a house that might not even be hers? She groaned aloud, thinking of the business license for which she’d applied that very day. Why couldn’t she have waited until the papers on the house had been signed?
The pounding of small feet on bare hardwood jerked her from her pit of regret. She rubbed her face with her hands and put on a smile just as her six-year-old son, Hunter, burst into the room from the kitchen, his shaggy, nut-brown hair flopping.
“Mommy! Abby teached me my lessons already.”
“Taught, not teached,” Jessa corrected, opening her arms. Hunter collided with her in a glancing hug. “Wasn’t that nice of Abby to take over your schooling for the day?”
“Uh-huh,” Hunter replied absently. He seemed much more interested in the bits of paper littering the place, dragging the toes of his canvas shoes through them. “It snowed.”
Jessa chuckled. “Kind of. Unfortunately, this snow won’t melt. It has to be swept up.”
Abby appeared in the doorway. She glanced around, remarking, “I see you’ve made some progress.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jessa told her glumly. Pointing Hunter toward the kitchen and the laundry room beyond, she instructed the boy to see if he could find the broom and dustpan. He ran off to do so, giving Jessa the chance to inform Abby of the mix-up with the house.
“Good grief,” Abby commented, the wrinkles in her square face deepening as she considered the situation. She ran a hand over her short, thin, salt-and-pepper hair. “What are you going to do?”
“We’ve been invited to stay at Chatam House,” Jessa said, reaching out for the broom as Hunter ran up, dragging it behind him.
“Chatam House!” Abby exclaimed. “By whom?”
“Magnolia Chatam. She said to tell you hello.”
Abby’s thin eyebrows lifted upward, creating a series of grooves in her forehead. “Magnolia is one of the Chatam triplets. We worked together on a panel for the Historical Society.”
Jessa had heard all about the Historical Society. With some three hundred buildings of historical significance in town, the society wielded a good bit of influence.
“And who is the man again,” Abby asked, “the one who says this is his house?”
That moment when Garrett Willows had caught her in his arms swept over Jessa. She’d been perched near the top of the ladder, reaching for a long strip of paper that dangled just above her head, and the next thing she’d known the ladder had rocked and she’d been falling. Then suddenly a pair of strong arms had caught her and pulled her safely against a broad, rock-hard chest. She’d felt his heart racing in tandem with hers, and though all fear had swiftly passed, she’d felt an insane urge to loop her arms around his neck. A pleased smile had hovered over her lips as she’d gazed up into his handsome face, and then she had realized that he had made her fall and her good sense had, thankfully, come rushing back. Mortified, she’d scrambled out of his arms and tried to catch her breath.
Jessa shrugged, as if he hadn’t made much of an impression on her. “Garrett something-or-other.” Abby shook her head, so Jessa went on. “Tallish.” Six feet, at least, maybe an inch or two over. “Black hair.” Thick, coal-black hair that shadowed his square jaws and made his bright blue eyes all the more piercing.
She shivered. Men that handsome always disturbed her. This one…something about this one frightened her, and it wasn’t just his claim on her home. It was more an odd sense of familiarity coupled with instant attraction.
“Hmm,” Abby mused, “could be another nephew. There are too many Chatams to shake a stick at, and not just around here, either.” She straightened. A busty woman with skinny legs, she wore a boxy shirt and shorts that displayed bony knees. “Well, it’s all for the good. After a few days at Chatam House, you and Hunter can return to me. That will give us at least a week to find another place for you.”
“In other words,” Jessa said morosely, “you think he’s going to get this place.”
Abby opened her mouth as if to deny it, but in the end, she merely sighed. Jessa figured she was right, but she pushed her hopelessness aside.
No. Not this time.
She had a verbal agreement with Ellie Monroe, entered into in good faith. Money had changed hands. Not much of it, granted, but money, nonetheless. She had invested in the place already and started scraping off the nasty, stained wallpaper in the butler’s pantry that was so perfect for her purposes. She had every right to this property, and she would not stand by while some man took their home from her and her son. Not again.
Not ever again.
Meanwhile, she would plan how best to approach this matter. Looking down at herself, she grimaced. She could start by putting her best foot forward. She hoped Abby had an iron.
As usual, the tea tray had been prepared while Garrett and the Chatam sisters attended the midweek meeting at the Downtown Bible Church that evening. Hilda, the cook, poured hot water into the silver pot before Garrett carried the tray from the kitchen. Despite the mouthwatering aroma of Hilda’s famous ginger muffins, Garrett felt in a grim mood. Jessa Pagett and her son should have arrived hours ago, but Hilda reported seeing “neither hide nor hair” of their expected guests thus far. Had she decided to stay at the house on Charter Street, after all? He didn’t suppose it mattered, in the end. She was bound to get the place if that’s what Ellie wanted.
Reaching the elegant foyer, he skirted the sweeping, marble staircase and turned into the large, antique-filled front parlor. It tickled him to see Odelia Chatam cuddled up on the settee with Kent Monroe while Mags and Hypatia pretended not to notice from the wing chairs placed around the low, piecrust table.
The Chatam sisters, maiden ladies in their mid-seventies, were as different as triplets could possibly be. Hypatia was all silver and silk, as regal as a queen. Odelia could not have been more endearing in her flamboyant costumes and oversize jewelry, her hair a soft, wild cap of white curls. Kent obviously adored her, but her many nieces and nephews didn’t call her Auntie Od for nothing. Magnolia, on the other hand, his own dear Mags, brought to mind visions of garden spades. Tough and no-nonsense in her funky galoshes and shirtwaist dresses, she possessed a heart of pure gold. As did they all.
“Here we are,” Hypatia said, turning as Garrett carried the heavy tray to the table.
“Tea is served,” Garrett announced unnecessarily, his words punctuated by the sound of the brass knocker on the front door.
“Our new guests have arrived,” Hypatia concluded, as Magnolia moved briskly toward the foyer.
“About time,” Garrett muttered. Aware that his heartbeat had sped up, he slowly straightened and turned toward the open, doublewide pocket door, parking his hands on his hips just below belt level.
Several seconds of muted conversation ensued before Magnolia reappeared with Jessa Pagett and a young boy in tow. Mags made short work of the introductions.
“Allow me to make known to you my sisters, Hypatia and Odelia. Garrett you’ve met. And this…” She waved a hand at Kent, who was even then lumbering to his feet. “Is Kent Monroe. Everyone, this is Jessa Lynn Pagett and her son, Hunter.”
