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I WAS FEELING GOOD, ready to plead my case with the owner of the mansion. I had dressed with the intention of both looking like a professional and someone capable of handling the remodel. I wore my good jeans and a tucked-in polo with the Jacobson and Sons logo, and I put on a little makeup. My hair always did its own thing. I left it loose, with the curls brushing over my shoulders.
I grabbed my leather portfolio with a copy of the bid. My tablet was in my little briefcase. “This is it,” I said to my reflection. I had one chance to make a good first impression. I was going to be assertive, knowledgeable, and kind. If a few smiles and casual flirting helped, I would use it.
I drove up to Gloriana Manor once again, this time with an invitation. There was a fire in my belly. I pulled up to the gate and smiled at the same security guard that rejected me yesterday. “Good morning,” I said, smiling.
“Good morning,” he said, nodding.
“Miss Jacobson,” I said. “I have an appointment.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, grinning.
This time, the grand wrought-iron gate swung open, granting me entrance, much to the amusement of the security guard. I couldn’t suppress the triumphant smile that played on my lips. Today, I was on a mission, ready to face Mr. Hastings and defend the sanctity of Gloriana Manor. I was going to fight like hell to get the project.
I drove up the expansive driveway, rounding the corner, and saw an imposing figure waiting in front of the doors. I stepped out of the truck and approached the man. He wasn’t the guy who had busted me hopping the fence. “Miss Jacobson?” he said.
“Yes, but please, call me Catherine.”
“My name is Bennet Edmundson. We spoke on the phone.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said and shook his hand.
“Likewise. Mr. Hastings is in his office. I’ll show you up.”
The moment I crossed the threshold, my breath caught in my throat. The interior of Gloriana Manor unfolded before me like a forgotten masterpiece. It felt like I should take a moment to appreciate it. The air was rich with the scent of aged wood and maybe dust. The history of the house was embedded in every creak of the floorboards.
Bennet led me through a grand hallway adorned with timeless portraits and elaborate wallpaper that looked to be from the twenties or thirties. I felt a sense of reverence, as if I had stepped into a living time capsule. I almost forgot the reason why I was here. I just needed to soak it all in.
Original features were meticulously preserved, paying homage to the Queen Anne Revival style that defined Gloriana Manor. The wide plank flooring, the ornate trim, the vintage tiles—every detail spoke of a bygone elegance. I wanted to run my fingertips over the trim. I would have dropped to the floor and inspected the planks if I was alone.
Bennet guided me through the house with practiced ease. “This way,” he said as we walked to the grand staircase.
Again, I nearly dropped to my knees to worship the craftmanship. The opulent banister was a beautiful cherry mahogany, its surface a mirror-like sheen. I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering above the banister, unsure if I should touch this relic of time.
Bennet must have noticed my hesitation. He smiled knowingly and nodded his head toward the staircase, his way of giving permission to touch the masterpiece. “His office is upstairs.”
“Remarkable,” I murmured. “Truly beautiful.”
My hand made contact with smooth wood, sending an electric thrill through me. I couldn’t believe I was inside the manor and getting to touch the banister.
As we ascended the grand staircase, I took in the glorious stained-glass windows that bathed the interior of the house with a warm, colorful light. I felt like I was climbing up into another time.
“I’ve always wanted to know what the inside of the house looked like, and it’s better than I ever imagined,” I admitted breathlessly.
Bennet was seemingly pleased by my reaction. “I’m glad you can appreciate it,” he said.
We approached a set of imposing double doors. “Wait here,” he said.
I took a moment to absorb the history around me. I could see things I could do to return it to its former glory.
“Mr. Hastings will see you now,” Bennet said and opened the door wide.
“Thank you.”
I stepped into a large office, prepared to impress the owner of the home. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of the man leaning against his desk, studying my bid. It was the same man I had encountered in the garden yesterday.
“Not who you were expecting?” he said with a knowing smile, his gaze locking onto mine.
I stared into his blue eyes. “You’re not as old as I imagined you’d be,” I deadpanned, a hint of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. I truly did believe Mr. Hastings would be much older. I did not expect a man that I guessed was in his late thirties or early forties. He had a very dignified look about him. His black hair was cut short and perfectly styled. He wore jeans and boots with a dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up like the first time I saw him.
He chuckled and motioned for me to sit. As I settled into the chair, he continued to lean casually on his desk, a picture of confidence and control. His feet were crossed at his ankles.
“Are you the representative for Jacobson and Sons?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m one of the sons.”
He looked at me with his brow arched. “I see.”
“This bid, did you put it together?”
“I did,” I said, nodding.
He asked a series of questions, probing into the details of my bid. “Tell me about your vision for the house,” he said.
I took a deep breath. “I think the house is perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“That’s not what your bid says.” He chuckled.
“I wouldn’t change anything, but I would restore what is already here. What did you have in mind?”
“I’d like to modernize the utilities while preserving the soul of the house, bringing it back to its former glory. I want new plumbing and electrical.”
I nodded as he talked. “That’s basically what I’m saying.”
“Would you like a tour?” he asked.
“Yes!” I blurted out the answer before reminding myself to be cool.
He smiled. “Shall we?”
“Please.”
We started walking through the house. I made mental notes about damaged original wood and stone. “Are these original?” I asked, pointing to some of the light fixtures.
“No. My parents started to renovate a while ago.”
We stopped in the kitchen that was very outdated and would easily be the biggest time suck. “I can save about eighty percent of the house’s original fixtures,” I told him, my confidence growing with each step. “The rest, I’ll hunt for at antique shops and estate sales. There are plenty of people who recognize the value of holding on to things as simple as hinges and drawer pulls. I have some good contacts from all across the country I can call.”
He seemed genuinely surprised by my enthusiasm. “Other contractors have deemed Gloriana Manor a gut job,” he said.
I winced at the very thought. “No.”
“They propose to rebuild from the baseboards up. Why are you saying you can save it?”
“Because I see potential where others see decay. I see a chance to breathe life into the neglected details that tell the story of the house.”
He nodded again. “I like that.”
As we strolled through the corridors, I assured him that I had connections with the plumbers and electricians needed for the modernization he envisioned. The rest, I promised, was in my capable hands—and my dad’s. I wasn’t sure how I would tell my father if I did manage to get the job.
“Your confidence is impressive. It’s rare to find someone so passionate about preserving the past while embracing the future.”
I couldn’t help but smile, a mixture of pride and determination bubbling within me. “Gloriana Manor is more than a house; it’s a living testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone era. I want to honor that history while ensuring it stands strong in the twenty-first century.”
He nodded in understanding, his eyes revealing a newfound respect. “Let’s make it happen, Ms. Jacobson. Your vision aligns with what this house deserves.”
As we returned to his office, my thoughts raced. I had secured the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to breathe new life into Gloriana Manor while preserving its soul. Yet, the realization hit me I would have to tell my dad, who had no idea that I had taken the initiative to bid on the project.
As Mr. Hastings reviewed the details of the bid once more, I couldn’t shake the mix of anxiety and excitement that pulsed through me.
“I planned to invest at least a million dollars into the project,” he said.
My jaw nearly hit the floor. A million dollars. That was more than anything I could have imagined.
“I understand,” I said, nodding.
“Fine. This is your project. When are you able to start?”
I froze, still grappling with the shock of his approval. “I’ll come over tomorrow. We can go through the original blueprints, discuss the plan of action.”
“Perfect,” he said as he showed me to the door. “I look forward to getting started.”
“Me too,” I said.
I was so excited, my heart felt like it was going to pound right out of my chest. I left the mansion and headed straight to the wood shop. I had to tell my father. I had no idea what kind of reaction he was going to have.
I walked in and decided to just rip the band-aid off and come out with it.
“Dad, I bid on the Gloriana Manor project. And, well, I got it.”
His initial displeasure was evident. “What?”
“I had to,” I said. “You know I did.”
“Why would you do this without consulting me?”
“I wanted to prove to you that I can handle the business,” I said. “I’m ready to step into a leadership role. The project will bring in enough money for you to retire. And Dad, it’s Gloriana Manor! How could we turn down the opportunity?”
He shook his head. “It’s a huge job, Catherine.”
“I know, but it’ll be good. This is going to be good for both of us. And you have to see this house, Dad. It’s stunning.”
“You better call Scott and have him return all the tools he’s borrowed. We’re going to need everything.”
I cleared my throat. “We broke up.”
He looked up. “What?”
“We broke up. He’s been cheating on me. It’s over and done. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just done.”
“Good, I never liked the guy,” he muttered before returning to his work, leaving me momentarily speechless.
“I’m going to start making some calls,” I said.
I went to my desk that was in the small office we shared and started making calls to subcontractors we had used before. I only called the ones I trusted to do quality work. This was a million-dollar job. It had to be the best.
As I set up the subcontractors, I couldn’t stop thinking about the owner of the house. He was very mysterious and hot. There was an attraction I couldn’t quite explain. I was sure it was the fact he was living in my dream home. He got to roam those halls and live in that historical masterpiece that I envied.
