“Charlotte...”
“I know, I know. Stop worrying—I’m not going to take my aggressions out at the home decorating store. I should probably have the home improvement channels blocked off my cable service for now. But since I don’t have a job, I can’t even afford cable television, so that solves that anyway, doesn’t it?” She leaned back in her chair, as if the sheer weight of Melba’s doubts had pushed her there. “This is going to be fine. Really. I won’t let this get out of hand.”
Melba pushed the file back across the table to Charlotte. “Easy to say now, but these things have a way of snowballing. Even the remodeling costs for the house I inherited from Dad sent Clark and me reeling.”
When Melba’s father had died last year after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, it left Clark and Melba to remake her childhood home into the one that now housed her new family. The transition had been complicated and expensive—going beyond what it would have cost in both time and money to start fresh with a new house—but it just proved Charlotte’s point: the house gave off a palpable sense of history. She’d felt something like it from the cottage that first visit. The once-charming cottage seemed to beckon to her, begging to be restored. She knew it was a risky prospect, but she couldn’t make herself feel as if she’d made the wrong choice. She’d chosen a challenging path, yes, but not a wrong one. “I’m going to be fine, Melba. Now let’s drop the subject and let me hold that baby.”
Melba stood up and handed Maria to Charlotte. As Maria snuggled in against her shoulder, Charlotte breathed in the darling scent of baby-girl curls. “You’ve got the best of both worlds, Maria. Your mama’s curls and your daddy’s red hair. You may hate it when you’re five, but guys are gonna follow you like ducklings when you’re seventeen.”
Melba laughed as she warmed Charlotte’s tea and set down a plate of cookies. “Clark’s already informed me Maria will be banned from dating until she’s thirty. And no firefighters.”
Charlotte applied an expression of false shock. “Well, I’ll back him up on the ‘no firefighters’ policy, but that’s kind of a tough sell. He’s the fire chief, isn’t he?”
Sitting back down, Melba laughed again. “I think it’s because he’s chief. He’s seen a little too much of the department’s social life or heard a little too much in the locker room.”
“They don’t seem that rough around the edges to me. As a matter of fact, Jesse Sykes seems like a stand-up guy.” Charlotte could feel Maria softening against her shoulder. Melba was right—the world was always a better place with a baby drooling on your shoulder.
“He’s an original, that’s for sure.” Melba selected a cookie and dunked it in her tea. “I don’t know about stand-up, but he sure stands out. You can trust him, though. He did some of the work here on the house. Good work, if you don’t mind the singing.”
“The what?”
“Jesse has a habit of breaking out in Motown hits. If you haven’t heard him yet, you will. Don’t you remember he sang at Alex and JJ’s wedding?”
“That was Jesse Sykes?” Charlotte recalled a rather impressive version of “My Girl” at her cousin’s wedding. She tried to imagine Jesse’s soulful voice echoing in the cottage living room, but she couldn’t conjure up the image. “Mostly he just made wisecracks when I talked to him this time. Funny guy.”
“Oh, he’s a cutup, that’s for sure. And a good firefighter. Clark wouldn’t put up with his antics otherwise.” Melba got a conniving look on her face. “You should hire him. I think he’d be good for you. An upbeat guy to have around in a tight spot.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Melba’s innocent blink hid nothing.
Charlotte whispered into Maria’s ear, “Your mama’s getting ideas.”
“I am not.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I know you too well. Look, I know we were discussing behavior, not profession, but he’s a fireman, Melba. I won’t get into a relationship with a first responder no matter how well behaved. We’ve been through this how many times? Nothing’s changed. I’ve got way too many memories of sitting up nights with Mom at the kitchen table.”
“Your dad was a policeman, I know, but—”
“But nothing. Same stress, different uniform. Melba, I’ve got nothing against you and Clark, and goodness knows JJ’s done terrific at the firehouse, but I know what I can handle and what I can’t. I’ve never dated someone who does that kind of work and I don’t plan to start now.”
* * *
A tiny war was going on in Jesse’s chest—and in his pride—as he walked up the overgrown sidewalk to Charlotte’s cottage Sunday morning. This was supposed to be his cottage. The place needed loads of work, and he knew he was the best man to complete it. He’d planned the rehab of this place a dozen times, imagining living in the home as he upgraded fixtures, appliances and wiring until he could turn around and sell it for a tidy profit. Or even stay there and use it as the showcase for what he could do with other properties. But that opportunity was lost now.
The only opportunity left in this situation was to be the guy hired for the renovation job. If a woman could afford a vacation cottage at Charlotte’s age, she probably wouldn’t haggle over the cost the place would require to be done up right. His business sense knew that made her an excellent customer even if she was a thorn in his side. The house needed loads of work, and loads of work could mean a big check for Mondale and for him. As he lay in bed last night, Jesse told himself a job this size could leave him with even more funds than he’d anticipated making over the summer. Funds to buy another house—bigger and better to soothe his wounded pride and show his father just how savvy a businessman he could be.
All this should have had him dreaming up the perfect sales pitch as he approached the door—and yet for some reason, he wasn’t. He prided himself on knowing how to optimize a customer with deep pockets, only Charlotte Taylor didn’t have that entitled look about her. In fact, she looked a little...lost. The way he’d looked when he’d first put on the bulky, cumbersome firefighter’s gear—right at the launch of a dream, forcing an outer confidence that didn’t quite cover the dazzled and doubtful person on the inside.
As he pushed the rusty doorbell button, Jesse still wasn’t sure how he was going to play it for this meeting. Just wing it, he told himself. You wing it all the time. He pushed the button again, listening for the chimes inside the house once he noticed the living room window was open to his left.
No sound. Sometimes it was useful to start a customer off with a small project, but he’d planned on something larger than a broken doorbell. He knocked on the door loudly and leaned over the wrought-iron railing to yell into the window. “Charlotte!”
A second knock and another yell produced no reply. He pivoted to see her little blue car wasn’t in the cottage drive. Maybe church ran long today. He could just start without her while he waited. After checking his watch, Jesse pulled out his notes.
He’d already made his own list of what the house needed, but he’d go through the process of re-creating a list to suit her taste. He just hoped it wouldn’t clash with the character of the house he saw so clearly. Catering to a client’s whims was one thing—ignoring his own clear ideas on this particular place was going to be quite another. Still, he’d do it to rack up enough funds to move forward. He was bone-tired of delays and detours, not to mention his father’s ever-increasing digs.
Pacing the cottage’s front stoop, he toed boards and pushed harder on the railing only to have it creak and pull out from its mountings. He added the doorbell and railing to his handwritten list and began