Chapter Four

“ALL OF THEM?” Kendall snapped her gaze toward Gabe and her voice came out as a squeak. It was enough of a surprise to find out that the home she’d inherited wasn’t the rustic cabin or characterless lake house she’d been expecting, but to know that she’d actually inherited five houses? Her mouth opened and closed several times before she could make sense of that statement.

“And quite a bit of the land around it, in fact. Connie was fairly well-off, and as the town population began to dwindle, these houses went vacant. She began buying them up from the owners as they moved out. She thought renovating them and using them as short-term vacation rentals might help with tourism in the town.”

“And did it?”

“She never got that far. She fell ill, and before she could follow through with the plans, she died.” Gabe studied Kendall’s face, his expression sympathetic. He seemed to be concerned about her emotional state; he still didn’t understand that to Kendall, Constance Green was a complete stranger.

A stranger who, despite leaving Kendall everything she owned, hadn’t cared enough to track her down in the twenty-four years since her mother had abandoned her.

“Can I look inside one of them?” she asked finally.

Gabe nodded. “Sure. Let’s take a look at the middle one. This was your—this was Connie’s place, so it will be the most intact.”

Kendall hugged her arms to her body against another gust of wind and followed him across the street. The third house was indeed the most well-kept of the five, its wood siding painted in a seafoam green, its brickwork recently repointed. “These aren’t Victorians, by the way,” she said, standing aside at the front door while he pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket.

“They aren’t? What are they?”

“Gothic revival. Carpenter Gothic, to be exact. There’s probably a number of these up here, though I doubt many were this elaborate.” She looked over the porch, sure of her assessment. The pointed-arch window, the board-and-batten siding, even the gingerbread trim. It was all characteristic of the style, even if the sprawling wraparound porches were indeed far more Victorian. “Probably some architect putting his own twist on the style. I would have guessed 1870s, but this porch is more American Queen Anne, so I’m going with 1880 or 1890.”

Gabe threw her a curious glance. “I thought your specialty was antiques, not architecture.”

“They go hand in hand, especially in restoration work. You have no idea how many unholy mismatches of eras I run into. It takes a bit of detective work to uncover the original details. Which, fortunately, is my specialty.” Excitement spread through her, similar to when she was about to view a client space for the first time. “Can I go in?”

“Of course.” Gabe twisted the key in the lock, which sprang free with a well-oiled click, and stepped back for her to pass.

Kendall pushed the door open slowly. A single step landed her in a small, closed-off foyer spread with an oriental rug. She caught her breath. It was . . .

Not what she expected from the outside. In fact, for all her surety about the Carpenter Gothic exterior, she wasn’t even sure how to categorize the interior. She took a tentative step forward and pushed open the second door that led into a front hallway. Gleaming wood floors—because surely they had gleamed; she could tell that even under their current dull coating of dust—stretched in all directions, punctuated by a variety of Persian rugs in tones of red and blue. Quartersawn oak paneling covered the walls three-quarters of the way up, above which was plaster painted the palest shade of cream. Ahead and to the right lay a staircase with an ornately profiled wooden banister; to each side, rooms that appeared to be a library and a parlor respectively. She stood there, taking in the wooden beams and molding. The overall effect was Craftsman, but in place of simple Arts and Crafts corbels, these displayed miniature carved renderings of columbine flowers.

Gabe came up behind her, jingling keys in his hand. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

“Very.” Kendall moved off to the library, which was papered in a William Morris print—she couldn’t tell if it was original or reproduction on the first look—and glanced around the room, her excitement building. For all the distinct historical flavor, Connie Green hadn’t been a slave to architectural style. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was an original Eames lounge chair in the corner, its saddle-colored leather blending into the room just as well as the simple Danish modern cabinet. If she knew only one thing about the person who had left her this home, it was that she had impeccable taste.

And for the first time, this began to seem like more than just a trip into her mysterious past or a financial stopgap. It was beginning to feel like the solution to Kendall’s problems.

She kept a running tally as she moved from room to room, admiring not just the house’s architecture but also its exquisite antique furniture. Dozens of Persian rugs, some in perfect condition, some threadbare . . . all worth a fortune to her Los Angeles clients. Furniture spanning eras from classical to mission, Danish modern to American mid-century, even a couple of pieces that looked like British Victorian antiques. Belatedly, she thought to pull out her cell phone and begin snapping pictures, annotating them quickly with her sketch app, while Gabe trailed silently behind her.

Finally, when they’d made a full circuit of the house, he stopped in the foyer again. “I have to ask. What are the photos for?”

“So I can remember the details later. I need to look up the values and determine which ones I’m going to ship back.”

He blinked at her. “Ship back?”

“For my clients. She had some beautiful pieces. I can think of at least four projects that they would be perfect for. I’ll need to go back and look more closely later, of course. There’s no point in paying to move things that are just reproductions.”

Gabe stared at her, something akin to horror on his face. She frowned. “What else did you think I was going to do with it?”

He shook himself. “I don’t know. I guess I thought . . .”

“I’m certainly not going to move here.” Kendall laughed. “What would I do in Jasper Lake? And with five houses, to boot?”

“There’s always the Airbnb option.”

“Well, sure, if I lived here. But my life is in Pasadena. My clients are all over Southern California. And no offense, but I don’t really see myself living in a town like this.”

“None taken.” From his tone of voice, she thought it was probably a lie. “So that means you’re going to sell the houses.”

“I haven’t really gotten that far,” Kendall said, though that was exactly what she was beginning to think. She itched to get someplace with Wi-Fi, pull out her laptop, and find out what homes of this quality and era were selling for in the county. Probably a fraction of what they’d be back home, but then she could see these appealing to the well-heeled ski-slopes set, anxious to claim a bit of their own mountain paradise.

“There’s something you should know before you decide, given your appreciation for architecture. Do you have someplace to be?”

“Other than going through the other four houses, which I can do on my own time, no.”

“Then let’s go back to the office. I want to show you something.”

Gabe remained quiet on the drive back, while Kendall scrolled through the photos on her phone. Her delight in the home had been genuine; she was truly knowledgeable about both the architecture and the furniture, but he couldn’t help feeling like all she was seeing were dollar signs. Maybe it had been a vain hope that she would somehow feel a sense of connection to the house in which her grandmother had raised her mother. After all, she’d never known her family. But he’d thought maybe she’d feel a spark of . . . something.

That hope wasn’t strictly confined to the houses. He was hyperaware of Kendall sitting next to him in his truck: the fall of blonde tendrils across her cheek, the faint waft of a heady jasmine perfume, the husky laugh that emerged when she exclaimed over some unexpected detail of the furniture she was reviewing. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and it only served to stoke the attraction that had been building from the moment he saw her on the boardwalk.

An attraction that seemed to be completely one-sided. In fact, she had not budged from her professional mode the entire time they’d been together. Not to say she was cold—her enthusiasm said otherwise—but it was the kind of enthusiasm that a rare book dealer might express over finding an early manuscript of Shakespeare. Right now, her fingers flew over the screen of her cell phone in a string of text messages. He glanced over and saw the square images that said she was sending photos to someone. A partner? A client?

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I’m being completely rude. It’s just that my assist—design partner took on this mid-century renovation back home, and I think the lounge and the cabinet in the library would be absolutely perfect for it. I want to get her the photos immediately so she can work them into the design before it’s too late.”

“It’s no problem,” he said evenly, though to him it felt as if she were a circling vulture. She couldn’t possibly know that he’d sat in that very chair, listening to music on his headphones while his grandmother visited with Connie. That was back in the days when he was being such a delinquent that he was required to stay by Oma’s side every waking minute. He’d hated it at the time, but in some ways, the Green house held as many memories as his grandparents’ home did.

Clearly he wasn’t going to get through to her with sentiment. He’d have to appeal to her love of architecture and her professional sensibilities. When they finally pulled up in front of the town hall again, he hopped out and circled to open her door, but she beat him to it.

“Okay,” she said. “What do you want to show me?”

He led her back to his office, pausing for a brief introduction to his secretary, Linda, and then pushed into his own space, gesturing for her to take a seat. From the credenza behind the desk, he pulled out a roll of architectural plans and spread them before her.

“You know that beautiful little tract of homes? If you sell them, this is what the property becomes.”

Kendall leaned forward to study the plans, her expression morphing from confusion to horror. “They’re going to tear them down? For this?”

“For this.” A monstrosity of a high-end lodge, all mountain-rustic kitsch and designer bedding. Gone would be the stands of pines and aspens, the sloping fall toward the lake. In its place, a massive fake-log building with hundreds of rooms, two swimming pools, and a dock where people could rent paddleboats and Jet Skis. “The developer wants to turn this into a summer destination, not just for the flatlanders, but to draw in all the people who live in the surrounding ski communities.”

“And the town is actually considering letting him?” Kendall’s voice came out strangled, and he felt a surge of optimism.

“Unfortunately, the town isn’t doing all that well. We lost most of our tourism and our residents after a flood isolated us a few years ago. We got hit less severely than some of the surrounding communities, mostly because we have another way out. But in order for us to continue to provide essential services, like road repairs and the fire department, we need to increase our income. Until now, the developer hasn’t been able to move forward because your houses are sitting smack in the middle of his proposed development, but . . .”

“But if I sell, he’s going to be the one to buy them, and they’ll be razed to the ground.” The horror in Kendall’s voice was palpable. “Can’t I talk to the city council, tell them about how unique the buildings are? Surely they wouldn’t allow—”

“Money talks. And honestly, considering I got elected on my promise to revitalize the town, I’m not sure there’s much I can do about it if they decide to go this direction. It may not be the vision that I wanted for Jasper Lake, but there’s no doubt it would help the tax base.”

Kendall sighed heavily and fell back against the chair. “You have no idea what you’re asking me to do.”

“I think I do.”

“No, you don’t.” She met his eye, and for the first time since she’d arrived, he caught a glimmer of vulnerability. “My partner and I are struggling to stay in our space. It’s not just our office; it’s our home as well. The landlord keeps raising our rent, but we use the house as a showroom and proof of concept . . . and we can’t afford commercial space anywhere else. If I sold the houses here, I could buy my house from the landlord.”

Gabe sank into the chair beside her. “I understand. I really do. But, Kendall . . . there are alternatives. You could lease the houses. You could follow through on Connie’s idea to put them up as vacation rentals. I’m working on another plan for the town that wouldn’t require us to raze the buildings or sell out to a developer and turn this into Summer Mountain World or whatever theme park nonsense he has in mind.”

Kendall gave him a small, pitying smile. “The market value on my house is $1.7 million.”

And Gabe’s last spark of hope died. Selling the homes individually could probably garner at least that much; selling them to someone who desperately wanted the property so he could rake in buckets of money meant she could name her own price. There was no question she could get $1.7 million for the land. And if he were in her place, there might be no way he could pass it up either.

“Before you do anything, you need to file a claim on the estate at the courthouse. And by my calculations, you only have two days left to do it.” He forced a smile. “Let’s get that taken care of first. And then . . . will you at least take a few days to think on it? Let me try to change your mind?”

She studied him and then gave a sharp nod. “It will take me at least that long to catalog the furnishings. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but if I end up selling and they’re going to tear the houses down anyway, I will probably take out some of the architectural elements to reuse elsewhere. That’s better than them being scrapped, isn’t it?”

It was a bit like saying that organ donation mitigated the death of a loved one, but he nodded anyway. “If you’ll give me a few days, I’ll stand by any decision you make. Let’s get this paperwork going. I also meant to ask you, do you have a place to stay?”

“I thought I’d find a motel. Or worse come to worse, I could drive back to Georgetown or Golden for the night.”

“No, don’t do that. I have something better. And I know someone who has been looking forward to seeing you.”