“It is not a Craftsman,” Amy argued, wrapping her arms around her middle to prevent herself from flinging them around the solid porch posts and screaming — Mine, mine, you can’t have it!
“Of course it is. Look at the huge bungalow porch, the posts that are wider on the bottom than the top, and under here.…” Jacques jimmied up the tacky old vinyl. “Cedar shakes!”
“Bungalows don’t have two stories, with an attic,” she pointed out, then wanted to smack herself. Instead of pointing out all the obvious features, she ought to be wooing him away with promises of food. Why on earth was he looking at houses?
And if he won the mill and knew how valuable this house was, she’d never be able to buy it cheaply. Her heart sank down to one of her little toes. She’d kissed this man, thought the unthinkable even knowing he would be leaving soon. Someone really ought to just slap her.
“The previous owners popped up the top story, probably when they added the vinyl.” Jacques tilted back his head so the blunt-cut hair at his nape fell over his collar. “Look, the chimney is stone. Halfway up, the color and size changes. They made it taller. I don’t suppose the seller would let us see it tonight?”
“It’s Sunday night. I don’t suppose they would,” she said as briskly as she could, while her heart bled. “I need to pick up the kids. Do you want me to fix your dinner now or after I get them?” Now, now, she prayed fervently. Get away from my house.
“Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to see inside? Do you think they kept the built-in cabinetry?” Instead of answering her question about dinner, he climbed on the sloping porch to peer in the dirty windows, for all the world like a boy who’d just discovered a secret cave.
Amy wanted to cry. She didn’t think there was a single man in the entire county who recognized the gem behind the dilapidated exterior. Why did this frustrating, fascinating man have to be so smart? Even Evan hadn’t known what this house was, and he’d run the mill that owned it.
She’d tried to persuade him to live here when they’d first moved back to town, but Evan had insisted on all new everything. She’d understood. He’d grown up in ticky-tacky housing as she had. She just admired the timeless quality of handmade, and he preferred the planned obsolescence of technology.
Opposites didn’t attract. They just annoyed each other to death. The humor of that observation steadied her nerves enough to argue.
“I thought you didn’t like old things,” she said, remembering Jacques’s comments on Europe being old and her kitchen being modern. And then she mentally kicked herself again. He worked with historic designs. Duh.
“I like modern conveniences, but they can be added anywhere. New houses do not have the quality of materials, the labor of love, the craftsmanship of old ones. The workers who built this were proud of their work. They weren’t throwing up a piece of generic rubbish.”
Right on every count, but she couldn’t let him rhapsodize about it, or with his relentless zeal, Jacques would be knocking on the Realtor’s door next, and then he would discover his company was already bidding on the gem.
She caught his muscled arm and leaned closer to distract him into listening to her. “Europe is full of monuments of craftsmanship that you can admire shortly. Would you like chicken marsala for dinner? Perhaps a small green bean salad to go with it?” She lured him away from the window, one step at a time.
Her position had Jacques looking down the cleavage exposed by her golf shirt. She had not used her femininity to distract in a long time, but apparently instinct kicked in quickly because she stuck her chest out a little more. Fine, she would sacrifice herself for a house. It certainly wouldn’t hurt. His gaze had all her juices flowing. She’d forgotten she had breasts until Jacques touched them. They swelled now, aching for a repeat of his caresses.
But despite his temporary distraction, his formidable focus remained on her house. “But can you not see?” he persisted, following her down the stairs. “This house is perfect for you. Your beautiful antiques — the styles are Mission and Stickley, exactly what this house needs!”
For her? The madman wasn’t distracted but looking at houses — for her? Stunned, she swung around to study his earnest gaze.
“I know.” Amy bit her lip to prevent saying more. She had spent years refurbishing Arts and Crafts pieces that would fit the bungalow. “But I can’t buy a house unless I have a job.” She really didn’t want to go down this path, not the way she was feeling right now. He’d have her all warm and fuzzy and trusting, and then he’d lower the boom. She refused to be that easy to push over.
“You have a job,” he protested. “Perhaps business is a little slow, but surely a place like this cannot cost much. I have just worked on land prices for the bids, and it costs nothing here compared to other places.”
Amy relaxed slightly when he didn’t stop but continued down the cracked sidewalk away from the cottage. “The café puts food on the table, nothing more.” To keep him diverted, she opened up and offered a slice of herself. “Unless the mill reopens, we’ll have to leave town so I can look for work elsewhere.”
“That will never do!” He halted instead of opening the door of her truck, and stared at her in incredulity. “You are not meant to work in a filthy mill. You belong with your children.”
With a look of annoyance, she opened the passenger door for him. “That’s a sexist thing to say. I’ll be fine at the mill. I have a degree in design. I’ll finally put it to use.”
Instead of climbing in, Jacques limped around to the driver’s side to open the door for her, scowling as he did so.
“You’re limping. You need to rest that leg,” she scolded, taking her seat so he’d go back and sit down.
“I’ll have the damned thing operated on,” he said in a clipped tone unlike his usual cheerful one, then slammed the door after her.
There wasn’t a lot she could say to that. This was an idiotic argument. They were both trying to take care of the other. How stupid was that? It wasn’t any of her business what he did with his leg, or his arms, or any other body part. They were headed for a showdown, and in another day or so, after the explosion, they’d be off in opposite directions.
If she felt strangely bereft at the thought, it was only because Jacques and his friends had been such a welcome distraction in this unsettling time of her life. It had absolutely nothing to do with smoldering kisses and laughing charm and a man who actually understood about lovely old homes and Stickley antiques.
Her nose would grow three feet if she lied to herself any more.
* * *
Sitting in Amy’s silent family room on Sunday night, Jacques slammed down a copy of the bid proposal Pascal had delivered to the judge. He’d just checked the lot number of the land in the bid against the realty company’s Web site and matched it to the old house on Canary Street. The mill owned the house Amy wanted. “I hate this.”
“Tell it to Pascal,” Luigi growled from the recliner in front of the television. He had a beer and pretzels and was happy for the first time since their arrival. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I hate it that Amy isn’t here. This is her home. Look at those rugs. Someone hand-loomed them. And the embroidered cushions on that rocker. These are not pieces of plastic bought at the local McWalmart.”
He glared at the picture of a plastic family over the fireplace. That was not his stubborn, creative Amy sitting in a chair beneath the hand of a blond man wearing a satisfied smirk. The Amy he knew and appreciated was all natural, without the lipsticked, smiling sophistication of the woman in the painting.
The woman in the painting looked like every other woman in his universe, primped, painted, and perfect. Could he be wrong about her? Impossible. That painting was the human equivalent of vinyl siding over Craftsman wood shakes.
“She’ll be keeping her furniture. It isn’t as if she sold those, too.” Luigi turned up the sound on the car chase, clearly not getting it.
Jacques tightened his mouth in frustration. He couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. Even if someone crossed the judge’s palm with silver and Saint-Etienne Fabrications lost the bid, the mill could not last a year under the town’s plan. He’d seen their plan. It was brave and bold and full of heart. It just wasn’t feasible.
Which meant Amy would lose her house and move away from her family. It would break her heart.
If he won the bid, he would own the house that ought to be hers. He wasn’t a fool. He’d seen the panic in her eyes. She desperately wanted that house.
And like a monumental idiot, he wanted her to have it. He ought to examine his motivation, but he preferred simple one-two-three logic. She wanted the house. She deserved the house. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her, period. He had the ability to give her what she wanted. A house was far more practical than the bouquets and diamonds he usually showered on his women. Amy would prefer practical. Appealingly simple and logical.
He picked up the proposal again, finally comprehending the extent of power that this document wielded to shut down lives — lives that had touched his this past week.
Heaven only knew, he didn’t have adequate judgment to play God. He’d certainly displayed that flaw in glorious Technicolor. He knew business, computers, and historical design. He was appallingly deficient at personal relationships. Once upon a time he’d suffered from the idiocy of believing he could overcome his family propensity for emotional devastation, but he’d learned differently the hard way.
But if he could rent Amy’s house for a few weeks, he could linger here a little, take a much needed vacation, and let his knee heal before he spent hours cramped on an airplane with no exercise to keep it limber.
A small side trip off his road to success wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?
* * *
“He wants to rent the house until closing!” Amy paced up and down the Stardust’s wooden floor, clutching her elbows. It was Tuesday afternoon, the date for the court’s decision on the mill.
Outside, heavy clouds had turned the day black, and a thunderstorm was dumping torrential rain on the mountain highway, creating waterfalls instead of puddles, forcing the sensible to stay home. The café’s only customers were the mayor, Dave from the hardware store, and two town councilmen, all sipping coffee and talking desultorily while waiting for the judge’s decision.
“Sounds like good money to me,” Jo said sensibly. She scribbled in her rhyme notebook, then returned to spinning her stool and watching the rain come down. “What has your panties in a twist?”
“It means he knows he’ll get the bid!” One ear aimed toward the baby monitor to listen for Louisa waking from her nap in Flint’s office, the other waiting for the phone to ring, Amy tried not to split in two. “He’s planning on staying to dispose of the mill assets.”
“That’s a pessimistic way to look at it. It could mean he was planning on helping with hiring and starting up the mill.” Spinning to face the counter, Jo removed the last chocolate doughnut from the case.
Amy snatched the coffeepot from the burner and refilled the cups at the mayor’s table. “I heard Mary Jean and Eddie took jobs over in Charlotte and are moving out,” she called over her shoulder at Jo. “That will break up your band.”
Jo shrugged. “Music seldom pays. It’s all about sales these days.”
“Eddie will be selling cars,” Dave attested. “Young people like that need a future, and the town just plain can’t offer it. I heard Mary Jean found a place at the mall. My wife’s going to miss her babysitting.”
“We all are.” Too keyed up to be polite, Amy returned the pot to the burner and continued pacing. “There won’t be anyone left around here. We can board up the town and post a For Sale sign. Maybe some rich tourist will buy it.”
Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a low rumble of thunder.
“Any ducks swimming down the street yet?” Jo called, shutting out the discussion.
“Nope, but Myrtle might shortly.” Amy checked the purple concrete pig at the corner of the café, but sturdy Myrtle didn’t seem in any danger of floating off.
The phone rang, and everyone jumped. Despite the desultory conversation, nerves had stretched to their last raw edge waiting to hear the fate of the town.
“That’ll be Flint. Hand it over.” Jo stretched out her hand so Amy could place the cordless in it.
Except for the roll of thunder and the pounding of rain, the café fell silent, its occupants hanging on every word. Flint had volunteered to wait at the courthouse in Asheville for the judge’s decision and call as soon as he heard.
“Yeah, he said that?” Jo nibbled her pen tip. “Well, creditors rule, I guess. Yeah, yeah. You want to talk to Amy?”
Amy tensed. Jo’s tone was not jubilant. She hovered close, just in case.
“Yeah, you’re right about that. Love you, too. Check to see if I’m alive when you get here. Right.” She hung up.
Every eye in the café was on Jo.
“It’s all over but the death knell.” Clicking off the phone, Jo heaved her mug at the stainless steel stove. The sturdy pottery crashed and bounced — the only sound in the room. Everyone knew what it meant when Jo flung dishes. “The judge sold the mill to the most cash, and that wasn’t us.”
In the gloomy silence following her announcement, the lights flickered, then went out, flooding the café in darkness.
“I didn’t do that,” Amy said automatically. But she might as well have, for all anyone listened. A burglar alarm screamed somewhere up the street, and every window on Main Street went dark.