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Saved by the Fireman
Allie Pleiter
Building their futureCharlotte Taylor isn't good at playing it safe. Reeling from the sudden loss of her job and her beloved grandmother, Charlotte knows buying a dilapidated cottage in Gordon Falls isn't exactly practical. Especially since she just hired the one man who may love the property more than she does to help renovate it. Volunteer firefighter and part-time contractor Jesse Sykes can't stay mad at Charlotte for very long. Though she snatched up the home he'd planned on purchasing, Charlotte's dreams are big enough for both of them…if only she'd let him in. Charlotte promised she'd never fall for a first responder, but is it already too late?Gordon Falls: Hearts ablaze in a small townCharlotte Taylor isn't good at playing it safe. Reeling from the sudden loss of her job and her beloved grandmother, Charlotte knows buying a dilapidated cottage in Gordon Falls isn't exactly practical. Especially since she just hired the one man who may love the property more than she does to help renovate it. Volunteer firefighter and part-time contractor Jesse Sykes can't stay mad at Charlotte for very long. Though she snatched up the home he'd planned on purchasing, Charlotte's dreams are big enough for both of them…if only she'd let him in. Charlotte promised she'd never fall for a first responder, but is it already too late?Gordon Falls: Hearts ablaze in a small town


Building their future
Charlotte Taylor isn’t good at playing it safe. Reeling from the sudden loss of her job and her beloved grandmother, Charlotte knows buying a dilapidated cottage in Gordon Falls isn’t exactly practical. Especially since she just hired the one man who may love the property more than she does to help renovate it. Volunteer firefighter and part-time contractor Jesse Sykes can’t stay mad at Charlotte for very long. Though she snatched up the home he’d planned on purchasing, Charlotte’s dreams are big enough for both of them…if only she’d let him in. Charlotte promised she’d never fall for a first responder, but is it already too late?
Gordon Falls: Hearts ablaze in a small town
“Exactly when did the stove catch on fire?”
The panicked blonde pushed back a lock of hair. “About five minutes after I turned it on. I was just trying to make tea.”
Why did he have to find out the cottage he’d intended to buy had been sold this way? He forced kindness into his tone. “Don’t ever hesitate to call on us, Charlotte. But why the sudden need for tea?”
She flushed. “I just signed the papers on the place today. I told Melba I just wanted to have a cup of tea on my new deck.”
“You’re Melba’s friend?”
Chief Bradens had mentioned his wife’s friend was buying a weekend cottage in town. Now, annoyed as he was, he’d have to be nice. A friend of the fire chief’s wife demanded special care. Jesse pulled a business card from his pants pocket. “I’m a licensed contractor. If you like, I’ll help you figure out what really needs work.” If he couldn’t have the house, maybe he could at least get the work.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re a friend of the chief’s. Because I’m a nice guy.” Because I’m trying not to be a sore loser.
ALLIE PLEITER
Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, RITA® Award finalist Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a B.S. in speech from Northwestern University and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fund-raising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.
Saved by the Fireman
Allie Pleiter


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city,
the guards stand watch in vain.
—Psalms 127:1
To Abbie
In faith that she’ll discover many wonderful directions
Contents
Cover (#udc63397e-ce1b-5d5a-92b6-22b687a0f975)
Back Cover Text (#u0cd8dd42-3972-5ba0-aae7-9f31e9d305fa)
Introduction (#uf934e85a-97ab-5ac2-8d64-75eb5aad896a)
About the Author (#u28f80663-d593-5d01-bbfe-cfc95af7a9a8)
Title Page (#u2d3c7407-45a5-5f53-b5fd-4f9f8bd7264e)
Bible Verse (#u66d72233-2f7e-533f-a865-0d99ce6816ad)
Dedication (#u07757109-e658-5277-b0a8-4444a057a5d8)
Chapter One (#ulink_70f93be9-7cbc-51ba-b252-3b22dd70ce32)
Chapter Two (#ulink_3d593506-e919-5199-8eb1-44c246a24d5c)
Chapter Three (#ulink_4ac36fe3-61eb-54d2-ad29-a0711e280a03)
Chapter Four (#ulink_0f1c12ae-cf01-5679-823e-a7a3d11882b8)
Chapter Five (#ulink_e7825533-5d16-5fd6-a578-b586565ebc60)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_6cb93dfd-005f-5360-bcb0-7d4c9854b719)
Charlotte Taylor sat in her boss’s office Friday morning and wondered where all the oxygen in Chicago had just gone.
“I’m sorry to let you go, Charlotte, I really am.” Alice Warren, Charlotte’s superior at Monarch Textiles, looked genuinely upset at having to deliver such news. “I know you just lost your grandmother, so I tried to put this off as long as I could.”
A layoff? Her? Charlotte felt the shock give way to a sickening recognition. She’d seen the financial statements; she’d written several of the sales reports. Sure, she was no analyst wiz, but she was smart enough to know Monarch wasn’t in great financial shape and a downsize was likely. She was also emotionally tied enough to Monarch and torn enough over losing Mima that she’d successfully denied the company’s fiscal health for months. As she watched her grandmother’s decline, Charlotte told herself she was finally settled into a good life. She’d boasted to a failing Mima—not entirely truthfully, she knew even then on some level—about feeling “established.”
She’d patted Mima’s weakening hands, those hands that had first taught her to knit and launched the textile career she had enjoyed until five minutes ago, and she’d assured her grandmother that there was no reason to worry about her. She was at a place in life where she could do things, buy things, experience things and get all the joy out of life just as Mima taught her. How hollow all that crowing she had done about becoming “successful” and “indispensable” at Monarch now rang. Who was she fooling? In this economy, did anyone really have the luxury of being indispensable?
Except maybe Mima. Mima could never be replaced. Charlotte and her mother were just barely figuring out how to carry on without the vivacious, adventurous old woman who’d now left such a gaping hole in their lives. It had been hard enough when Grandpa had lost his battle to Alzheimer’s—the end of that long, hard decline could almost be counted as a blessing. Mima’s all-too-quick exit had left Charlotte reeling, fabricating stability and extravagance that were never really there. Hadn’t today just proved that?
Charlotte grappled for a response to her boss’s pained eyes. “It’s not your fault, I suppose.” She was Monarch’s problem solver, the go-to girl who never got rattled. She should say something mature and wise, something unsinkably optimistic, something Mima would say. Nothing came but a silent, slack jaw that broadcast to Alice how the news had knocked the wind out of her.
Alice sighed. “You know it’s not your performance. It’s just budgetary. I’m so sorry.”
“The online sales haven’t been growing as fast as we projected. I’d guessed the layoffs were coming eventually. I just didn’t think it’d be—” she forced back the lump in her throat “—me, you know?”
Alice pulled two tissues from the box on her desk, handing one to Charlotte. “It’s not just you.” She sniffed. “You’re the first of four.” She pushed an envelope across the desk to Charlotte. “I fought for a severance package, but it’s not much.”
A severance package. Charlotte didn’t even want to open it. Whatever it included, the look on Alice’s face told Charlotte it wasn’t going to make much of a difference. Mima, did you see this coming? Of course that couldn’t be possible, but Charlotte felt her grandmother’s eyes on her anyway, watching her from the all-knowing viewpoint of eternity. It wasn’t that much of a stretch, if one believed in premonitions. Or the Holy Spirit, which Mima claimed to listen to carefully.
In true Mima style, Charlotte’s grandmother had left both her and her mother a sizable sum of money and with instructions to “do something really worth doing.” A world traveler after Grandpa died, Mima squeezed every joy out of life and was always encouraging others to do the same. Mima bought herself beautiful jewelry but never cried when a piece got lost. Mima owned a ten-year-old car but had visited five continents. She bought art—real art—but had creaky old furniture. Her apartment was small but stuffed with fabulous souvenirs and wonderful crafts. Mima truly knew what money was for and what really mattered in life.
That was how Charlotte knew the funds she’d inherited weren’t intended for living—rent and groceries and such—they were for dreams and art and life. Having to use Mima’s money to survive a layoff would feel like an insult to her grandmother’s memory.
Alice sniffled, bringing Charlotte back to the horrible conversation at hand. Alice was so distressed she seemed to fold in on herself. “I wasn’t allowed to tip anyone off. I’m so sorry.”
She was sorry—even Charlotte could see that—but it changed nothing. Charlotte was leaving Monarch. She’d been laid off from the job she’d expected to solidify her career. It felt as if she’d spent her four years at Monarch knitting up some complicated, beautiful pattern and someone had come and ripped all the stitches out and told her to start over.
Over? How does a person start over when they suddenly doubt they ever really started at all?
Charlotte picked up the envelope but set it in her lap unopened.
“You’ve got two weeks of salaried work still to go.” Alice was trying—unsuccessfully—to brighten her voice. “But you’ve also got six days of vacation accrued so...you don’t have to stay the whole two weeks if you don’t want to.” The woman actually winced. Was this Alice’s kinder, gentler version of “clean out your desk”?
The compulsion to flee roared up from some dark corner of her stomach Charlotte didn’t even know she had. She didn’t want to stay another minute. The fierce response surprised her—Monarch had been so much of a daily home to her she often didn’t think of it as work. “And what about sick days?”
It bothered Charlotte that Alice had evidently anticipated that question; she didn’t even have to look it up. “Two.”
She was better than this. She couldn’t control that she was leaving, but she could control when she left. And that was going to be now. “I don’t think I’m feeling so well all of a sudden.” Sure, it was a tad unreasonable, but so was having your job yanked out from underneath you. She had eight covered days out of her two-week notice. What was the point of staying two more days? Two more hours? Her files were meticulous, her sales contact software completely up to date, and next season’s catalogue was ahead of schedule. There wasn’t a single thing keeping her here except the time it would take to sweep all the personal decorations from her desk.
Alice nodded. “I’ll write you a glowing recommendation.”
It felt like such a weak compensation. Charlotte stood up, needing to get out of this office where she’d been told so many times—and believed—she was a gifted marketing coordinator and a key employee. “Thanks.” She couldn’t even look Alice in the eye, waving goodbye with the offending manila envelope as she walked out the door.
Monarch only had two dozen or so employees, and every eye in the small office now stared at her as she packed up her desk. Charlotte was grateful each item she stuffed into one of the popular Monarch tote bags—and oh, the irony of that—transformed the damp surge of impending tears into a churning burst of anger. Suddenly the sweet fresh-out-of-college intern she’d been training looked like the enemy. Inexperience meant lower salaries, so it wouldn’t surprise Charlotte at all if adorable little Mackenzie got to keep her job. She probably still lived at home with her parents and didn’t even need money for rent, Charlotte thought bitterly.
She reached into her file drawer for personal papers, her hand stilling on the thick file labeled “Cottage.” The file was years old, a collection of photos and swatches and magazine articles for a dream house. Apartment living had its charms, but with Charlotte’s craft-filled background, she longed to have a real house, with a yard and a front porch and windows with real panes. One that she could decorate exactly the way she wanted.
Just last week, Charlotte had nearly settled on using Mima’s funds to buy a cottage in nearby Gordon Falls. It would be too far for a daily commute, but she could use it on weekends and holidays. She knew so many people there. Her best friend, Melba, had moved there. Her cousins JJ and Max had moved there. Melba’s new baby, Maria, was now Charlotte’s goddaughter. She’d come to love the tiny little resort town three hours away on the Gordon River, and there was a run-down cottage she’d driven past dozens of times that Charlotte could never quite get out of her mind. Mima would approve of her using the money to fund an absolutely perfect renovation in a town where everyone seemed to find happiness.
Well, not now, Charlotte thought as she stuffed the file into the bag. In light of the past five minutes, a weekend place had gone from exciting to exorbitant. Get out of here before you can’t hold it in, she told herself as she stuffed three framed photos—one of Mom, one of Mima and one of baby Maria—in beside the thick file. She zipped the tote bag shut with a vengeance, yanked the employee identification/security badge from around her neck and set it squarely in the middle of the desk. Just last week she’d bought a beautifully beaded lariat to hold the badge, but now the necklace felt as if it was choking her. She left it along with the badge, never wanting to see it again.
With one declarative “I may be down but I’m not out” glare around the office, Charlotte left, not even bothering to shut the door behind her.
* * *
Jesse Sykes flipped the steak and listened to the sizzle that filled one end of his parents’ patio. He’d built this outdoor kitchen two years ago, and this grill was a masterpiece—the perfect place to spend a Saturday afternoon. He planned to use a photo of the fire pit on his business brochures once they got printed. That, and the portico his mother loved. Filled with grapevines that turned a riot of gorgeous colors in the fall, it made for a stunning graphic. Only two more months, and he’d have enough funds to quit his job at Mondale Construction, buy that little cottage on the corner of Post and Tyler, fix it up and flip it to some city weekender for a tidy profit. With that money, he’d start his own business at last.
Move-in properties were plucked up quickly in Gordon Falls, so finding the perfect fixer-upper was crucial. He’d already lost out on two other houses last fall because he didn’t quite have the down payment stashed away, but the cottage he’d settled on now was perfect. It was June, and he’d planned to buy the place in March, but that was life. He’d needed a new truck and Dad sure wasn’t going to offer any help in that department. A few months’ delay shouldn’t make a difference, though—the cottage had been on the market for ages. It needed too much renovation for most people to want to bother.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll have Sykes Homes Incorporated up and running by the fall. I can still snag the fall colors season if I can buy that cottage.”
Dad sat back in his lawn chair, eyes squinting in that annoying way Jesse knew heralded his father’s judgment. “Fall? Spring is when they buy. Timing is everything, son. You’ve got to act fast or you lose out on the best opportunities, and those won’t be around in September.”
Jesse flipped the next steak. “I’m moving as fast as I can, Dad.” As if he didn’t know he’d missed the spring season. As if it hadn’t already kept him up nights even more than the Gordon Falls Volunteer Fire Department alarms.
“It might not be fast enough.”
Jesse straightened his stance before turning to his father. “True, but learning to adapt is a good lesson, too. This won’t be the first time I’ve had to retool a plan because I’ve hit a hitch.”
Dad stood up and clamped a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Son, all you’ve hit is hitches so far.” This time he didn’t even bother to add the false smile of encouragement he sometimes tacked on to a slam like that. Jesse thrust his tines into the third steak and clamped his teeth together.
“Is it that older cottage on Post Avenue?” his mother asked. “The one by the corner with the wrought-iron window boxes?”
The wrought-iron window boxes currently rusting out of their brackets and splitting the sills, yes. “That’s it.”
He caught the “leave him be” look Mom gave Dad as she came over and refilled Jesse’s tall glass of iced tea. “Oh, I like that one. So much charm. I’ve been surprised no one’s snatched it up since Lucinda Hyatt died. You’ll do a lovely job with that.”
“In two more months I’ll be ready to make an offer.”
“You could have had the money for it by now if it weren’t for the firehouse taking up all your time. You have no salary to show for it and it keeps you away from paying work. You’d better watch out or this place will be sold out from underneath you like the last one, and you’ll be working for Art Mondale for another five years.” Dad’s voice held just enough of a patronizing tone to be polite but still drive the point home.
“Mike, don’t let’s get into that again.”
Dad just grunted. Jesse’s place in the volunteer fire department had been a never-ending battle with his father. Jesse loved his work there, loved helping people. And by this point, he felt as if the firefighters were a second family who understood him better than his real one. Chief Bradens was a good friend and a great mentor, teaching Jesse a lot about leadership and life. Fire Inspector Chad Owens had begun to teach him the ins and outs of construction, zoning and permits, too. It was the furthest thing he could imagine from the waste of time and energy his father obviously thought it to be.
Mom touched Jesse’s shoulder. “You’re adaptable. You can plot your way around any obstacle. That’s what makes you so good at the firehouse.”
Jesse hoisted the steaks onto a platter his mother held out. “That, and my world-class cooking.” Then, because it was better to get all the ugliness out before they started eating, Jesse made himself ask, “How come Randy isn’t here?”
Dad’s smirk was hard to ignore. “Your brother’s at a financial conference in San Diego this week. He said it could lead to some very profitable opportunities.” Jesse’s younger brother, Randall, would be retiring in his forties if he kept up his current run of financial success. Randy seemed to be making money hand over fist, boasting a fancy condo in the Quad Cities, a travel schedule that read more like a tourist brochure, and a host of snazzy executive trappings. It didn’t take a genius to see Jesse fell far short of his brother in Dad’s eyes. A month ago, when Jesse had pulled up to the house in a brand-new truck, Jesse couldn’t help but notice the way his father frowned at it, parked next to Randy’s shiny silver roadster.
“He’s up for another promotion,” Mom boasted.
“Good for him, he deserves it.” Jesse forced enthusiasm into his voice. Somehow, it was always okay when Randy missed family functions because of work. It was never okay when Jesse had to skip one because he was at the firehouse.
“Someday, that brother of yours is going to rule the world.” Dad had said it a million times, but it never got easier to swallow. Every step Randy took up the ladder seemed to push Jesse farther down it from Dad’s point of view. While Dad never came out and said it, it was clear Jesse’s father felt that a man who worked with his hands only did so because his brain wasn’t up to higher tasks.
“I don’t doubt it, Dad,” Jesse admitted wearily. “I’ll just settle for being King of the Grill.”
Mom looked eagerly at the petite fillet he’d marinated just the way she liked it. “That is just fine by me. Jesse, honey, this smells fantastic. You will make some lucky lady very happy one of these days.” Her eyes held just a tint of sadness, reminding Jesse that the ink was barely dry on Randy’s divorce papers. His brother’s raging career successes had inflicted a few casualties of late, and Mom had been disappointed to watch her grandma prospects walk out the door behind Randy’s neglected wife. This past winter had been hard on the Sykes family, that was for sure. Was Dad clueless to all those wounds? Or did he just choose to ignore what he couldn’t solve?
They were in love...once...his mom and dad. Now they just sort of existed in the same life, side by side but not close. Randy had married because he was “supposed to.” As if he needed to check off some box in his life plan. Jesse didn’t want to just make some appropriate lady “very happy.” When he fell, it would be deep and strong and he would sweep that love of his life clean off her feet.
It just wasn’t looking as though that would be anytime soon.
Chapter Two (#ulink_7268ca24-9210-50a8-a8f5-cb511928504e)
“Done.” Charlotte Taylor finished signing her name at the bottom of the long sales document. She put her pen—the beautiful new fountain pen she’d bought especially for this occasion—down on the conference table as if she were planting a flag. She was, in a way. The knot in her stomach already knew this was a big deal. A good big deal. The way to get her life back on track and prove Monarch was only a bump in the road, not the end of the line. She looked up and gave her companions a victorious smile. “The cottage is officially mine.”
“I still can’t believe you’re going through with this.” Charlotte’s best friend, Melba, sat with her baby on her lap, trying to look supportive but appearing more worried than pleased. “I mean, I’m happy for you and all, but you’re sure?”
Charlotte had done nothing but mull the matter over in the week since the layoff, and while the timing might look wrong on the outside, she’d come to the conclusion that it was actually perfect. She needed this, needed a project to balance the stress of a job search. When she’d gone to see the cottage again and the seller had been willing to knock down the price for a cash offer, Charlotte felt as if Mima was showing her it was time to act. “I am. If I do it now, I’ll have the time to do it right. And you know me—I’ll have a new job before long. This is exactly the kind of thing Mima would have wanted me to do with my inheritance.”
“It’s nice to see someone your age so excited to put down roots.” The broker—a plump, older woman named Helen Bearson, who looked more suited to baking pies than hawking vacation properties—smiled back as she handed Charlotte the keys. The large, old keys tumbled heavy and serious into Charlotte’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy after the renovations. Gordon Falls is a lovely place to get away to—but you already knew that.”
Melba gently poked the baby Maria’s sweet button nose and cooed, “Aunt Charlotte always did know exactly what she wanted, Maria. Now you’ll get to see her much more often.”
Charlotte couldn’t really fault Melba’s singsong, oh-so-sweet voice; new moms were supposed to adore their babies like that. It was charming. She’d probably be even more sugary when her time as a new mom came—if it ever came—and Maria was adorable. She’d been baby-perfect, happy and quiet for the entire long real estate transaction, and Charlotte had been grateful for the company at such an important event, even if it did take over an hour. Charlotte herself felt as if her hand would never uncramp from signing her name so many times.
Funny how even happy milestones could be so exhausting. Squeezing the new keys tight—well, new to her at least, for they looked giant and cumbersome next to her slick apartment and car keys—she exhaled. This wasn’t an indulgence; this was a lifeline. Just for fun, Charlotte rattled the keys playfully over the baby’s head. Maria’s little gray eyes lit up at the tinkling sound, her chubby hands reaching up in a way that had all three women saying “Aww.”
Awe, actually. She’d done it. The keys she held belonged to a cottage Charlotte now owned. It was an exhilarating, thrilling kind of fear, this huge leap. The cottage had become a tangible promise to herself, a symbol that future success was still ahead of her and she could still be in command of the blessings God had given her. No matter what her new job would be, no matter where her rented city apartment might shift, this cottage would be the fixed point, the home ready to welcome her on weekends and vacations. She’d boasted of feeling established in her job at Monarch, but the truth was today was what really made her feel like an adult. She’d never owned anything more permanent than a car before this. Her chest pinched in a happy, frantic kind of excitement.
“Thanks, Mima.” She liked to think Mima was as pleased as she was, sending down her blessing from heaven as surely as if a rainbow appeared in the bank conference room. Once she’d prayed and made the decision, it felt as if Mima had orchestrated the whole thing—in cahoots with God to line the details up so perfectly that the purchase had been swift and nearly effortless. Yes, she was in command of the blessings God had given her—and that was what she’d sought: a firm defense against the uncertainties of a woman “between jobs.”
Sure, Melba had made the same noise about practicality that Mom had made. Charlotte knew it might have been more sensible to buy a Chicago apartment and stay in the area to job-hunt, but Mima hadn’t left her the money to be sensible. Mima was all about leaps of the heart, and right now Charlotte didn’t know where her next job would take her, but she knew her heart kept pulling her toward Gordon Falls as her spot to get away. She’d spent so many weekends here, the guest bed at Melba’s house had a Charlotte-shaped dent in it. The hustle and sparkle of Chicago would always be wonderful, but Mima’s bequest meant she could own this cottage and rent a nice place in Chicago near her next job for the weekdays. That felt like a smart plan, and everyone knew smart wasn’t always practical. Who knew? The way telecommuting was taking off these days, she might work full-time out of Gordon Falls someday in the future.
“Congratulations,” Melba said, trying again to be supportive.
Poor Melba. She’d always be too cautious to ever launch an adventure like this. Melba had too many people needing her—a husband, until recently her late father, and now Maria—to ever throw caution to the wind. Charlotte would have to show her how exhilarating it could be. “I own a cottage. I’m landed gentry.”
Melba winced as she untangled a lock of her hair from Maria’s exploring fingers. “That might be overstating things, but I am glad you’ll be here. Gordon Falls could use a few more of us young whippersnappers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Bearson confirmed as she slid the files into the needlepoint tote bag that served as her briefcase. “I’m delighted to see so many of you younger people coming into town and settling down.”
Settling down. The words fit, but the sensation was just the opposite; more of a leaping forward. It was the most alive she’d felt since that harrowing exit from the Monarch offices. Renovating this cottage was going to be about doing life on purpose instead of having it done to you by accident. Today declared Charlotte her own person, with her own roots to plant.
The older woman extended a hand. “Welcome to Gordon Falls, Charlotte Taylor. You’ll love it here.”
Charlotte shook her hand. “I know I will. Thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure. Tootle-loo!” With a waggle of her fingers, she bustled from the conference room to the bank’s lobby, where she headed over to say hello to several people.
Melba caught Charlotte’s eye. “Tootle-loo?”
Charlotte winced. “She’s said that every time we’ve met. Odd, but cute.” She stared at the keys in her hand, cool at first but now warm and friendly to her touch. “I own a cottage.”
“You do.”
She’d been there three times in the past two days, but the need to see it again, to turn the key in the lock with her own hand as the owner, pressed against her heart. “Let’s go see my cottage. My cottage. I want to make myself a cup of tea in my cottage. I brought some tea leaves and a kettle with me and everything.”
Baby Maria’s response to the invitation was to scrunch up her face and erupt in a tiny little rage. She’d been darling up until now, but it was clear that her patience was coming to an end. “I think Miss Maria needs to nurse and to nap. Much as I’d like to be there, I think we had better head home.” Melba put a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Will you be okay on your own?”
“Just fine.” That was the whole point of the cottage, wasn’t it? When she thought about it, it was fitting that the first hours Charlotte spent in the cottage as its owner were on her own. “I’ll be back for dinner, okay?” The cottage wasn’t in any shape to call home just yet, so she’d opted to stay a few days at Melba’s while she got things set up right.
“See you later, Miss Taylor of the landed gentry,” Melba called above Maria’s escalating cries. “Enjoy your new castle.”
* * *
Jesse wrenched open another of the cottage’s stuck windows and waved the smoke away from his face. The air was as sour as his stomach. He could barely believe he was standing in his cottage—only it wasn’t his anymore now—talking to the new owner. Talk about a kick to the gut. “Exactly when did the stove catch on fire?”
The panicked blonde next to him pushed a lock of hair back off her forehead. “About five minutes after I turned it on.” She pointed to a charred kettle now hissing steam in the stained porcelain sink. “Tea. I was just trying to make tea.” Her eyes wandered to the fire truck now idling in her driveway, dwarfing her tiny blue hatchback. “I’m sorry. I probably overreacted by calling you all in for such a little fire. I was too panicked to think straight. I just bought the place today and I didn’t know what else to do.”
She was so apologetic and rattled, it was hard to stay annoyed at her. People were always apologizing for calling the fire department. Jesse never got that. It’s not like anyone ever apologized for seeing their doctor or calling a plumber. She had no reason to be upset for calling the fire department, even for a little fire. Kitchen fires could be dangerous. One look at the dilapidated 1960s electric range told him any number of problems could have escalated from an open flame there. Sure it was a quaint-looking appliance, but he of all people knew suppliers who made stoves with just as much of that trendy vintage charm but with modern safety features. “Even a small fire isn’t anything to mess with. Small fires can get very big very fast.”
Of course, if he had been the new owner, he’d have had the sense to make sure the stove was safe before turning it on and starting the fire in the first place. The sting of his current situation surged up again. Why did he have to be on duty when this particular call came in? Why did he have to find out the cottage he’d intended to buy had been sold this way? He picked up his helmet from the chipped Formica counter, forcing kindness into his tone. “Look, don’t be worried. You did the right thing, Ms....”
“Taylor. Charlotte Taylor.” So that was the name of his pretty little adversary.
“Don’t ever hesitate to call on us, Charlotte. Especially if you’re on your own. It’s why we’re here, okay?”
Her eyes scanned the smoke still hovering close to the kitchen’s tin ceiling. Jesse had always thought the ceiling was this kitchen’s best feature. Stuff like that was hard to find these days. Would she appreciate that or tear it down and put in a boring ceiling with sterile track lighting? “Okay.” She mostly mumbled the word, her face pale and drawn tight.
She didn’t look anything close to okay. Her nerves were so obviously jangled they practically echoed around the empty kitchen. “If you don’t mind me asking...why the sudden need for tea? You’re not even moved in, from the looks of it.” Her reply might let him know what her plans were for the place. If she was plotting a teardown and wasn’t planning to move in at all, he could skip the preliminaries and get right down to hating her this minute.
She flushed. “It was a celebration thing. I just signed the papers on the place today. I told Melba I just wanted to have a cup of tea on my new deck.”
How had he missed this? The facts wove together in his brain, making everything worse. “You’re Melba’s friend?”
Chief Bradens had mentioned his wife’s friend was buying a weekend cottage in town. Never in a million years did Jesse consider it might be this cottage. Now, annoyed as he was, he’d have to be nice. A friend of the fire chief’s wife demanded special care. “No harm done that I can see.” He put his helmet back down on the counter as he swallowed his sore pride. “I should check the rest of the place. Just to be safe,” he said over his shoulder as he began banging open the two remaining kitchen windows when they refused to budge.
She shrugged. “Probably a good idea.”
He knew the rooms of this house. A visual inspection wasn’t really necessary, but it might give him a last look at the place before she stripped it of all its charm. Charlotte followed him around the empty rooms while he peered at light switches, tested the knobs on heating registers and tried the fuses in the antiquated fuse box. Did she know what she was getting into here? This was no starter project for a hobby house flipper. “You can still keep lots of the place’s charm, but you’re gonna need some serious updating.” He raised his eyebrows at her resulting frown. “You knew that going in, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
She did not. Now that was just dirty pool, letting someone like her beat him to a place like this.
Some jilted part of him wanted to tell her the house was chock-full of danger, but it wasn’t true. Nothing looked dangerous to his contractor’s eye, just old and likely finicky. The greatest danger she faced was blowing a fuse if she plugged her hair dryer in while the dishwasher was running. Charlotte had nice hair. Platinum blond in a city-sleek rather than elegant cut. She looked relatively smart, but what did he know? Do smart people set their teakettles on fire?
He avoided looking at her by inspecting the stove knobs. “Nothing about wiring came up in the home inspection?” He almost hated to add, “You did have a home inspection, didn’t you?” It was killing him—she looked as if she didn’t even own a hammer, much less the belt sander it would take to bring those hardwood floors in the dining room up to snuff. Still, she had a certain spunk about her. It hadn’t been there when he and the other guys first barged in the door, but he could see it now returning to her eyes. If she made the right choices, she might do okay. Not that he wanted her to succeed.
“Of course I did. Only now I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t so thorough.” She crossed her arms over her chest and her eyebrows furrowed together. “Honestly, the guy looked like he did inspections for laughs in between fishing trips. Mrs. Bearson said he was reliable, but...”
Helen Bearson. He could have guessed she’d made the sale. Helen was a sweet lady, but the kind Jesse referred to as a “hobby broker.” Dollars to donuts the inspector was her brother. “Larry Barker?” Even someone he resented as much as Charlotte Taylor deserved better than that guy—Jesse wouldn’t pay him to inspect a shoe box.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “A mistake, huh?”
He couldn’t just sit there and let her make choices from what was likely bad information. Well, he could, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who would—even under these circumstances. Jesse shucked off his heavy firefighter’s coat and squatted down in front of the appliance, opening the oven door and peering inside. “Let’s just say he wouldn’t be my first choice,” he said, giving Barker more benefit of the doubt than he deserved. “I haven’t seen anything that should have stopped your sale.” In fact, he knew there were no massive problems because he’d given the house a thorough once-over himself, far beyond his ten-minute walkthrough just now. Still, the word sale stuck in his throat. “This could really be just an old stove, not faulty wiring or anything.” He stared at a layer of grime so thick he could sign his name in it with a fingernail. “I don’t think this has been used in a couple of years. You’ll want to replace it.”
She groaned. “But I love the way this one looks. Does it cost a fortune to rehab a stove?”
Dark brown eyes and blond hair—the effect was striking, even with a frown on her face. “You can’t really rehab a stove. Still there are ones that look old-fashioned but function like new. They’re pricey, but you had to have known you were going to put some money into the place.”
“Well of course I did, but I was hoping to wait longer than two hours before the first repair.”
Despite his irritation, Jesse liked her sense of humor. He glanced out the window to where the three other firemen were putting gear back into the truck. Normally he didn’t fish for contractor work while on firefighting duty—especially given this particular circumstance—but she was pretty and clearly on her own and, well, seemed at a loss. Sure he’d regret it but unable to stop himself, Jesse swallowed the last of his pride and pulled a business card from his pants pocket. “I’m a licensed contractor over at Mondale Construction. If you like, give me a call tomorrow and I’ll walk through the house with you over the weekend. I can go over what Larry said and either confirm it or tell you differently. I’ll help you figure out what really needs work right away and what can wait until you’ve gotten over the sticker shock.” If he couldn’t have the house, maybe he could at least get the work, much as it would dent his ego.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you do that?”
He hated when people gave him “the contractor out to take you to the cleaners” look. “Because you’re a friend of the chief’s. Because I’m a nice guy.” Because I’m an idiot and am trying not to be a sore loser. “And because I can make sure Mondale gives you a good price for work I could do and recommend a couple of guys for the other stuff—guys who will do it right and not empty your checkbook for the sport of it.”
She took the card but still eyed him. Good. She shouldn’t be trusting everyone who walked in here offering to help her, even him. She looked smarter than that, and he could bring himself to be glad she was acting like it. “So maybe you really are a nice guy,” she said, still sounding a bit doubtful.
“Don’t take my word for it. Look, you ought to know I don’t normally pitch work on duty. Only I think Chief and Melba might ride me if I didn’t offer my help, given the—” he waved at the smoke now almost completely gone from the kitchen “—circumstances. It’s the least I can do.”
She looked unconvinced, and a part of him was ready to be rid of the obligation. He’d tried, wasn’t that enough? He gave it one last shot of total honesty. “Frankly, this place is a contractor’s dream—good bones but needing loads of work. And I could use the work.” After a second, he looked out the window and added, “Why don’t you think about it? I’ve got to get back to the truck anyway—the guys are waiting for me.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “No, I don’t need to think about it. Can you come by after church Sunday?”
She went to church. Of course she went to church; she was a friend of Chief Bradens and his wife. Not wanting to look like the stranger to services that he was, he hazarded a guess based on when he usually saw his friends out and about on Sundays. “Eleven-thirty?”
“Perfect.” She smiled—an “I’m rattled but I’ll make it” lopsided grin that told him she’d do okay even if this wasn’t the last disaster of her new home. Her new home. Life was cruel some days.
Jesse nodded at the kitchen’s vintage molding and bay widows. “This will make a nice weekend place. You’ll do just fine.”
She made a face. “That’s just what I was telling myself when the stove caught on fire.”
“Everything looks okay, but I’d hold off on teatime until we check out all the appliances if I were you.” His radio beeped, letting him know the rest of the crew outside was getting impatient. “Once you get the rest of your utilities up and running, turn on the fridge so we can check how cold it gets.”
She perked up. “Did that already. Turned it on, I mean.” To prove her point, she opened the ancient-looking refrigerator and made a show of peering inside. “Chilling down, nothing scary inside.” Her head popped back out and she shut the door. “The dishwasher, I’m not so sure. It looks older than I am.”
For an intriguing second, Jesse wondered just how old that was. She looked about his age, but he’d never been good at guessing those things. “Yeah, I’d hold off.” He gestured to the single mug sitting beside a box of fancy-looking tea on the otherwise bare 1950s-era Formica countertop. “Not like you’ve got a load of dishes to do anyhow.”
That lit a spark in her eyes. “Oh, I own tons of dishes. I collect vintage china. I’ve got enough to fill all the shelves in this house and my apartment back in Chicago twice over. Not that I’d put any of them in this old dinosaur, anyway.” She shrugged. “Well, thanks, Officer—” she squinted down at the card “—Sykes.” She held out her hand.
He shook it. “I’m not an officer, I’m just part of the volunteer brigade. So Jesse will do. I’ll see you Sunday at eleven-thirty. And as for your new house celebration, go on down to Karl’s Koffee and tell him what happened. If I know Karl, he’ll give you a free cup of tea and maybe some pie to smooth things over. You deserve a better welcome to Gordon Falls than one from us.” Jesse decided he’d call from the truck and ask Karl to do just that. Only, knowing Karl, he’d have done it with no nudging at all.
He felt a tiny bit better for pulling that sweet smile from her. “Maybe I’ll do just that. Thanks.”
Jesse tried to ignore the teasing looks that greeted him as he climbed into the truck. “Isn’t she the prettiest run of the day.” Yorky, an older member of the department who could never be counted on for subtlety, bumped Jesse on the shoulder.
“Of the week,” Wally Forman corrected, waggling an eyebrow for emphasis. “Only it’s not so fun for you given the circumstances, is it, Jesse?”
“Could have fooled me,” Yorky snickered.
Jesse merely grunted and settled farther down in his seat. Maybe Wally would let it go.
Wally stared at him. “It is, isn’t it? That’s the one?”
Narrowing his eyes in the strongest “not now” glare he could manage, Jesse didn’t answer.
Wally leaned back in his seat and pointed at Jesse. “It is. I knew it. Oh, man, tough break.”
Yorky looked at Jesse, then at Wally, then back at Jesse again. “What? What am I missing?”
Jesse cocked his head to one side in an “I’m warning you” scowl aimed straight at Wally.
Not that it did any good. “That’s the house. The one Jesse talked about buying. Sweetie-Pie up there just bought it right out from underneath him. How many more months before you would have saved up enough for the down payment, Sykes? It had to be soon.”
Was Wally going out of his way to drive the sore point home? “Two.” Up until this moment Jesse had managed to let Little Miss China Cabinet’s sweet smile tamp down his irritation at being beat to the purchase table.
Yorky hissed. “Ouch!”
“Yeah,” Jesse repeated, craning his neck back to look at the tidy little cottage. “Ouch.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_25d41a55-50fa-5215-bc1f-c34121d109ea)
“Melba, I’m not the first person in the world to lose my job,” Charlotte told her dear friend as they sat at her table after dinner that night. Charlotte had managed to avoid the topic of conversation with Melba for days, but tonight Clark was down at the firehouse for the evening and her friend had cornered her in the kitchen. “I wasn’t even the last at Monarch—there were three other envelopes on Alice’s desk.”
Melba had Maria settled in the crook of her arm. “I’m just worried about you. Are you okay? You seem to be taking it well, but...”
Charlotte kept telling herself that she was handling it as well as could be expected, but she also spent too many moments stuffing down a deep panic. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not you. You’d never go to pieces, even at something like this.” She caught Charlotte’s eye. “But you could. I mean, don’t feel like you have to put on any kind of front with me. I’ve gone to pieces enough times in front of you.”
While Charlotte was sure Melba meant what she said, the idea of giving in to the fear—even for a moment and even with a dear friend—felt like opening the big green floodgates at the end of town. Best to keep that door firmly shut. “I’m okay. I think I’m okay. I mean, I’m scared—you’re supposed to be in my situation—but I can push through this. I’m choosing to feel more like I’m waiting for whatever God’s got around the corner than I’ve been broadsided by a job change.”
Melba leaned in. “The best part is you get to wait here. I’ll be so happy to have you around.”
“Well, part of the time. I expect I’ll need to take lots of trips back to Chicago for job-search stuff and interviews eventually. Only it’ll be great to have the cottage as a distraction. All the books say to take on inspiring new projects so it doesn’t become all about the job search. This is a great time to get a serious creative groove on. I need a place outside of my résumé to channel all this energy.”
All that was true, but there was still a small corner of her chest that felt as if she had planted her flag at the top of a very high mountain with no idea how to climb back down. She nodded to the thick file of plans, the one she’d taken from her desk on her last day at Monarch. “I wonder if Mima had any idea the incredible gift this is going to be. To get to fix this place up exactly the way I want it? To have enough to do that after I bought it? Debt free? It’s a huge blessing.”
Melba gave her a cautious smile. “I know you got it at a great price, but it needs so much work.” She thumbed through the file of clippings and swatches with her free hand while Maria gave a tiny sigh of baby contentment in her other arm. “Don’t you think it’s a big risk to take at a time like this?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Yes, it is a big risk. But it’s a worthwhile risk. Just the thought of being able to do this up right gives me so much energy. I don’t care if I have to buy shelving instead of shoes. Or stop eating until October.”
“You’re not going to fix up the whole place and decorate it all at once, are you?” Melba turned to a magazine page showing chintz kitchen curtains. “Won’t that cost more than you have?”
“I have to do some of the fixing up as soon as possible. The stove, the heating, the upstairs bathroom—they need renovation before they’ll be usable, and all that stuff has to be done if I’m going to be able to live there. Do I need the designer concrete sink right away? Well, I don’t know yet. It’s probably smarter to get exactly what I want now—once you start ripping stuff out, you might as well do it right the first time rather than rip stuff up again a year later.”
“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 scanning the front of the house for anything he’d missed.
He’d added four more items by the time Charlotte’s small blue hatchback pulled into the drive behind his large brown pickup.
“Sorry!” she called, breathless and airy in a blue print dress with a lacy sweater that rippled behind her as she came up the steps. “Church went on forever. I mean, a good forever, but enough to make me late. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
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.
Chapter Four (#ulink_fcc9aeeb-b955-5f5c-b54c-fd131761ac25)
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.
The only consolation—and it was slim consolation at that—was how Jesse’s gut still told him she belonged in that house. She had on these old-fashioned-looking shoes that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but with her flowing pastel dress and the fluttery scarf she wore, she looked as though she belonged right there on the cottage steps. “Vintage chic,” his mom would probably call it. All soft and frilly around the edges but definitely not stodgy, and with an artsy edge that let him know she’d have great taste. She wouldn’t gut the place and modernize it, stripping away all the history and charm—she’d do it right.
She flipped over the final page of the document he’d given her. “Wow, it’s a lot, isn’t it?” Despite her bright optimism, he could still read hints of sadness and confusion in her eyes. Trouble was, that determination just made him like her more. This job was starting to feel as though it could become a tangled mess all too easily—and even a mess-up like him knew it was never smart to mix business with pleasure. Even when the pleasure could land him a fat paycheck.
“It’s a big job, yes. The results will be fantastic, though. You’d double your money if you ever sold.”
“I won’t sell.” No buyer’s remorse from this buyer, that was certain. He got the feeling that once Charlotte Taylor set her course, she was unstoppable.
“Okay, so you want to stay. Well, we know there are some basic repairs you’ll need no matter what—like the stove and the upstairs bathroom—even if you do change your mind and decide to sell....”
“Which I won’t.”
“Which you won’t,” he echoed. “We can start with those and schedule out the cosmetic fixes and upgrades later. That way you start basic, but keep your options wide open.”
She leaned back against the porch stair railing. At least this railing held, not like the wobbly one at her front door. Jesse grimaced as he remembered the photo of the gorgeous wrought-iron railing sitting in his file back home. “Maybe, but first on the list has to be my new claw-footed bathtub.”
She’d gushed over the style of the old tub in the upstairs bathroom, saying she’d picked out some newfangled Jacuzzi version that still looked antique. “New is great, but you could also repair the one you already have. Old fixtures like that are hard to find and worth keeping—especially if you want to go the sensible route.”
Her eyes flashed at the mention of sensible, and she straightened her back with an air of defiance. “Or maybe I don’t compromise. Maybe I use all this free time to do the renovation exactly the way I want while I can.”
“Free time?” Jesse couldn’t help asking.
“I’m between jobs at the moment.” There was a flash of hurt in her eyes as she said the words, but it faded quickly. “It’s just a temporary situation. It’s not like I won’t find a new job. I’m very good at what I do. Lots of companies are ramping up their online commerce. Textile arts are big business these days, you know.”
She didn’t strike Jesse as the sensible type. More the artistic, impulsive type. Those customers were always the most fun—provided they had pockets as deep as their imaginations—which maybe still applied to Charlotte Taylor. He didn’t really know many details about what her financial situation was, nor was it his place to ask. Still, he’d seen this before, watching a customer compensate for some loss in their life by going overboard on a build. A guy’s divorce-driven five-car garage had bought Jesse his new truck. After all, a smart businessman gives the customer what they want, not necessarily what they need. “You could do that.”
“I could do that.” Her face took on the most amazing energy when she got an idea. She was going to be a fun client to work with, and certainly easy on the eyes.
Jesse suddenly found himself wondering if he could walk the line on this. Could he encourage her, suggest the smartest choices for what she wanted? Could he balance the indulgence of her whims while warning her against something that would prove to be a foolish purchase? Viewed practically, her windfall of free time might allow him to get more work done in less time.
He nodded to the proposal. “I’m not saying you have to compromise. A job this big would be hard to do while you were working full-time. If you set your mind to it, we could be done by September. If you’ve got the cash now, the timing might be perfect.”
She pointed at him, jangling the slew of silver bangles on her wrist. “Exactly how I see it. God’s never late and He’s never early.”
“Huh?”
“Something Mima always said. About God’s timing always being perfect, just like you mentioned. And I’ve always taken Mima’s advice.”
“You don’t have to decide right this minute. You want some time to think about it?” He had to give her at least that much of an out.
She squinted up at the sky, making Jesse wonder if she was consulting her grandmother or God or both. After a long minute, she held out her hand for the pen he was holding. “Nope. I don’t need any more time. This is what I want. I want it to be perfect.” She signed the proposal in a swirly, artistic hand.
This was going to be fun. In the end, they’d both end up with a showpiece—his to boast about to clients, hers to call home. Win-win, right? “Then the pursuit of perfect begins tomorrow afternoon.”
* * *
Charlotte 1, Cottage 0.
Charlotte congratulated herself on the tiny victory her cup of tea represented.
A few days ago, the scorecard might have looked a lot more like Kitchen 1, Charlotte 0, but a visit from the electrician Jesse had recommended and two hours of vigilant scouring this morning had put the kitchen in working order. Stopping in at the local housewares store, Charlotte had purchased an electric kettle to hold her over until a wonderfully vintage-looking but thoroughly modern stove came in on special order. At another downtown boutique, she’d found a charming bistro table with two chairs. It felt so satisfying to buy things for the house, to launch the project that was coming to mean so much to her. It made her long-overdue Owner of Cottage tea on her back deck just about perfect. Add one of Mima’s teacups and her favorite teapot, and life was wonderful.
See? I’m still here, she thought, smirking at the bright green leaves of the overhead tree. I will not be beaten by this bump in the road. “You know what Eleanor Roosevelt says,” Charlotte addressed a gray squirrel that was perched on the deck railing with a quivering tail and greedy black eyes, peering at the bag of cookies she’d just opened. “Women are like tea bags—you never know how strong they are until you get them in hot water.”
“Quoting first ladies to the wildlife, are we?” Jesse came around the corner of the house lugging a clanking canvas bag and an armful of cut lumber. “Look at you, having a proper tea on your back deck and all.”
Charlotte laughed. “This is not a proper tea. It’s barely even an improper tea.”
Jesse settled his equipment on the bottom step, leaning against the railing to look up at her. “A Mulligan, then.”
“A what?”
He grinned, looking so handsome that Charlotte was suddenly aware she was probably covered in kitchen grime. “You don’t golf, do you?”
“Not even mini.”
“A Mulligan is a do-over. The chance to retake a shot that went wrong.”
Well, that certainly fit. “Yes, I suppose this is a Mulligan tea. I’d rather think of it as a victory lap. I’m declaring myself the winner in the epic battle of Charlotte versus the Filthy Kitchen.” At least that was one thing she felt as though she’d won in this whole mess her life had become. “With a little backup from Mike the electrician, that is.”
Jesse started rummaging through the canvas bag he had set down. “Mike made sure all your other appliances are going to work safely?”
“Everything’s safe. He told me to tell you he’s going to come back and do the upstairs bathroom wiring once you let him know the plaster is down.”
Jesse’s eyes lit up. “Demolition. My favorite part.”
She cringed. “Somehow I’m not fond of the idea of you going at my bathroom with a sledgehammer.” My bathroom. Funny how little things like that made her heart go zing today in a way that almost made up for her lack of incoming paychecks.
“Oh, I’m not going at it today.” He held Charlotte’s eyes for a dizzying moment. “You are.”
Charlotte nearly toppled her teacup. “Me?”
“It’s a thing of mine. First swing of demo always goes to the customer. If they’re around, which you most definitely are.”
“I’m sending a sledgehammer through my bathroom wall?” She’d seen such rituals on the home improvement networks, but she didn’t think stuff like that actually took place on real jobs.
“Actually, it’ll be more like a crowbar to the feet of your bathtub. Since you agreed to re-enamel it, I’m pulling it out today. Are you ready to start talking about color?”
Charlotte felt as if she’d been waiting a decade to pick the color of something, even though that was far from true. Colors—and how they went together—were a wondrous obsession for her, and part of the lure of the textile industry. Still, this choice felt new and exciting, in a way she couldn’t quite define. She snatched the top issue from a pile of home decor magazines that were sitting next to the teapot. “I already have one picked out.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Jesse walked up the last of the stairs. “Let’s see.”
She thumbed through the magazine to the dog-eared page, then held it up to Jesse to see. “That sink? The buttercream color with the brass fixtures? That’s it, right there.”
Jesse took the magazine. “Good choice. For a minute there I thought you were going to show me something purple or zebra striped. The guy who does the re-enameling work is good, but he’s not a magician.”
For a moment, Charlotte tried to imagine a zebra-striped claw-footed bathtub. Such a thing should never exist. “I have much better taste than animal prints for bathroom fixtures. He can do the sink to match, can’t he?”
Jesse peered closer at the photograph. “It won’t matter. You’ll need a new sink no matter what—the newer fixtures won’t fit on a sink like you’ve got. I’ll bring you some catalogues with sinks that come in a color close to that tomorrow. When you pick the style and finish, Jack will make sure the bathtub matches perfectly.” He looked up at her. “You’re going to want one of those old-fashioned circle shower curtains, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. And in the brass finish. Not that cheap nickel finish.”
“That brass finish is exactly that—not cheap. Are you sure?”
Parts of her were completely sure. Other parts—the edges of her chest that turned dark and trembling when she allowed herself to think of how her perfect life plan had been upended—balked at the extra price. Still, how many times in life did a girl get to pick out bathroom fixtures? Ones that would last for decades? A woman’s bathroom was her sanctuary, her private escape from life’s tensions. Hers had to be just right—especially when nothing else in life was. She nodded. Did he find that charming or annoying? His expression was unreadable, and she was growing a little nervous knot in her stomach. “I’ve even got the shower curtain and window treatment fabric picked out.”
“You’re going to be fun to work with, you know that?”
“I hope so.” She really did. There was something so immensely satisfying about bringing the cottage back to life. As if the house had been waiting for her, holding its structural breath for her to come and pour her ideas inside. Charlotte had engineered some major achievements at Monarch, but those hadn’t given her any security, had they? This cottage offered security, right down to the soul-nurturing buttercream color of her soon-to-be-reborn bathtub.
Jesse returned to his bag, making all kinds of rattling noises until he straightened back up with a crowbar, a pair of safety glasses and the daintiest pair of work gloves Charlotte had ever seen. Her astonishment must have shown all over her face, because Jesse waved the gloves and admitted, “These are from my mother. Don’t ask.”
She wanted to. The gloves were adorable, white canvas with a vintage-looking print of bright pink roses. They looked like garden gloves from a 1950s issue of Better Homes and Gardens. “I love them.” Then, because she couldn’t hold the curiosity in any longer, “Your mother sent these?”
He ran his hands down his face, but it didn’t hide the flush she saw creep across his cheeks. “I said don’t ask.”
Charlotte pulled her knees up onto the chair and hugged them to her chest, utterly amused. “Do all your customers get adorable work gloves on their first day?” Jesse’s mix of amusement and embarrassment was just too much fun to watch.
“Was there something about ‘don’t ask’ that wasn’t clear here? Or do you want me to take away your crowbar and just have at the bathtub on my own?”
“No!” she cried, leaping off her chair. The thought of starting, of finally getting this project underway, whizzed through her like electricity. She lunged for the gloves and the crowbar, but Jesse dodged her easily.
“Wait a minute, Ms. Taylor. If we’re going to demo together, there are some rules. I can’t have customers getting hurt on the job or letting their enthusiasm run away with their good sense.”
Charlotte planted her hands on her hips and squared off against Jesse, even though he had a good six inches on her five-six frame. She raised her chin in defiance. “I never let my enthusiasm run away with my good sense.”
The irony of that played out in Jesse’s eyes the same moment her brain caught on to the idiocy of that statement made by an unemployed woman about to launch a major renovation project. He just raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turning up in an unspoken, “Really?”
Charlotte used the distraction to pluck the crowbar from Jesse’s hand. “Until now,” she said, turning toward the door that led into what would be the dining room.
“Took the words right out of my mouth.”
Chapter Five (#ulink_0a20a2b6-da20-5c36-a323-dfa4c2459707)
Jesse watched Charlotte wiggle her fingers into the work gloves Mom had sent along. If they weren’t so perfect for Charlotte, he’d have never agreed to something so unprofessional as a gift of fussy work gloves. Only these fit Charlotte’s personality to a tee. Mom had won them in some social club raffle, and they were far too small for her arthritic hands, anyway. With a pang, Jesse wondered if Mom had been saving them for Randy’s wife. Randy’s ex-wife.
He’d wanted Constance and Randy to succeed, but even he could see she wasn’t the sort of spouse who would continue to endure the kind of hours Randy kept. Jesse wanted his work to be a passion, surely, but not an obsession. That was part of why he loved the firehouse—it served as a constant reminder that there was more to life than a paycheck. There was a certain poetic justice in spending his work hours constructing when so much of the firefighting battled destruction.
Charlotte’s wide-spread and wiggling floral fingers pulled his thoughts back to the present. He should have remembered pulling the bathtub would be a tight squeeze in this narrow bathroom—he was so close to her he could smell the flowers in whatever lotion she wore. Something sweet but with just a bit of zing, like her personality. Jesse held out the clunky safety glasses. “Time to accessorize.”
He hadn’t counted on her looking so adorable, standing there like an enthusiastic fish with those big brown eyes filling the gogglelike lenses. Her smile was beyond distracting, and she looked so utterly happy. He’d been grumpy for days after he “lost” the cottage—for that matter he got grumpy when he lost a basketball game at the firehouse—but she managed to keep her bounce even when losing her job, not to mention her beloved grandmother. What about her made that kind of resilience possible?
He straddled the antiquated pipes that ran up one side of the bathtub, pulling a wrench from his tool belt to detach them from the floor. Best to get to work right away before the urge to stare at her made him do something stupid. Well, stupider than presenting her with fussy gloves and a baby crowbar. “Pry up that flange while I pull from here.”
“Flange?”
Yep, stupider. More every minute. “The circle thing around the bottom of the pipe. Wedge the crowbar into the waxy stuff holding it to the tile and yank it free.”
She was a parade of different emotions as she got down on her knees and thrust the crowbar under the seal. Anxiety, determination, excitement, worry—they seemed to flash across her face in split-second succession. He liked that she was so emotionally invested in the place, but it bugged him how transparent her feelings seemed to him. “Go on,” he encouraged, charmed by the way she bit her lip and the “ready or not” look in her wide eyes. “You can do this.”
Charlotte gave the fixtures a determined glare, then got down on her knees and thrust the crowbar under the seal. The yelp of victory she gave when the suction gave way and the ring sprang up off the tile to clatter against the pipe was—and he was going to have to find a way to stop using this word—adorable. She brandished the crowbar as she sat back on her haunches and watched him go through the process of unhooking the bathtub from its plumbing. He could have done this alone more quickly—maybe even more easily—but this was too much fun. Getting this porcelain behemoth down the stairs to his truck would be the exact opposite of fun, but he’d called in a few guys from the firehouse to help with that, even though they wouldn’t add to the scenery the way Charlotte’s grin currently did.
She ran a hand along the lip of the deep tub. “Mima would have loved this tub. You were smart to talk me into saving it.”
The expensive Jacuzzi model she’d had her eye on seemed like a ridiculous indulgence he would have talked anyone out of buying. Especially when this one could be so easily repaired. “Tell me about her.” The question seemed to jump from his mouth, surprising her as much as it did him.
Her eyes lit up with affection. “Mima? She was ‘a piece of work,’ Grandpa always used to say. Her real name was Naomi Charlotte Dunning, but when I was little I couldn’t quite say Naomi, so I just said ‘Mi’ at first. Then it became ‘Mima’ and that stuck. I’m named after her. She was a great woman. Grandpa had Alzheimer’s like Melba’s dad, and Mima was a hero in how she took care of him. When he died, I know she grieved and was scared to go on without him, but she found her courage. So much so that she decided to scatter some of his ashes all over the world. And I mean all over the world. She’d been on almost every continent, and left a little bit of Grandpa everywhere she went.” She shrugged. “It’s hopelessly romantic, isn’t it?”

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