pleasant surprise. He climbed the three steps until he was inches in front of her. Something soft and inviting spun around her in the morning breeze—her scent combined with the aroma of fresh baking that drifted to him from the interior of the house.
Craig cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say. “Um, good morning, Ms. Fontaine. I apologize for not calling.”
She didn’t budge, a sentinel protecting her domain.
“What can I do for you? I thought we concluded our business yesterday.”
“I was hoping that we could talk.”
“About?”
He ran his tongue lightly across his dry lips. “The house.”
Her lids lowered ever so slightly over her deep brown eyes, then she looked directly at him. She tipped her head slightly to the side. Her right brow rose. “Have you had breakfast?”
For a moment he was thrown. It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. “Actually, no. I haven’t.”
She drew in a short breath, opened the door farther and stepped to the side. “Come in.”
Craig walked past her. Her scent clouded his thoughts.
Jewel shut the door. “This way.” She led him through the large foyer that was appointed with an antique hall table upon which sat an oversize glass vase filled with lilies. On the walls hung several oil paintings that he recognized as her work. The highly polished wood-plank floors gleamed with their reflections and echoed their footsteps. She made a short right turn, and the space opened onto a kitchen that rivaled any master chef’s.
Every size pot and pan hung from black iron ceiling hooks over a polished-cement island counter that boasted a sink and a six-burner stove with cabinetry beneath. The far end of the island was for seating. The double oven and restaurant-size stainless steel refrigerator were in sharp contrast to the perfectly restored potbellied stove that sat like a Buddha at the far end of the kitchen.
“Coffee or tea?”
Craig blinked. “Coffee. Please.”
“Have a seat.” She went to the overhead cabinets and took out a bag of imported Turkish coffee and prepared it. Within moments the scent of fresh-brewed coffee mixed with the tempting aroma of the blueberry muffins that sat in a cloth-lined basket, waiting to be devoured. She took out a plate and retrieved jam and whipped apple butter from the fridge and placed them both on the table.
“You have an incredible home.”
“Thank you.” She poured his coffee and brought it to the table. “Cream, milk, sugar?”
“I take it black. Thanks.”
Jewel took a seat opposite him. “Help yourself to a muffin if you want. They’re fresh.”
His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t make these?”
“Actually, I did.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “A woman of many talents.” He reached for a muffin and put it on his plate. “I noticed your artwork out there. Stunning.” He cut the muffin in half and slathered it with apple butter. He glanced up when she didn’t comment. He took a thoughtful bite and experienced heaven. His eyes closed in appreciation. “Wow, this is incredible.” That brought a smile to those luscious lips of hers.
“I learned to bake from my grandmother, right here in this kitchen. It slowly became a passion of mine over the years.”
“So you grew up here?”
“The house has been in the family for almost four generations, dating back to the emancipation. I lived here with my grandmother and my father until I graduated high school.”
Where was her mother in the scenario? He didn’t recall reading anything about her. “You attended the Sorbonne.”
Her eyes flashed. A curious smile curved her mouth. “Have you been reading up on me? I thought it was the house you were interested in.”
Both, he wanted to say but didn’t. “Any time I’m in negotiations with anyone I want to know as much as possible about them.”
“I see.” Her lips narrowed.
“If I remember correctly, the original owner, Charles Biggs, was one of the few owners of these homes that didn’t own slaves.”
“True. My great-great-grandparents worked here and earned a wage. They were free blacks. They lived in the house in the back. When the owner died, he left the house, the land, everything to my great-great-grandparents.” She huffed. “It didn’t sit well with the neighbors.” Her gaze drifted off. “My granddad told me stories about how my greats fought off threats both physical and emotional from the landowners around here. Nothing worked, and eventually they came to respect my family.”
“Lot of history here,” he said respectfully and struggled to contain his surprise and excitement about the eerie similarities of their ancestors.
“Yes, there is.” She stared into her cup of tea. “So why are you here, Mr. Lawson?” She leveled her gaze on him, and something warm simmered in his belly.
“I believe that if you hear me out, you’ll change your mind about renting out your home.”
Jewel seemed to study him for a moment, as if the weight of her reality pressed against her shoulders, and with a breath of apparent acceptance she said, “Let’s talk out back.” She led the way to the veranda.
* * *
“Please, have a seat,” Jewel said, extending her hand toward one of the cushioned chairs.
“Thanks.” Craig sat and placed his plate and cup on the circular white wrought-iron table.
Jewel sat opposite him, adjusted her long skirt and leaned back. She folded her slender fingers across her lap. “So... I’m listening.”
Craig cleared his throat, focusing on Jewel, and for a moment talking about the project was the last thing on his mind. He shifted his weight in the chair. “I believe as an artist you can fully appreciate a project of passion.” Her nostrils flared ever so slightly as if bracing for attack. “That’s what this project is for me. Everything that I’ve done and everything that I have accomplished has led me here—now.” He pushed out a breath. “It’s the story of my family, the Lawsons.”
Her lashes fluttered, but her features remained unreadable.
“Of course, I’ve changed the names, to protect the guilty,” he said, not in jest. “The story of a family that came from nothing, with a history of rising up from slavery, starting a business in a shack and building a legacy that led all the way to the seats of power in Washington.” He leaned forward, held her with his gaze.
“More important,” he continued, his voice taking on an urgency, “is that now is the time. With all that is going on in the world, with all that is happening to black lives, this is a story not only of history but of hope. It’s about resiliency, about who we are as a people and all that we can be.” He took a breath.
