To Catch A Bride. Renee Roszel

don’t know! I don’t know! Leave me alone! She plunked down on the bed and grabbed handfuls of hair. Closing her fingers into fists, she muttered, “I know he hates me and wants me to suffer for running out on the wedding. But…”

      She scanned the bedroom with its sublime fourteen-foot ceiling. Once, long ago it had been lovely. The original casement windows still held their quaint bull’s-eye panes. And she’d seen a glimpse of the original parquet planking, visible in the closet. Green and burnt-umber carpeting, sporting a haphazard hoop-and-cube design, hid the wonderful old floor from view. The room’s deep, simply molded baseboards were classically Victorian. The ornate cornices were exemplary, too; but painted the same gray-green as the walls, their splendor was so camouflaged it was all but lost.

      Kalli knew the fifties had been a decade of budding space exploration. America’s love affair with aeronautical technology brought with it decorating schemes of unornamental flatness, geometric forms and daring color combinations. Kalli had always considered the look airy, sleek, clean and bright. Unfortunately, in the case of this home, someone had heavy-handedly inflicted the retro-fifties veneer on beautiful old Victorian architecture. Rather than sleek and pleasing, the effect was not only criminally inappropriate but erratic and unnerving.

      Could restoring this sleeping goddess to her virginal glory be worth three weeks of guaranteed hell, tormented and badgered by a vindictive male? She inhaled, her gaze roving over the bedchamber. Her heart swelled as she envisioned all it could be. It would be a sin to run away. The house needed her. On both an emotional level and a professional level, she would regret leaving for the rest of her life. “Yes,” she breathed, experiencing a renewed flow of courage. “Yes! It’s worth anything Mr. Varos might choose to put me through.”

      She shoved off the bed, glaring toward the room’s chartreuse door. “If insulting me and making me squirm is your idea of a vacation, Mr. Varos, then do your worst. Go ahead and watch me like a hawk, but you won’t find my work wanting. And I won’t run away!” She threw back her head and placed her hands on her hips. “Because Kalli Angelis is made of sterner stuff than you know. I’ll turn this Bitterweed into an American Beauty Rose, no matter how much grief you pile on my head. And you can take that to your precious bank!”

      Kalli didn’t want to waste a minute under Nikolos Varos’s roof, so that afternoon she got started, trekking from magnificent room to magnificent room snapping photographs and scribbling copious notes. With each new encounter, she was simultaneously awed and appalled. Obviously Mr. Varos had purchased the place with the furniture included. She couldn’t believe he would have recently acquired it, furnished it to match the misguided decor, only to immediately commission someone to have it completely redone. Not unless he had more money than sense. Which was a possibility, she supposed. Somebody had inflicted this travesty on the lovely old home.

      Though she worked with dogged single-mindedness, she could always tell when Niko was near. So much for her reputed single-mindedness. Even his momentary loitering in a neighboring hallway short-circuited her ability to think, let alone be creative.

      Every time she heard the distinctive rap of his step or sniffed his woodsy aftershave, her focus grew hazy. Architectural details became nondescript and peculiarly irrelevant. What was her problem? Why couldn’t she concentrate when he happened by? Was it anxiety? Was she waiting for the other shoe to drop and wondering exactly how deafening the explosion would be? Did she expect him to leap out at her and shout “boo”? Or douse her with a water hose?

      Working to shut her mind to everything but her note-taking, she peeled away a corner of silvered wallpaper to discover the faded remnants of a stunning handmade woodblock design. Even as agitated as she was, Kalli managed an appreciative smile and jotted the information in her workbook. Once again the wondrous reality of her good luck gave her a fleeting reprieve from thoughts of Nikolos Varos and his lurking glower.

      The afternoon passed without any shoes dropping or massive explosions. As a matter of fact, he’d said nothing at all to her. He didn’t even join her at dinner, so she ate alone in a room that could have housed a double-decker bus. In the overpowering silence she picked at something tasty, exotic and crab-meaty, but she hardly noticed it.

      Her interest lay in scanning the dining room. Walls, paneled up to the dado rail, had once been stained a rich walnut, but were now painted a nasty orange. Coordinating wallpaper depicted a psychedelic skirmish of color and design that would have sent Kalli scurrying under the table if the structure hadn’t been such a scary, stainless-steel monstrosity. Its brushed serpentine surface was so cold to the touch, Kalli found herself holding her utensils by their extreme ends to keep from making contact.

      Twenty molded fiberglass chairs, thinly upholstered in lemon vinyl with skinny metal legs, surrounded the table like half-starved munchkins attempting to hold the slithering beast at bay. She experienced an ironic giggle and mumbled, “Kalli, you’re not in Kansas anymore. You’re definitely in Oz.”

      She glanced up. Where crystal chandeliers once sparkled in the lofty space between the paneled ceiling and table, tract lighting now dominated. Fuzzy fiberglass cones angled hither and yon, illuminated random snippets of space. Kalli shivered at the chilly severity the room generated. “If you want my opinion, Mr. Varos,” she muttered, “the decor suits you perfectly.”