“No. No, he didn’t,” Dale agreed, feeling ridiculously pleased. “But I should’ve known.”
She raised her slender eyebrows at that. “How on earth could you?”
He reached out to tap the delicate cleft in her dainty chin, but at the last moment thought better of the gesture and reached back to tap his own chin instead. “That and the eyes. Though yours are darker, which is odd because your hair is so…” Beautiful, he thought inanely. He managed, belatedly, to say, “Light.”
She tilted her head. “You work here?”
He pointed behind him. “On the new suite.”
“I see. I didn’t realize. Well, it’s good of you to inspect the job that your crew is doing.”
“Uh, I am the crew on this particular job,” he informed her.
She blinked at that, and he could almost see himself coming down in her estimation, from partner and project manager to lowly carpenter. Uncharacteristically, his temper spiked. He was proud of what he did, proud of his skills and knowledge, proud to work with his father in a family-owned business, proud to be his own boss and provide jobs for others, proud of the quality of the work provided by Bowen & Bowen Construction. But he didn’t kid himself that he lived on the same plain as Garth Anderton. Or the Chatams for that matter.
Shocked to find that it suddenly did matter, he frowned and heard himself say, “Your boss is in for a tough time with the Historical Society.”
She parked her hands at her waist, the shoes sticking out in sharp-toed splendor from the fist that gripped them. “Maybe they’re in for a tough time with him. It’s not like he doesn’t have a great deal of experience, you know. He has done this before.”
“He hasn’t done it in Buffalo Creek.”
“True. But I’m sure his experience elsewhere will prompt him to—”
“Make enemies of the Society, most likely,” Dale put in testily.
“You don’t know that!” she shot back.
“I know his type,” Dale snapped. “Used to throwing his weight around and getting what he wants when he wants it.”
She bowed her head in an obvious attempt to curb her own tongue. Dale knew that he’d do well to follow her example, but something about Garth Anderton provoked him even when the guy was not around.
“Look,” he said in a softer tone, “I just want to avoid trouble. I know every member of the Society, and they’re not going to take kindly to any attempt at cutting corners.”
“Anderton doesn’t cut corners,” she insisted. “It’s just that time is of the essence.”
“Uh-huh,” Dale retorted gracelessly. “I don’t think the Society’s idea of the importance of time and his are the same thing. They honor times past and seek to preserve for the future what it leaves behind. Anderton’s after a quick buck.”
“He’s a businessman,” she argued. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing,” he conceded. “I’m a businessman myself, but I know something about historical sites, restoration and those who care about them. Believe me, the only way to save time here is to get it right from the first.”
She bit her lip, eyelashes batting. Clearly, she didn’t agree but wouldn’t argue the point further. Dale wished that he’d bitten his tongue, but the best thing he could do now was beat a hasty retreat before he upset her further.
“I, uh, I have to go. It, um, was nice to meet you. Again.”
Wincing inwardly, he twisted past her and pounded down the stairs, mentally kicking himself. Really, could he have been any more confrontational? Any less suave? He pictured Garth Anderton’s urbane face and the way he’d so possessively slipped his arm about Petra Chatam’s shoulders in the elevator earlier. Suddenly, Dale wanted to pound something else, if only to punish his own fists.
* * *
Moving toward her joint bedroom and sitting room with labored steps, Petra winced. That had gone about as well as her choice of footwear. The man had usurped her day from beginning to end. He “irritated” Garth, who had already given her orders to have him removed as the construction supervisor on the project. She’d already made an appointment to speak with Walton Bowen about the matter the next morning. As much as she dreaded the prospect, bumping into Dale right here at Chatam House somehow made it worse. Nevertheless, orders were orders.
Now, if only she could figure out how to go about the thing without offending everyone she knew and loved. Her brother, Asher, had sung the praises of Mr. Bowen the elder and his company. Now it turned out that her aunties had hired Mr. Bowen the younger to make the necessary changes in their beloved mansion. Great. Just great.
What was she supposed to say to the Bowens tomorrow, anyway? That the boss just didn’t like Dale? Or maybe that the younger man displayed entirely too much knowledge and confidence in his opinions? She certainly wasn’t going to admit that she would be as relieved as Garth to have Dale Bowen out of the way—but for other reasons entirely.
While changing into loose slacks, a knit top and her most comfortable flats, she decided that she would speak to her aunts about the matter. They seemed to know the Bowens. They might be able to advise her how best to approach the situation. Resolved, Petra padded into the well-appointed bedroom to comb her thick, straight hair before appearing downstairs.
As expected, she found her aunties and Kent Monroe in the front parlor, awaiting the dinner hour. Magnolia smiled at her from the armchair placed at a right angle to the settee, where Odelia and Kent cuddled, and the high-backed wingchair that Hypatia habitually claimed. Hypatia looked around as the others smiled in Petra’s direction. Her mood lightening already, Petra smiled back, if only because Odelia sat swathed in layers of peach chiffon, from the big fluffy bow in her white hair to the ruffled toes of what looked suspiciously like bedroom slippers, not that Odelia gave a fig. She wore what she wanted and let the world gawk—and Kent moon. He did so adore her, and that was another reason to smile. The fact that he habitually hauled his great belly onto his feet in gesture of old-world gentility whenever a woman entered the room was yet another.
“Oh, Pet,” Odelia trilled, using the nickname that Petra’s late grandfather had coined. Odelia waved a lace hanky, jiggling the enormous square rhinestones clipped to her earlobes. They resembled framed, faceted mirrors. “Come and join us.”
Magnolia gestured toward another armchair at the end of the rectangular piecrust tea table, sadly lacking a tea tray at the moment. Petra rarely drank the stuff, especially in the summer, but tea was somehow necessary at Chatam House, as much a part of the gracious atmosphere as the antiques and old-world manners. And after the day she’d had, Petra could have used a cup.
“It’s so nice to have a young person in the house again,” Hypatia decreed, though in truth Garrett, Jessa and their young son Hunter had vacated the premises only a few weeks ago, along with Ellie Monroe, Kent’s granddaughter and Petra’s new sister-in-law. Dressed for dinner in her customary silk and pearls, her silver hair twisted into its customary chignon, Hypatia inclined her neat head as if she were a queen acknowledging a subject, but the elegant old dear was nothing if not loving and kind.
