glistening in her eyes and present in the catch of her words. Whoever this grandmother was, Charlotte missed her very much.
“Did Mima leave you her china?” Jesse wasn’t quite sure what made him ask.
Her eyes went wide; big velvet-brown pools of curiosity. “How did you know?”
“You said you collect.” Jesse began working his way around the kitchen, pulling drawers open, checking cabinet hinges, forcing himself to see the house through her eyes than through his own loss. “It seemed a natural guess that she’d leave you hers if you were that close.”
“We were.” Charlotte’s voice was thick with memory. “Mima was the most astounding woman. She didn’t have an easy life, but she got so much out of every moment, you know?” For a second Jesse worried Charlotte was going to break into tears right there on the countertop, but she just took a deep breath and tucked her hands under her knees. “She’d love this place.”
Needing to lighten the moment, Jesse raised the charred teakettle from its place in the sink. “Even the smoke-signal tea service?”
Charlotte laughed. She had a great laugh—lively and full and light. “She might have liked the drama, but Mima was a coffee drinker. ‘Strong as love and black as night,’ she used to say. Drank four cups a day right up until the end, even when her doctors yelled at her.”
It would be so much easier to begrudge Charlotte the sale if she weren’t so...sweet. Sweet? That wasn’t usually the kind of word he’d use to describe a woman, but it was the one that kept coming to mind with her. Only, she was more than sweet. She had an edge about her. An energy. She was probably more like her Mima than she knew. Spunky, maybe? No, that sounded ridiculous. Vivacious—that was it.
Jesse dragged his mind back to the task at hand. “Let’s walk through the house and identify what needs doing.”
It didn’t take long. Half the needed improvements had already been in his head, and the other half came cascading down upon him as he assumed his contractor’s mind-set and considered the house with her needs in mind. Every time the bitter thought of what he would have wanted threatened to overtake him, he wrote down a dollar figure next to a project to show himself what Charlotte’s business could mean for his future. By the time he left, Jesse was looking at a proposal that might get him down payments on two different investment properties, and she didn’t seem too fazed by it. Things were looking up.
Jesse watched Charlotte reading through his written proposal on her back porch the next afternoon. Despite how easy it was to chat with her—and how unfairly easy she was to like—the entire situation still hung off-kilter and uncomfortable inside him like a bad joke. He admired her enthusiasm, but it felt like a punch to his ribs at the same time. Had he shown that kind of energy, the singular focus she now displayed toward this house, he’d already own the cottage by now.
Even though she’d been in town only a few days, he’d heard from several people—Chief Bradens, Melba, his fellow firefighter JJ, even JJ’s brother, Max—about how Charlotte had gushed over her affection for the cottage. For crying out loud, it seemed even Karl at the coffee shop had gotten a speech about what she planned to do with the place. She’d spout off her plans to anyone who would listen.
Had he shown her initiative, acting more aggressively, more single-mindedly on his plans—the way Randy always acted when it came to business deals—Helen Bearson might have tipped him off that someone else had shown interest in the property. He could have found a way to inch past those final two months and purchase the property now. But no, his claim never went further than a comment to his folks or a vague remark to the other guys on the truck when they went past the vacant house. He’d never done anything more than occasional blue-sky thinking aloud. The plans had been there: real and detailed, meticulously compiled. But he’d kept them to himself, not wanting to be made the butt of more jokes or criticism if things didn’t work out. Now the spreadsheet calculating his accrued savings toward the goal felt like a misfire. No, worse: a dud.
Of course, Jesse knew better. His nobler side told him he had no right to his resentment. He had no practical claim to the cottage. This was just another example of his biggest flaw: always hatching plans and spending too long perfecting them to get around to acting on them. Dad would probably be gratified that his trademark inaction had once again come back to bite him. He’d lost the cottage, fair and square. You snooze, you lose. You’ve always known that. Maybe now you know it for real.
The only consolation—and it was slim consolation at that—was how Jesse’s gut still told him she belonged in that house. She had on these old-fashioned-looking shoes that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but with her flowing pastel dress and the fluttery scarf she wore, she looked as though she belonged right there on the cottage steps. “Vintage chic,” his mom would probably call it. All soft and frilly around the edges but definitely not stodgy, and with an artsy edge that let him know she’d have great taste. She wouldn’t gut the place and modernize it, stripping away all the history and charm—she’d do it right.
She flipped over the final page of the document he’d given her. “Wow, it’s a lot, isn’t it?” Despite her bright optimism, he could still read hints of sadness and confusion in her eyes. Trouble was, that determination just made him like her more. This job was starting to feel as though it could become a tangled mess all too easily—and even a mess-up like him knew it was never smart to mix business with pleasure. Even when the pleasure could land him a fat paycheck.
“It’s a big job, yes. The results will be fantastic, though. You’d double your money if you ever sold.”
“I won’t sell.” No buyer’s remorse from this buyer, that was certain. He got the feeling that once Charlotte Taylor set her course, she was unstoppable.
“Okay, so you want to stay. Well, we know there are some basic repairs you’ll need no matter what—like the stove and the upstairs bathroom—even if you do change your mind and decide to sell....”
“Which I won’t.”
“Which you won’t,” he echoed. “We can start with those and schedule out the cosmetic fixes and upgrades later. That way you start basic, but keep your options wide open.”
She leaned back against the porch stair railing. At least this railing held, not like the wobbly one at her front door. Jesse grimaced as he remembered the photo of the gorgeous wrought-iron railing sitting in his file back home. “Maybe, but first on the list has to be my new claw-footed bathtub.”
She’d gushed over the style of the old tub in the upstairs bathroom, saying she’d picked out some newfangled Jacuzzi version that still looked antique. “New is great, but you could also repair the one you already have. Old fixtures like that are hard to find and worth keeping—especially if you want to go the sensible route.”
Her eyes flashed at the mention of sensible, and she straightened her back with an air of defiance. “Or maybe I don’t compromise. Maybe I use all this free time to do the renovation exactly the way I want while I can.”
“Free time?” Jesse couldn’t help asking.
“I’m between jobs at the moment.” There was a flash of hurt in her eyes as she said the words, but it faded quickly. “It’s just a temporary situation. It’s not like I won’t find a new job. I’m very good at what I do. Lots of companies are ramping up their online commerce. Textile arts are big business
