of the day to help her move the thing?
The phone rang in the kitchen. She worked her way around the dining room chairs and sideboard she’d temporarily shoved into the kitchen, then stretched across stacks of her great-grandmother’s 1920s formal china and plucked the phone off its hook on the fourth ring.
“Thomas residence,” Allison said, as she managed to rescue a wobbling soup bowl. “Oh!”
“Pardon?” a male voice on the other end asked.
“Sorry, just a disaster averted. I almost broke a J & G Meakin 1920s bowl. Last time I did that I was ten, and in trouble for a week.”
A warm, rich chuckle came over the line. “That’s good. That you didn’t break it, I mean. I’m Kyle Mitchell. We met earlier, I think, if you’re Allison.”
His voice, still brimming with amusement, made her temporarily forget her bone-deep weariness. She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and collapsed in it. “Yes. I hope I didn’t come across as rude this morning. Some years ago, my grandmother made the mistake of allowing the house to be photographed for a field guide of old homes, and after it came out, she had a flurry of people knocking on her door, thinking the house was open to the public.”
“Perfectly understandable. Listen, I just wanted to extend an invitation to you. Our historical preservation society meets once a month, and I thought you might be interested in joining us this Thursday evening.”
That voice... Over the phone, with nothing to distract her from its smooth baritone, Allison soaked in its resonance, its hint of good-natured humor. For a moment, she was tempted—not just by his voice, but her memory of him on the sidewalk. Kyle Mitchell had looked friendly enough earlier, and totally unlike her memories of the typical historical society members who’d visited with Gran during Allison’s teen years. Maybe it would be nice to meet some folks in Lombard who weren’t ten years past retirement age.
The stacks of china and the glut of furniture in the kitchen reminded her of her priorities. “I don’t know. I’m a little busy now—Gran’s in a rehab facility and I’m trying to get the place in shape for her to come home.”
“Oh, well, of course.” His voice dimmed with just enough disappointment to be flattering. It made her wish she’d said yes. “If you need some help or advice, just let me know. I love working on old houses.”
Allison snorted, startling Cleo, who’d curled up atop the fridge. “You must be a masochist, that’s all I can say. Right now I’m trying to rip up old carpet, and really struggling to move a china cabinet. You don’t know of any moving companies that would send out someone, do you?”
“Not a moving company...but I’ll help. I don’t have to teach classes today, so I’d be glad to. I know how heavy those things can be.”
“Oh—I wasn’t hinting—”
“No, no. Give me ten minutes. That okay?”
“Thanks! I won’t say no.”
Ten minutes later, she opened the door to see Kyle. He’d ditched the jacket and button-down for a T-shirt that, unlike hers, was clean and dust free. Automatically, she realized what a fright she must look like.
“I’ve been—”
“Working. No problem. Anybody who does anything on an old house knows it’s a dirty job. Lead me to this china cabinet.”
But Kyle stopped short in the front hall. He stared up at the ornate cornices and moldings, at the staircase, then craned his neck to see in the front parlor. Allison tried to view the home as he must, but she was at a disadvantage, having grown up here.
He grinned. “This blows me away. A perfect example of a side-hall Second Empire. So often these old houses have been wrecked inside—too many ‘modern’ improvements.” He shook his head.
“Right. Luckily, our family’s motto has always been ‘If it was good enough for Ambrose, it’s good enough for us,’” Allison told him. “Hardly anything has changed.”
Just then, Cleo zipped past Kyle with a yowl, and Allison warned, “You’d better watch out. She always makes a return trip.”
“Wow. That’s—”
“Ninja cat.” Allison moved on to the dining room and swept a hand around. “As you can see, one of the few things that Gran did change was to put carpet in the downstairs.”
“Get a load of that pink. Now that is pure, bona fide original, Mamie Eisenhower pink.”
“Yeah. I don’t quite think that shade was what Pops had in mind when he told her to order it—”
“I don’t see why not. That was every woman’s dream color in 1954.” Kyle stepped into the dining room, gawked at the floor-to-ceiling bay window with its intricate cornices, and turned around to take in the space. His eyes lit on the chore before them: the hulking, huge china cabinet.
“Oookay.” He shook his head. “That cabinet took a small forest of mahogany to build.” He crossed the room and slid his palm against its smooth dark wood. “This is late Victorian? Is it original to the house?”
“Yep. Bought brand-spanking-new in 1888 and shipped all the way from Philadelphia. Like I said, what was good enough for Ambrose...”
Kyle caressed the mahogany, then trailed a finger down the intricately carved panels alongside the breakfront. She couldn’t help but notice his large, strong hands, with neatly trimmed nails. They seemed more suited to handling an ax than a professor’s red pen.
He glanced up at her, the amusement in his voice now crinkling the corners of his eyes. “They did believe if one carved flower or cherub was good, two would be better, didn’t they? When I offered to help, I was thinking of a china cabinet built in the thirties or forties, a colonial reproduction. Maybe I was a bit ambitious and rash in my offer. I mean, I do work out a little, but...”
Ah, yes, the evidence of that was right before her eyes. Kyle’s T-shirt couldn’t hide nicely defined biceps and a well-constructed chest. Whatever he was doing in the way of weightlifting was working well. Allison grinned, glad for his muscles to assist her with this job. “If you can help me move this, I think you can skip working out for a week. Or three.”
“So what was your plan? Originally, I mean?” he asked her, his eyes back on the heavy Victorian china cabinet, which was a good eight feet tall.
She walked over to stand beside him. Her hands, too, traced the smooth dark finish. Maybe it wasn’t to her taste, but she could admire the craftsmanship that some gifted cabinetmaker had poured into his labors, and she liked how Kyle could appreciate it, as well. “I didn’t think I had a prayer of moving it very far, but hoped that I could shift it enough to take the carpet off the nail strip behind it, cut the piece out, then move the cabinet back. Most things I can at least wiggle and wobble. But that critter? Uh-uh.”
“It’s not fastened to the wall, is it? For support?” Kyle bent to examine the rear panel.
“No. I know Gran has had it moved before—you know, for carpet cleaning. It was a bear then.”
He turned around, studied the room again and nodded slowly. “I
