Jesse waited for her to say something like “I noticed you weren’t in church.” Or “Have you ever gone?” or the half dozen other thinly disguised recommendations he got from Melba, Clark and various other friends around town. “No, I’m fine. Hey, JJ told me you’re her cousin. You were at the wedding, too, weren’t you? On the boat?”
“Wedding of the year, wasn’t it?”
As the only female firefighter in Gordon Falls, JJ Cushman stuck out already before her legendary wedding to Alex Cushman on a steamboat on the Gordon River. “A big shindig, that’s for sure.”
“And then there’s my other cousin, JJ’s brother, Max.” She fished for her keys and wrestled the old door lock open. “And Melba’s baby is my new goddaughter. I know lots of people in Gordon Falls.”
They walked through the front hallway to the kitchen, where she plunked an enormous tapestry handbag—a vintage artsy-looking thing, he was glad to notice—down on the kitchen counter. “And now I know Karl. You were right. He did give me a slice of pie for my troubles.” She sighed, a happy, shoulder-heaving, contented sigh. “This is a nice town.”
It was, most of the time. “It has its moments.”
Charlotte began digging through the massive bag. “I made a list last night of the things I think the house needs—as a jumping-off point.” She pulled out a notebook with Victorian ladies dancing on the cover. “I’m no expert, though.”
Jesse put a hand to his chest. “That’s okay, because I am. Only there’s an awkward question I really should ask first.”
“Where do I want to hide the bodies?” She didn’t need the pink lipstick to show off that dynamic smile; her eyes lit up with humor.
The joke made the next question easier to ask. “No, what’s your budget?”
“Oh, that.” He couldn’t quite gauge her response.
“I mean, you don’t have to tell me,” he backpedaled, suddenly feeling his poor-loser wounds had run off with his diplomacy, “but it’s better if I know. I can make smarter recommendations if I have a total-figure picture on the whole project.”
Charlotte hoisted herself up to sit on the vacant countertop. “That’s the best part—I don’t have a budget. My grandma left me enough money to do this—at least I’m pretty certain she did. This place was a leap of faith.” She didn’t come out and say “unlimited funds,” but her eyes sure looked as though she was ready to spend. Must be nice to have that kind of cash. Jesse ignored the sharp curl of envy wrapped around his gut.
Instead, he focused on how she fit in the house. Houses—even half-built or long since run-down houses—always had personalities to him. He’d sensed this cottage’s personality way back, and looking at her perched on the counter, he knew her personality absolutely suited the vibe of this place. Had he just finished the remodeling, he’d probably have been delighted to sell it to her. He just couldn’t get there quite yet—for all her charm, Charlotte Taylor was still the agent of the delay in his achieving his dreams.
She looked around the room with wistful eyes. “Mima was amazing.” The grief was still fresh, glistening in her eyes and present in the catch of her words. Whoever this grandmother was, Charlotte missed her very much.
“Did Mima leave you her china?” Jesse wasn’t quite sure what made him ask.
Her eyes went wide; big velvet-brown pools of curiosity. “How did you know?”
“You said you collect.” Jesse began working his way around the kitchen, pulling drawers open, checking cabinet hinges, forcing himself to see the house through her eyes than through his own loss. “It seemed a natural guess that she’d leave you hers if you were that close.”
“We were.” Charlotte’s voice was thick with memory. “Mima was the most astounding woman. She didn’t have an easy life, but she got so much out of every moment, you know?” For a second Jesse worried Charlotte was going to break into tears right there on the countertop, but she just took a deep breath and tucked her hands under her knees. “She’d love this place.”
Needing to lighten the moment, Jesse raised the charred teakettle from its place in the sink. “Even the smoke-signal tea service?”
Charlotte laughed. She had a great laugh—lively and full and light. “She might have liked the drama, but Mima was a coffee drinker. ‘Strong as love and black as night,’ she used to say. Drank four cups a day right up until the end, even when her doctors yelled at her.”
It would be so much easier to begrudge Charlotte the sale if she weren’t so...sweet. Sweet? That wasn’t usually the kind of word he’d use to describe a woman, but it was the one that kept coming to mind with her. Only, she was more than sweet. She had an edge about her. An energy. She was probably more like her Mima than she knew. Spunky, maybe? No, that sounded ridiculous. Vivacious—that was it.
Jesse dragged his mind back to the task at hand. “Let’s walk through the house and identify what needs doing.”
It didn’t take long. Half the needed improvements had already been in his head, and the other half came cascading down upon him as he assumed his contractor’s mind-set and considered the house with her needs in mind. Every time the bitter thought of what he would have wanted threatened to overtake him, he wrote down a dollar figure next to a project to show himself what Charlotte’s business could mean for his future. By the time he left, Jesse was looking at a proposal that might get him down payments on two different investment properties, and she didn’t seem too fazed by it. Things were looking up.
Jesse watched Charlotte reading through his written proposal on her back porch the next afternoon. Despite how easy it was to chat with her—and how unfairly easy she was to like—the entire situation still hung off-kilter and uncomfortable inside him like a bad joke. He admired her enthusiasm, but it felt like a punch to his ribs at the same time. Had he shown that kind of energy, the singular focus she now displayed toward this house, he’d already own the cottage by now.
Even though she’d been in town only a few days, he’d heard from several people—Chief Bradens, Melba, his fellow firefighter JJ, even JJ’s brother, Max—about how Charlotte had gushed over her affection for the cottage. For crying out loud, it seemed even Karl at the coffee shop had gotten a speech about what she planned to do with the place. She’d spout off her plans to anyone who would listen.
Had he shown her initiative, acting more aggressively, more single-mindedly on his plans—the way Randy always acted when it came to business deals—Helen Bearson might have tipped him off that someone else had shown interest in the property. He could have found a way to inch past those final two months and purchase the property now. But no, his claim never went further than a comment to his folks or a vague remark to the other guys on the truck when they went past the vacant house. He’d never done anything more than occasional blue-sky thinking aloud. The plans had been there: real and detailed, meticulously compiled. But he’d kept them to himself, not wanting to be made the butt of more jokes or criticism if things didn’t work out. Now the spreadsheet calculating his accrued savings toward the goal felt like a misfire. No, worse: a dud.
Of course, Jesse knew better. His nobler side told him he had no right to his resentment. He had no practical claim to the cottage. This was just another example of his biggest flaw: always hatching plans and spending too long perfecting them to get around to acting on them. Dad would probably be gratified that his trademark inaction had once again come back to bite him. He’d lost the cottage, fair and square. You snooze, you lose. You’ve always known that. Maybe now you know it for real.