Carmen saw that he sincerely wanted the distraction, the change of pace and the caffeine and said, “Yes and yes, to coffee and the tour. I’d love to see the whole house. But I’m sorry about your uncle.”
“I know. He was a good guy. But he was eighty, and he’d been ill awhile.” Again he seemed uncomfortable about sharing this with a stranger. She’d really got him on a bad day. The ongoing impulse to comfort him with her touch came as an irritation.
Been there, done that today. Had the embarrassment thick in the air to prove it.
And anyhow, haven’t you done enough of that kind of thing in your life, Carmen O’Brien, with Dad and Melanie and Joe and Kate, and even Cormack on a bad day? All that family, needing hugs and needing you. Why go looking for more of it, just at a time where, if only Kate would settle down and find herself, you might be free?
Definitely, she wasn’t going to act as Jack Davey’s shoulder to cry on again today. Or, hopefully, ever.
“Want me to make the coffee?” she offered heading through the open doorway in the direction of the fridge. “Through here?”
“No, I know where I’ve put everything in this mess,” he answered, and followed her.
Most of the kitchen equipment had been moved into this adjoining sunroom and piled at random. The room looked as if it had once been an open porch but had been enclosed a long time ago. Even though it was a mess now, it would be a beautiful room if it had some work. Pull up the ugly indoor-outdoor carpeting, polish the floorboards…
Were there hardwood boards under here?
Carmen discreetly slid the toe of her running shoe beneath a curled-up edge of orangey-brown carpet to take a look. She loved the whole process of renovating an old house, even though she and Cormack did mostly kitchens and bathrooms. She could just imagine this room with fresh paint, comfortable furnishings, syrup-colored floorboards….
“Yeah, I took a look and it seems to be in great condition,” Jack Davey said, following her downward gaze to the floor.
She hadn’t been discreet enough, apparently. Felt a little shamefaced as she admitted, “I love checking out the possibilities. Cormack says I act as if every house we work on is the one I’m going to raise my kids in.”
“Yeah? How many do you have?” He found the coffee jar and filters, went back into the kitchen to fill the glass pot.
“Oh, kids? None. Theoretical kids, he means.” She wasn’t convinced she wanted kids of her own, actually, after she and Cormack had pretty much raised the younger three O’Brien siblings these past ten years and more. Not that her client needed to know any of that.
But maybe he’d caught something in her tone. He gave her a sideways glance and said, “Right,” and the subject was closed.
He made the coffee and they drank it and munched on a Danish pastry each as they toured the sprawling house. It definitely needed work. The basement was cluttered with junk, and the dust lay thick. The washing machine down there looked like a model from the sixties. They both poked around, finding traces of damp along the north wall.
“I might have to get some new drainage in place outside.” Jack bent and ran his fingers across the puckered, powdery whitewash down near floor level.
Carmen took a closer look, also, and for a moment they stood shoulder to shoulder, propping their hands on their knees as they examined the problem. “The place might just need airing out. Or you might be right and it could need more major treatment.”
She was enjoying this. It reminded her of the way she and Cormack worked together, very practical and relaxed with each other. A heck of a lot easier than standing in Jack Davey’s kitchen feeling him sob in her arms.
Hmm. Too relaxed, maybe.
Suddenly she felt a little self-conscious, as if she’d been standing too close. He smelled good, and that wasn’t the kind of thing you should notice about a client a half hour after you first met him.
“But look at the windows,” Jack said, moving away. He’d stopped favoring his injured left side now that it was hurting less, and he walked with more athletic grace than she would have expected from a lawman. He was springy on his feet, and energetic, which Carmen liked because she was energetic, too. “They’re a good size. When they’re clean they’ll let in a lot of light, and I’ll clear out the junk, paint the floor.”
They went back up the rickety basement stairs. The fireplace in the living room had been closed off and replaced with an ugly gas heater, the floors needed sanding and varnishing, and you could spend three months painting the place inside and out and not have it done, but the ceilings were high and there was some great original detail. Marble and Flemish tile around the fireplace, real plaster cornices and moldings, stained and beveled glass panels beside the front door, hand carving on the hardwood newel post at the foot of the stairs.
“Want to see outside before we go upstairs?” Jack said.
“Is there much land?”
“About three-fourths of an acre. Like the house, it’s a mess.”
They went through a side door and around into the rear yard, where dew still lay on the untidy grass. Walking next to Jack, Carmen couldn’t help taking sideways looks a couple of times. To see if he was still okay. To see what that strong, hard body really looked like, because having a man fall into her arms two minutes after she met him meant that so far she had a more vivid impression about the way he felt and smelled and sounded than about the way he looked.
Both times she found him looking back at her. A little wary, a little curious at the same time. As if he needed to check out what she really looked like, too, because he only knew about how she felt and smelled. The first time this happened, they both looked away fast. The second time, out beyond the shadow of the house, the looks held for half a second too long.
He cleared his throat. “So this is the yard.” It came out a little too breezy and cheerful.
“Oh, right, great,” she answered, as if she hadn’t recognized that this was a yard until he said it.
When she looked closer, she saw that it was more than a yard, it was a garden. An overgrown and half-forgotten garden, but a garden all the same. She saw rosebushes that had gone unpruned for years and a stand of fruit trees that was almost an orchard. Winter-deadened weeds, creepers and sumac camouflaged an area of stone paving with a hand-chiseled birdbath at the center of it.
“It’ll take work,” Jack said, as if warning her.
“Yeah, I noticed,” she drawled. “Are you a gardener?”
“Never have been, but when I look at this and think about the possibilities, I want to learn.”
The property backed onto what was almost a cliff. Facing south, it rose forty or fifty feet, made of chunky, solid rock that was covered in a tangle of growth. In the April sun, the fresh lime-green of new leaves had begun to appear.
“This is natural, this rock face?” Carmen asked.
“That’s right.”
“And is that a train track up on top?”
“It’s not used anymore. I climbed all the way up here one day. There are pockets of good soil in lots of places.”
He paced in front of the rock face, his keenness for the project translating into energetic movement and an animated face. His eyes weren’t red-rimmed anymore, and he’d begun to forget their awkward start with each other. So had Carmen. Her relief was like the April sun. Getting stronger. Warming her.
“It wouldn’t