Saved by the Fireman. Allie Pleiter
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.