“If you think of someone else who may be able to help, give me a call,” Jamal told Nathan as he pocketed his change and headed out of the hardware store.
He waved at a couple of folks as he drove down Gauthier’s Main Street. For a city kid, he’d allowed this small town to thoroughly charm him. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with its brightly colored storefronts sporting striped awnings and hand-painted We’re Open signs hanging in the windows. Jamal hadn’t known towns like this still existed, especially with predominately black populations.
Moving to Gauthier had been, without a doubt, one of the best decisions he’d made in his thirty-three years. He had been slowly dying back in Phoenix, but this small town had given him a new start. Having the freedom to live life on his terms instead of being bound by the confines of the Johnson Construction legacy had changed everything. He was finally free to pursue his dreams of opening his own architectural firm, without having to face his father’s derision.
So why was his firm still just an idea on paper?
A jolt of anxiety ricocheted against the walls of Jamal’s chest. The sensation had become commonplace, rearing its head whenever his mind so much as tiptoed in the vicinity of his underdeveloped career plans.
He quieted the unease by picturing the Victorian and what it would mean to Gauthier. The men back at the hardware store had reiterated how appreciative the town was that he was renovating Belle Maison. It would be selfish to think about his architectural firm when so many would benefit from the B&B.
“Yeah, you’re all about the noble self-sacrifice,” Jamal muttered.
Renovating the Victorian was a stalling tactic, and he damn well knew it. Just like the renovations of the Georgian he’d purchased when he moved to Gauthier a year ago.
He didn’t have the time or energy for a mental debate over why he continued to avoid moving forward on his architectural firm. There was too much work to be done, regardless of the true reason he was doing it.
Despite his exhaustion, Jamal drove straight past his house, forfeiting the hot shower and food his body craved in exchange for getting in a few more hours of work on Belle Maison. Now that he had the replacement bulb for his work light, there was no reason for him to call it quits for the day.
* * *
Sitting at the bar in her kitchen after a fitful night of very little sleep, Phil sipped a cup of piping-hot coffee and thumbed through the latest issue of Antique Abodes. There was a feature on a Greek Revival in Natchez, Mississippi, that a young couple had spent the past five years restoring. She wondered if she could swing a trip up to Natchez. It was worth the three-hour drive to see the house firsthand.
If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have the time to drive into Mississippi to look at someone else’s restoration project; she would be too busy with her own. The caretaker at Evergreen Plantation had emailed yesterday afternoon, informing Phil that a decision would be made soon on the restoration job she’d bid on. It wasn’t a huge project—a bit of work on some of the plantation’s antique furniture—but it would be welcomed income. She was barely keeping her head above water, and the waterline was gradually creeping further up her neck.
Phil spotted the mail carrier in front of her next-door neighbor’s house. She set her coffee cup down and was waiting outside when Paul Ricard pulled up to her mailbox.
“How you doing, Phil?” he greeted.
“Doing okay,” she answered. “How’s Liza? Baby Number Five make an appearance yet?”
“Any day now,” Paul said, handing her a stack of envelopes and catalogs. “Liza’s at that stage when she’s not talking to me. That usually means we’re close to a delivery.”
“Well, if she still hasn’t figured out what to call the new baby, I think Phylicia is a beautiful name.”
“That it is.” Paul laughed. “See you later, Phil.”
She waved as she turned and headed back toward the house, thumbing through the mail. There were two credit card offers—her current financial state must not have reached those companies yet—the bill for her auto insurance and an advertisement for the grand opening of a dry cleaners in Maplesville.
The fifth envelope caused her heart to sputter and her breathing to escalate. Phil stared at the return address, dread suffusing her bones. A weight settled in her stomach as she reentered the house and went into the kitchen. Stalling, she tossed the mail on the bar and refilled her coffee cup.
Leaning a hip against the counter, Phil eyed the envelope from Mossy Oaks Care Facility. She already knew what it contained. She’d received an envelope just like it about a month ago, with a letter stating that the rising cost of health care was forcing the facility to increase its rates across the board. Even with the money from her dad’s life insurance policy, Phil was still paying nearly a thousand dollars out of her own pocket every month for her mother’s care. She couldn’t afford several hundred more.
But she couldn’t afford not to pay it, either.
It was nothing short of a miracle that one of the South’s most renowned care facilities for dementia patients was located just twenty miles southeast, in Slidell. It was ludicrous to even consider moving her mom from Mossy Oaks.
Phil swallowed the lump of worry that lodged in her throat as she set the cup on the counter and reached for the envelope. She opened it, finding exactly what she knew would be there. The increase had been approved by the facility’s board of directors and would take effect next month.
Where was she going to find this money?
Her cell phone trilled. Phil picked it up and recognized the number from Evergreen Plantation’s caretaker. She glanced up at the ceiling and whispered, “Thank you, Lord,” as she answered it.
But instead of answered prayers, Phil had her heart broken into bite-size chunks. The caretaker’s apologetic tone was nearly as hard to stomach as the words she spoke.
“I’m sorry, Miss Phillips, but Marshall Restoration’s bid was significantly less than yours, even with the cost of shipping the furniture to their California warehouse.”
“But aren’t you afraid the furniture will get damaged in transit?” Phil asked.
“The furniture is insured,” was the woman’s response.
As if that mattered!
It wasn’t about the money, Phil wanted to shout. It was about potentially endangering irreplaceable, centuries-old furniture. There shouldn’t be a price tag on that. But apparently there was, and it was lower than the eight thousand dollars Phil had bid on the work.
Before ending the call she asked that she be kept in mind for other work the plantation might need in the future. Phil slouched over the bar, her head landing with a thump on her forearm. The disappointment was almost too much to bear.
As much as she loved her work, Phil wished she could count on a steady paycheck. When she did get paid it was usually enough to live on for several months, depending on the size of the job. But her last big project had been back in the spring, and repairing an old radio or the occasional antique headboard was not going to cut it. She needed a long-term project, something that would provide enough income to last her until one of the other bids hopefully came through.
She knew of one job that would fit the bill, but Lord knew she did not want to take it.
“No, no, no,” she whispered, her whine muffled by her arm.
There had to be another option.
Phil