record, I do own a pair of safety shoes,” she said just as Logan closed the door.
Granny had insisted once she spied the warehouse and the work that Pippa would be doing. As a compromise, however, Pippa had allowed one of the kids to customize the ugly black boots. An expert at tagging whose efforts were now confined to the interior of R10:14 thanks to a brush with the law, one of the skaters—a fellow named Rico—had worked his magic with spray paint to give her a stunning pair of boots with her nickname emblazoned on them. She still wore them sometimes, though the need had long since passed.
Logan met her on the curb, then led the way. The redbrick facade had been scrubbed clean, and the marble cornerstone that proclaimed the name of Branson’s Bakery and its opening year of 1905 now gleamed bright white.
She ran her fingertips over the carved brass plate beneath the door’s arched handle, its golden color faded and in dire need of polish. “Can you imagine how many hands have touched this over the years?”
He gave her an appreciative smile as he brushed past her to unlock the door. “Come on,” Logan said, and gestured toward the murky shadows of the area that had once been the bakery’s showroom.
Though Pippa had walked through the building with Granny on several occasions, she’d not been inside since the renovation work began last week. After the crew had removed the awful acoustic tiles that were added some fifty years ago, the ceiling was twice the height of the rooms upstairs, giving the space an expansive feel.
“Kept the heat up near the roof,” Logan said as he brushed past her. “The tall ceilings down here, that is.” He walked over to the staircase and looked up. “Too bad the apartment upstairs doesn’t have these ceilings. Guess Mr. Branson didn’t much care if Mrs. Branson stayed cool in the summer.”
“It was likely that Mrs. Branson was down here working alongside her husband,” Pippa remarked.
“You could be right,” Logan said with a nod as he turned his attention toward the stairs.
While Logan studied the sturdiness of the staircase, Pippa turned around to see stripes of sunlight slanting through the dust-streaked window and racing across the worn wooden floors. Closing her eyes, she could imagine what it would have looked like new in 1905. And what it might look like again in a few months.
She opened her eyes to spy Logan looking at her. He’d draped his arm over the banister, his palm resting on the ornate newel post. “If I’d realized I’d be showing this to you today, I would have brought the preliminary drawings. After you see my idea, I’ll make any updates you think would be acceptable and email the documents.”
“That would be perfect,” she said. “But for now, just tell me what you’re thinking for this space.”
Logan stepped into a shaft of sunlight and smiled. “All right, I guess we can see well enough. Over there,” he said, gesturing to the far corner of the room, “is where I thought we would put the cashier’s counter.”
Pippa followed the direction of his gaze and nodded. As Logan continued his explanation, her attention drifted from the room in which they stood to the man who would transform it. From his sun-streaked hair to the tanned and muscled forearms showing beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his dress shirt, time had been kind to the kid who’d disappeared from Vine Beach High a year after Pippa arrived. Just about the same time her confidence in ever fitting in fled, as well.
“Pippa, are you coming?”
“Oh, sorry,” she said as she hurried to follow Logan toward the once-grand staircase that snaked up the brick wall with sagging risers and more than a few missing spindles.
“I checked and it’s sturdy, but step carefully,” he reminded her.
Emerging onto the second-floor landing, Pippa could see demolition work had begun here, as well. Though the hardwood floor, in need of a new coat of varnish, had only been covered with paper, most of the walls were now stripped to the studs.
The difference in the amount of light and the feeling of openness was remarkable, especially in the spot she had designated as her reading corner. With a view of the beach at the far end of Main Street, the corner would have a window seat fitted neatly into a bookshelf. It was something she had dreamed of since reading A Little Princess and imagining what it might be like living in an attic room with dormer windows. While these were not dormers, they would do.
“Like it?” Logan asked, a pleased expression on his face.
“I love it,” she said. “You were right about knocking down these walls.”
“I hope you’ll think that about what I brought you here to see.” He nodded toward a door at the opposite end of the hall. “Come with me.”
“To the attic? What’s up there?” she asked, though she trailed behind him.
Logan paused halfway up the stairs to glance over his shoulder. “Just wait and see.”
At the top of the stairs, he reached for a flashlight left hanging on the rafter. “Stay close behind me,” he warned, “and don’t walk anywhere but on these beams.” He gestured to the large expanses of lumber that crisscrossed the open flooring. “Ready?”
At her nod, Logan set off. She followed a step behind. Up here the air was thick with the scent of neglect, punctuated with a musty smell that made Pippa sneeze.
He reached back to steady her. “Can’t have you falling through the ceiling and landing on a perfectly good floor. Might crack the boards.”
His brow rose as he waited for her giggle. Instead she sneezed again, then offered a smile. “I’m fine. Keep going,” she said as she fell back into step behind him.
Logan led her to the window on the easternmost side of the attic. “This is the part that’s going to take some imagination.” He lifted the window sash and instantly fresh salty sea air replaced the century-old smells. “I should have asked before I brought you up here.” He met her gaze. “Are you afraid of heights?”
“You’ve never seen me on the half-pipe,” she said as she thought of the last time she’d skateboarded on the giant structure in the back of the warehouse.
Apparently Logan hadn’t heard of a half-pipe. Or maybe he just couldn’t imagine her on one. Either way, his expression remained blank.
“The answer would be no, I’m not,” she added.
A nod, and Logan reached outside the window to lean to the right. “This is the fire escape. The ladder’s completely safe. Even the fire marshal agrees.”
Logan’s mention of Ryan Owen, Vine Beach’s fire marshal, reminded Pippa that she needed to stop by and pick up the check for the specially designed Bibles he and Leah were donating to next Saturday’s skating event at R10:14.
“Pippa?” He looked down at her feet. “You’re probably going to need to kick off those sandals for this. Construction debris won’t be a problem where we’re going.”
Putting aside thoughts of tomorrow, she shrugged. “And where is that, dare I ask?”
His grin was immediate. “The roof.”
Pippa did as he asked, then watched as he slipped out the
