15

“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN, Vickie’s calls did you no favors?” Stephen glared at me in the bathroom mirror the next morning as though I’d lost my mind.

“It means just that. Her recommendation actually closed doors rather than opened them. The—”

“Again, you’re not telling me specifics, Claire.”

“Which I will if you’ll let me finish!” I returned his hard stare, and he looked down and away. “I wanted to tell you last night.”

He’d come home late in a foul mood, then worked downstairs until after midnight, claiming he needed to review an upcoming merger. But I knew he was only avoiding me. Whatever was going on with him, whatever he’d done, was eating him up inside. And not knowing was doing the same to me. I needed to bring up the new counselor, but this was hardly the time. Maybe meeting with her alone first would be better.

Keeping watch on the time, I applied cover-up to the dark circles beneath my eyes and tried to ditch the defensive tone. “Vickie Burgdan knows all the top decorators in Atlanta because she’s been through them all. Like water. She’s fired several mid-project. None of the ones she sent me to, thankfully, but design firms talk. She’s gained a reputation for being extremely picky, condescending, and never wrong. So thanks to your boss’s wife’s putting in a good word for me, I’m viewed in that same light.”

“So I suppose that’s my fault too.”

I huffed. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I clamped my mouth shut, determined not to escalate the argument. I retreated into my closet to get dressed and prayed he would be gone before the people from the National Register arrived between seven thirty and eight.

Nanci from the National Register of Historic Places had left a message saying she was bringing an associate—someone familiar with nineteenth-century architecture who would be able to distinguish between original workmanship and post-period alterations. My limited experience with architectural historians had shown them to be egotistical and unyielding, opposed to changes of any kind. I hoped that wouldn’t be the case today.

I heard one of the vanity drawers catch, then heard a subsequent slam, followed by a curse word I hadn’t heard from my husband in a long time. Heavy footsteps retreated from the bedroom and down the stairs.

I leaned against a wall in my closet and swallowed the sobs clawing their way up the back of my throat. “God, I don’t know what’s happening,” I whispered. “I need your help.”

My cell rang. Maggie. My first inclination was to text that I’d call her back in a few. But she called so rarely since starting DU, and she had yet to answer my last text.

I took a calming breath. “Good morning, sweetheart! How are you?”

Silence filled the line.

“You okay, Mom? You sound different.”

I laughed and hoped it passed for convincing. “I’m fine. Just struggling with allergies this morning. Everything here is covered in pollen. The real question is, how are you? How is school?”

The next few minutes were pure heaven. Hearing my daughter’s unmistakable contentment and excitement salved my wounds and quenched my thirsty soul. Hearing she’d aced her first exam was just icing on the cake.

“I could not be more proud of you, babe. How is Jamie doing? Is she loving it like you are?”

That launched another treasured litany, and I put her on speaker and finished getting ready. The framed picture on my bathroom vanity caught my gaze—Maggie squeezed between Stephen and me when we’d gone skiing in Breckenridge a couple of years ago. All of us laughing. Such joy. Such love. Before everything started to really unravel.

“So how are you liking the house? And how’s the job search going?”

“Well, the house is still big and still a mess, but it’s coming along. As for the job leads, they didn’t work out, but something will come.” Maggie knew Stephen had surprised me by buying the place, and she considered the gesture romantic. Her being a daddy’s girl, I hadn’t wanted to burst her bubble. But I had made it clear that I wished he had allowed me input on the decision.

“Well, you’ve got time. And you don’t have to work. At least not right off. Take some time, get the house the way you want it. Just do whatever you want to instead of working twenty-four-seven, stressed out over super-rich clients and all that.”

I detected Stephen’s counsel and flashed back to the snippet of text message I’d seen between them. Part of me felt defensive that they had discussed this privately, even as I felt very loved by my daughter.

“Well, I may not have a choice about a job if no one will hire me. But I do enjoy my career, babe. Even if I occasionally need to blow off steam about some persnickety client.”

“Persnickety? You’re already sounding Southern.”

“Nooo!” I fake yelled into the phone, loving her laughter. I checked the time, pulled up the security app on my phone, and opened the front gate. “Are you still coming to see us later this month? July in Atlanta is not to be missed. You’ll love what the humidity does to your hair.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, Mom.” She chuckled, and again I heard that subtle siding with Stephen. “But yep, I’m still planning on it. I better go, though. A bunch of us are meeting for breakfast and a hike. Miss you guys.”

“Miss you too, babe. More than you know.”

“Things will get better soon. Okay, Mom?”

Tears rose again. Clearly, she was concerned about us—and had every right to be. “You bet they will. I love you, honey.”

“And I love you back.”

As I made my way downstairs, I tried to trace the path back to the first frayed thread in the tapestry of our marriage. But it was too far gone, buried by life, time, and the weight of disappointment.

No sooner had I reached the entrance hall than the doorbell rang. I glanced at the chaos around me and wished the house were more put together, but it was what it was. As I opened the door, I caught my reflection in an oversized wall mirror waiting to be hung and decided the cover-up beneath my eyes wasn’t working. I looked about as old as this house. And felt it too.

I opened the door and did a double take. If this was the woman I’d spoken with on the phone, I’d underestimated her age based on the youthfulness of her voice. She was early sixties, at least. Attractive, with short-cropped silver hair and a quick smile. The man beside her looked my age and unlike any architectural historian I’d ever seen.

I pegged him as a builder, based on the measuring tape clipped to his belt and the black Ford truck in the driveway. With a stubbled jawline and wavy dark hair, he had kind eyes that reflected his smile.

“Good morning,” I said, redirecting my attention. “Nanci?”

She extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Claire. Thanks for allowing us to come to your home today. It’s always an honor to visit these old houses.” She turned her attention to the man beside her. “Allow me to introduce this fine gentleman.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “She only calls me that when she wants something.”

“That is only partially accurate. I occasionally do it because I think it’s true. Mostly.”

I laughed. “And the rest of the time?”

“Because I really like the homeowner”—she leaned in—“and I want him to approve the plans.” She winked. “Claire, this is Alex Brennan. Alex, Claire Powell.”

He had a solid handshake, which I liked.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am. But please tell me your plans don’t include knocking out walls and adding a cupola or two.”

“Only one wall. But it’s load-bearing, so we should be okay.”

Nanci laughed and nudged him. “Told you she was good folk.”

I invited them in and apologized for the mess. “My husband and I only moved in last week, and I’m still unpacking. And in desperate need of a handyman to help hang pictures.”

“Well, Alex is a builder and knows every sub there is. Including the ones to stay away from.”

He nodded. “I’ll get your information before we leave and text you some names before the day is out.” He looked around. “I’ve never been in the Thursmann Mansion before. Nice. Congrats on getting it. Nanci tells me there was some pretty stiff competition.”

Nanci cast me a guilty glance. “Sorry. Word travels fast when it comes to these antebellum mansions.”

“No need to apologize. And yes, there was competition, for sure.” To have said anything further would have revealed more about Stephen and me than I was willing to share. “Well, where should we start?”

“With the nickel tour, if you don’t mind,” Nanci said. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been inside, and I’d love to see this grand old dame again.”

“This old first-timer would appreciate seeing it too.” Alex was already studying the woodwork.

I gave them a brief tour of the main floor, and when we got to the kitchen, he gave a slow whistle. “This is unexpected.”

“That’s what I said.” I turned to Nanci. “Knowing how picky the National Register is about a house remaining accurate to the period when it was built, how on earth were they able to add this and still have the house approved?”

“I remember when this request came before the board.” She pointed back toward the dining room. “See that little hallway? That was the concession the board made. The owners could build a new kitchen if they kept a distinction between the original house and the addition. The original kitchen was actually separate from the house and was destroyed by a tornado in the early 1900s. So the dining room served as the kitchen for decades. In fact, the last time I saw the house, when the home was being considered for the register, the owners were told that the kitchen would have to be moved and the dining room restored. The committee strongly encouraged the couple to design the kitchen in a manner complementary to the rest of the home.” She raised her eyebrows. “And that wherever they put the kitchen, it could not be adjoined to the original house, because the original hadn’t been.”

“But it is adjoined,” I said.

Alex knelt and ran a hand along the floor. “No.” He motioned us over. “It’s not. This is ingenious, but it appears they built a separate building directly up against the original structure, minus a hair’s breadth. My guess is separate footings, separate plumbing, everything.”

Nanci nodded. “Exactly.”

He pointed. “Look right along there and you can see the slightest increase in the space between the last floorboard of the dining room and the one starting in this little hallway.”

Sure enough, I noticed a difference of maybe three sixteenths of an inch and could see what appeared to be crawl space below.

Nanci stood. “The owners two before you are responsible for this spectacular kitchen. I heard the woman loved to cook and entertain, so she wanted something nice and big. I’d say she got it. And now you have it!”

I smiled, trying to imagine Stephen, Maggie, and me sharing a homey Thanksgiving or Christmas meal in this chef-worthy kitchen. At the moment, that image eluded me.

Upstairs, I showed them the bedrooms and explained my idea for making the fourth an extension of ours. Then we reached the master bathroom. Alex peered beneath cabinets, knocked on walls, and inspected every nook and cranny.

He sighed.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“No, it’s nothing bad. Not necessarily, anyway. But whoever last renovated this bathroom didn’t exactly follow the rules. While I don’t think this would be a deal breaker to most board members”—he shot Nanci a look—“these cabinets were finished using modern methods. The joints, the drawers, the way they were attached to the walls—even the nails are outside the boundaries. But again, only a stickler would raise a stink about it.”

“Based on that look you just gave her . . .” I glanced between them. “I’m guessing there are some sticklers on the board?”

He nodded. “But since you want to replace the cabinets, that shouldn’t matter. Right, Nanci?”

Her expression didn’t hold promise. “Those on the board who weren’t in favor of this house’s being added to the register strongly objected to the modern kitchen, even with the compromise. And those who initially outvoted them are now retired. So the dissenters may hold the majority now.”

“All due respect to you, Nanci, and to the National Register’s worthy mission, but it’s not imperative to me that this house remain on the list. After all, it’s considerably more expensive to maintain if it is. And some of what I’d really like to change would definitely be outside the boundaries. So if this group does say no, then perhaps it might be for the best for everyone involved.”

A shadow crossed her face. “Yes, being on the register means greater expense. However, if this house is taken off the list, we lose yet another part of our history. That’s why we work to accommodate the homeowner’s wishes whenever we can. Besides, you told me you’re looking for a job with one of the local interior design firms, correct?”

I nodded.

“Owning a house like this will make you an even more desirable prospect.”

I smiled wryly, recalling the reactions I’d received. “How do you figure that?”

“Most of these old homes participate in the annual Homes of Christmas Past Tours, a huge fundraiser for the National Register. Every design firm in the city vies for an old home that they decorate to showcase their style. They work with the homeowner and offer discounts on furniture and decor, new lighting, et cetera. And whatever firm hires you would be a shoo-in to get the Thursmann Mansion.” She raised a brow. “Something to think about.”

Alex nodded. “The tour is a big deal around here. And they start taking applications in July.”

As we left the bedroom, Nanci paused by our wedding portrait. “What a handsome couple. How long have you been married?”

“Twenty-two years.” I gazed at my younger self, those eyes so full of fresh hope and promise. Same for Stephen. I hadn’t seen that sparkle in his eyes since . . . I couldn’t remember when. And how long had it been since he’d seen it in mine? Of course, that assumed he was still looking.

“Congratulations,” Alex said. “That’s quite an accomplishment these days.”

Something in his tone made me wonder if he was married. A discreet glance at his left hand revealed no wedding ring. Divorced, perhaps. Handsome guy. Talented, from the sound of it, and successful. And that dry wit of his.

“Children?” Nanci asked.

“We have a daughter. She just started college back in Denver.”

Alex grimaced. “That had to be hard, leaving her behind.”

“It was. Is.”

Before they left, we stood on the front porch discussing the project, and my creative juices began to simmer. Alex offered some good ideas for the bathroom, and also for incorporating the exercise equipment into the fourth bedroom.

He nodded toward the row of empty planters hugging the porch railing. “If you need occupants for those, I’d recommend Gentry’s Greenhouse. Best plants around. Just a couple of miles down on the right.”

“Thanks, I’ll check them out. And again, thank you both for coming to the house today. Nanci, I’ll finish those sketches and email them to you.”

She shook my hand. “And I’ll report back as soon as the committee makes its determination. Thank you, Claire, and your husband, too, for your appreciation of history and willingness to invest in it by living in and stewarding this house.”

Feeling every bit the fake, I nodded.

“If ever you’re interested in learning more about the Thursmanns,” she continued, “I’m happy to share what information we have, however limited. This is one of the homes whose history we know least about, sadly.”

“Oh, one last thing.” Alex handed me his phone. “Type in your name and number, and I’ll connect you with a handyman.”

I did as he asked, planning to follow up with him in a day or two if he forgot. I knew how scattered builders could be.

But that evening, shortly before I went to bed—with Stephen once again sequestered in the office downstairs—my phone dinged. Alex Brennan proved to be a man of his word.