hell with it all if it didn’t make her already attractive features even cuter.
****
“Hey, kids.” His children were spread out on the worn living room rug, their gazes stuck to the television screen. John stood in front of the TV. “I’m home.”
“Daddy,” Matt squealed and ran to him, gripping his legs.
“What’s up, little dude?” He reached down to pick him up. “How was your day?”
“Good,” his boy shouted. “We got to play with bugs at school.”
“You did?”
Matthew nodded, and John squeezed him before placing him back on his feet. He then knelt, eye level with his daughter. “Hey, cupcake.”
“Where have you been, Daddy? It’s late.” She threw her arms around him, her soft skin warm on his neck.
“I’m sorry.” He squeezed her back. “I had some work to catch up on.” He glanced to the babysitter on the couch. “Have they eaten yet?”
“Not yet.” Andrea stood. “They wanted to wait on you. There’s chicken in the oven and left over green beans in the refrigerator from last night. I looked in the pantry, but there weren’t any rolls or anything else to go with the meal.”
The grocery store. He had meant to go over the weekend but forgot.
John glanced over at his desk and saw the mountain of bills that accumulated, taunting him, threatening to make him feel more of a failure as soon as he opened them. He shifted his gaze back to his kids and Andrea. “Right. I’ll make a grocery run tomorrow. Thanks for staying late.”
“No, problem, Mr. H.” She lingered a little longer than necessary.
“Well, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.” The sitter kissed the kids goodbye and left.
“All right, guys.” He clapped his hand. “Let’s eat.”
After dinner, he tossed the dirty dishes in the sink, turned on the hot water, and pulled open a drawer for a dishtowel. Empty. Leaning back on one foot, he peered into the laundry room. Clothes formed a pile as high as the machine.
Do the laundry. Just another chore to add to his growing list.
“Change of plans.” He flipped the water off. “Bath time.”
“Last one there is a rotten egg.” Matthew ran up the stairs.
Rachel shoved past him and took the lead, her footsteps pounding like a sumo wrestler’s on the wooden steps. “I beat you. I beat you.” She broke into a victory dance.
As John reached the top of the stairs, tears welled in Matt’s eyes. He patted his son’s back. “Good job, Matt, letting the lady win. A gentleman should always let the lady win.”
“That’s right.” Matt’s glossy eyes and round face beamed. “I’m a gently man.”
John chuckled as he guided his kids toward the bathroom and turned the faucet on. “All right. Rachel goes first, then Matt. Got it?”
His kids nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Fifteen minutes later, Matt lifted his hand. “I’m turning into a raisin.”
“I love raisins.” John made chomping sounds as he pretended to take a bite of Matthew’s wiggly fingers. His boy giggled and the sound of laughter created a ripple effect like a rock skipping in a pond through his heart. “Let’s get out, raisin.”
He wrapped Matt in a towel and ushered him to Rachel’s room where she stood in her princess pajamas. John reached for the extra pair of pajama’s Matt kept there.
“I don’t want those. I want my superhero pj’s.” Matthew raced down the hall.
John leaned his head back to see inside the other bedroom just as his son yanked a drawer from his dresser. Clothes flew through the air.
“Hey,” he hollered from the doorway of Rachel’s room. “Little man, why are you doing that?”
“I want my special ones. Where are they?” More clothes landed on the floor. “Dad, where are they?” His tone grew higher in pitch as he opened another drawer.
“What special ones is he talking about?” he asked Rachel as he reached for her towel to help dry her hair.
She turned her head and glanced up. “The ones Mom got him.”
John stilled then sighed. A heaviness spread over him as his gaze automatically found the picture on his daughter’s dresser—Sandra holding the kids at the zoo. Two weeks before he found out she had cancer. Two weeks before the rest of his life changed.
“Dad, where are they?” Matt cried.
He whipped his head around toward his son again. “Calm down, Matthew. I’ll help you.” John kissed Rachel on the forehead. “Get in bed, okay.”
“Okay, Daddy.” She pulled her covers down as he marched across the hall.
“Maybe they’re in here.” Bending down, he opened the bottom drawer of his son’s dresser. Right on top, a pair of blue pajamas with action figures all over them stared back at him. “See, look.” He pulled out the outfit.
“Yay.” Matthew yanked them from his hands and began dressing himself.
The pants were no longer ankle length, but hit mid-calf, and the shirtsleeves hit his forearms. The chest area fit snug, and it was only a matter of months before his special pajamas wouldn’t fit anymore.
A lot had changed over the course of a year. Sandra would never see how much their kids had grown. Their children had gotten bigger, his life lonelier. The pain of losing his wife still sliced at his gut.
He fought back a tear, and ushered his boy to Rachel’s room.
“All right, bedtime, kids.”
“It’s time to talk to God and Mommy.” His daughter knelt on her knees beside her bed. Matthew rushed to her side, clasping his hands together and squeezing his eyes shut.
“Sure.”
John sat quietly on the bed beside them, just as he did every night while his children said their prayers. Since Sandra died, Rachel had insisted on praying. He let them, even though he knew better. If there truly were a God, he wouldn’t have let his wife die, and leave his children motherless. He only consented to his kids praying before bedtime because he knew that’s what she would have wanted, and the act made them feel as if their mother was still with them.
But Sandra was gone, and she was never coming back.
“God,” Rachel began, “please watch over Daddy. Keep him safe and healthy so he can stay with us.”
His daughter’s words were like a dagger to his heart. Since Sandra’s death, the children had been clingy to him, scared he would die, too. That wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. He was all they had left.
Another burning tear threatened to fall down his cheek, and he swiped it away before his kids opened their eyes.
“Amen,” they both said.
“Okay, guys.” He placed a kiss on their foreheads. “Good night. I love you.”
Matthew curled in his sleeping bag on the floor—another change since Sandra had been gone. The two didn’t like to be apart. He didn’t push too hard. Matt would soon get tired of sleeping on the floor and go back to his own room, and he hoped Rachel would stop wetting her bed. The counselor had told him these were all side effects of losing a parent.
He tucked them in then flicked off the light. Their whispers and laughs echoed in the quiet room as he walked down the hallway—little giggles that shot straight to his heart.
John ambled downstairs and sat at his makeshift desk along the kitchen wall. He pushed the bills out of the way to find a pen under a stack of late notices. Jotting notes about the Rosalyn Manor, he filled a page and a half before he stopped. Everything that needed to be done would take the better part of six months, at least.
He crumpled the pages into a ball and threw his pencil down. Why was he wasting his time? Princess was probably going to have a change of heart tomorrow when the newness of the plantation wore off and the realization sank in of how much work this job was going to be. She would load that little sports car of hers back up and ride into the sunset.
In all honesty, he couldn’t say he’d blame her if she did. His uncle’s thoughts were in the right place—if Lesley decided she did want to stay, the manor would be a huge job opportunity for him. But while he needed the job, he didn’t want it. This project would take months to complete, and take time away from his children.
Life was short. Oh, how he knew that.
He’d rather spend time with the people he loved than the crazy northerner with a southern lilt who couldn’t seem to stay out of harm’s way for more than ten minutes at a time.
John shoved away from the desk, strode into the kitchen, and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. Propped against the island, he took a swig as he stared at his desk. Those bills weren’t going anywhere without money. He took another swig and glanced at the calendar. “Pay Day” was written in bold red letters on today’s block.
Shit.
No wonder Andrea had lingered; he was supposed to have paid her for three weeks’ worth of back care.
Frustrated, he headed to the living room, grabbed the remote, and plopped on the couch. His mind wandered to Lesley DeLoach. Something about her didn’t sit right with him. Why would someone of means stay at a place like the Rosalyn Manor, a home that wasn’t much better than a rundown shack? Not that it was acceptable for Leo and Beatrice, but they were used to living there. Not the princess.
His air conditioner kicked on; the breeze from the vent smacked him right in the face. Something Lesley, Leo, and Beatrice wouldn’t feel tonight. The thought set as well in his gut as a bowl of truck stop chili, irritating and concerning.
He drained his beer, placed the bottle on the end table, and went back to his desk and notepad.
Rosalyn Manor, ready or not, here I come.