When I woke up, I could hear the shower running, and the dip on Josh’s side of the bed was still warm under the rumpled sheets. Last night had been … nice. Or maybe more than nice. But I wasn’t sure what I wanted from him. What I did know was that I didn’t want to be taken for granted, anytime he felt like showing up. Perhaps a conversation was in order. But I had other things on my to-do list for the day.
I threw on some grubby at-home clothes and wandered down to the kitchen. Carroll had beaten me there, and even made coffee. She looked up from the travel magazine she was reading and said, “You don’t get a paper here?”
“Not since I’ve been here, but maybe Cordy used to. Not that she was much of a reader, or had any interest in current events—or at least, not the ones that didn’t affect her.”
“Meow,” Carroll said, wrinkling her nose. “You ever going to get past old grudges?”
“Eventually … Probably. I’ll think about it.” I was sometimes surprised by my own capacity to hang on to resentments. I hadn’t been in touch with Cordelia in years, yet the old feeling could still well up at times.
“Right,” Carroll said. “Anyway, Ryan dumped her, so you won, right? Or something. Are you still interested in him?”
“Old news. I erased him from my data banks a long time ago.”
“So … Josh?”
“Maybe. One day at a time.” I opted to throw her off the scent with a rapid conversational pivot. “Are you going to the library today?”
“Of course. I’m itching to get going on Barton’s papers. Although I could start by looking at the censuses to see if any servants or employees were listed—that data becomes available online after seventy-two years, you know.”
“I did not know that, but it’s a great idea.”
Carroll continued animatedly, turning her coffee cup around and around between her hands on the table. “Oh, and I should probably request Henry’s war and discharge records from whichever agency keeps them—they might tell us something, or at least confirm some of the dates. I wonder where he met Mary, and when they married? Did you check with the bank to see if he left a forgotten safe-deposit box? That’d be a find. Or if there’s a hidden safe in the house somewhere? Have we felt along all the walls? And what about—”
I held up a hand. “Slow down! That’s an awful lot of questions. Of course, I want to know the answers too—but one at a time, eh? Me, I’m searching for building contractors today. I have a feeling that taking the kitchen apart and putting it back together may get messy, and I want to get started, but I also want it done right.”
“Good luck!” Carroll said as she left the kitchen, practically skipping off to her day in the archives.
I checked the clock over the sink: just after eight. Too early to call Ryan? Would he be in his office, or en route? Might as well find out. I dialed his number.
“Kate?” he answered on the fourth ring. He sounded like he was chewing a doughnut, but by the looks of him, he was more likely an egg-white-spinach-protein-wrap kind of guy, no butter. Another reason we would never make it as a couple. A plodding sound in the background wherever he was became apparent to me. Was he walking on a treadmill? He went on, still chewing. “You got a problem?”
“No, but I need your advice. I want to talk to a few contractors about remodeling the kitchen at the mansion, only I don’t know any around here. I want it to look authentic—I’d love to think we can use the original appliances, but I’m not betting on it. I need somebody who likes this kind of challenge. Do you have any recommendations?”
“I’ll make some calls. There aren’t any major construction companies in Asheboro, but there are some good ones in my neck of the woods. Unless you want to look in Baltimore?”
“I know some people there, but I think the ones I’ve worked with are all used to big budgets, and they skew toward contemporary design anyway. I’d like to support local workers if we can—they need the jobs. If you could get back to me with some names by lunch, I can start setting up interviews this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am! Whatever you say, ma’am!” Ryan chuckled to himself, still chewing and walking, by the sound of it. “How about dinner sometime this week, and you can tell me where things stand with the project?” I thought for a second. Ryan had made a half-hearted pass at me when I first got back to town, which I’d quickly rebuffed. Was he trying again? Not that he wasn’t still good-looking, intelligent, a stable guy with a good career—but something about him just didn’t feel right, all these years later. The heat was gone—for me, at least. I kept my tone friendly. After all, we were practically coworkers now.
“Dinner? Sure. But only if you get me a contractor.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He hung up first.
Josh walked into the kitchen just as I rose to pour myself a second cup of coffee. “Morning,” he said, making a beeline for the half-empty French press. We met right in front of it at the counter, each with a hand extended; upon seeing each other there, we engaged in a polite standoff, each deferring to the other in a silent and protracted “after you,” “no, after you” routine. After a few tense seconds, I grabbed the carafe, poured each of us half a cup, and set a new pot of water to boil.
“Good morning to you too,” I said. “You have plans for your day?”
“Only vague ones.” He removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses, and rubbed them on the front of his Johns Hopkins T-shirt. He looked sleepy but handsome. “I passed Carroll in the hall upstairs. She’s doing research today?” He sat down across from me at the kitchen island.
“Yes. But I think she’s going back to the mansion, too—she has her own set of keys. She’s been wanting to look for secret hiding places for any other documents, just in case we missed something when we cleared out the attic. She loves that kind of thing—but then again, who doesn’t love that kind of thing?”
“What about you?”
“I asked Ryan to recommend some contractors, so I can get started on the kitchen. I’d like to survey the local options and proceed from there.” And what if they don’t pan out? Back to square one? I paused and took a sip of coffee as I considered my plans, and wondered for the millionth time if I’d bitten off more than I could chew here. In the meantime, I was curious about how Josh’s book was coming.
“What about you?” I asked. “Do you have a time line?”
“Not really, but I’d like to get as much done as I can this summer, before classes start full-time again. Yes, I know, I had a whole sabbatical year to work on this, but given recent events, I’m going to have to do some serious editing.”
“My, we’re going to be busy this summer, aren’t we? Where do you want to set up to work? Carroll will probably be using the town library as her base, and I’ve claimed the office across the hall here as my business headquarters.”
“Could I use the old carriage house again? Do I need formal permission?”
“That could probably be worked out.”
“Great. I’ll make sure everything is still hooked up at the carriage house and work there for a while. What’s on for dinner?”
“Why don’t you cook tonight? You and Carroll can confer about the menu. If I can connect with any contractors, I may be out at the mansion sometime later today.”
“Works for me,” Josh said, standing up. “I’ll check with Carroll.”
As promised, Ryan texted me the names of three local contractors before noon. I didn’t recognize any of the names, but that wasn’t surprising, given that I hadn’t lived in this town in years, and had never attempted to hire a tradesman here as a teenager. I called each one in turn and asked him to stop by the mansion that afternoon, and each of them jumped at the chance. I texted Ryan a quick thank-you and put down my phone for a while, feeling satisfied by this small piece of progress.
This Barton house project was a whole new animal for me. My previous construction expertise lay in major metropolitan projects, primarily in the hospitality business. While the hotels I’d dealt with had been high-end, and both structure and finishes had been first-class, they were still a far cry from Henry Barton’s mansion, a fancifully detailed living space from another time. I wasn’t sure what a fair price would be for a project of this size, or how long it would take to complete, but I was planning to start with only the one room while I explored options for the others, as needed. Maybe I should open up the components of the project to a range of providers, which could give them some fodder for advertising while also giving Asheboro some much-needed exposure to a wider universe of sightseers. And then there was the need for a publicist, eventually. I wished I could hire at least one person to serve as office staff for me, because I would be juggling a lot of balls in the air, and realistically, I knew I wouldn’t have time to do everything.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kate! So far, I’d raised some money and put together a committee to help, but that was about all. The rest of the project was still in my head. One step at a time, I told myself. Right now, I needed to go out to the mansion and try to visualize what I hoped the kitchen would look like, before the contractors arrived.
I ate a quick toast-and-cheese lunch and headed for the mansion and my three meetings of the afternoon. When I arrived, I went straight to the kitchen at the back of the house to get a good look at it by harsh daylight—and without the rose-colored glasses. Was I crazy? It was a perfectly preserved Victorian kitchen, but what would it really take to make it work? Could the antique spirit be preserved if all the pieces actually had to function? Would it be worth the expense, or should I just find a good caterer and let them bring everything in themselves? I realized that caterers would still need an electrical supply for some elements of their work, and running water was a basic sanitation concern. And then, if there was a bar—which would certainly facilitate the writing of generous checks—there would have to be ice, and a way to keep wine cold …
The possibilities were like a swarm of bees, darting through my mind faster than I could consider them. Maybe I was overreaching. But for this afternoon at least, I’d simply let the contractors make their own suggestions. Maybe I’d hate them all. Or find out that what I wanted was impossible. Ah, the impossible dream: it was fast becoming an old friend.