recalled the young woman Aunt Sarah had maneuvered him into meeting.
“I’ve met her. While there was a mention of her having renovation needs, I didn’t realize it was the house on Meadowlark Lane until a few minutes ago.”
“I understand Ms. George hails from Los Angeles and is doing well with the old gift shop.”
“With a new business it’s hard to imagine she has time to deal with the renovations needed at that...uh, house.” Trent had almost called it a dump, which was accurate, but since he’d been trying to get the property for years, the description might raise questions.
Steve snorted. “It’s a terrible investment except for someone who can do the work personally—it’ll cost more than the house is worth. Maybe she’ll be willing to sell.”
“It’s a possibility,” Trent agreed. “I’ll see if we can work something out.”
That was the solution. He’d meet with Emily George and propose a business deal.
After finding her number on the estimate, he punched it into his phone.
“Hello?” Her voice was warm, with a pleasant timbre.
“Ms. George, this is Trent Hawkins of Big Sky Construction. We met at your gift shop a couple of weeks ago. There’s a matter having to do with your estimate that needs to be resolved. It would help if we could meet.”
“Sure. Anything to move things ahead will be great. It’s pretty grim living here under the circumstances.”
Her eagerness didn’t bode well for his cause. On the other hand, if she was already living in the house, it wasn’t surprising she wanted to get things going. But she couldn’t possibly realize how costly it would be to do everything listed on the estimate. Surely she’d sell once she saw the bottom line.
“I understand,” Trent said. “Where shall we get together?”
“Don’t you want to come to the house?”
320 Meadowlark Lane was the last place he wanted to go. But he couldn’t tell a stranger something he’d never told anyone else.
“That’s fine,” he agreed. “What time is good for you?”
“Later this afternoon, or whenever you like tomorrow.”
Trent didn’t want to wait another day. “How about today at four?”
“Terrific. I’ll see you then.”
It wasn’t terrific. As a rule he no longer met with customers; he’d discovered the business did better if other employees handled contacts that required diplomacy. But the situation was different with his childhood home, and he would do whatever it took to get what he wanted.
* * *
EMILY ENDED THE CALL, a little surprised by the conversation with Trent Hawkins. From what she’d seen and heard, he was an odd duck.
Oh, well, she wasn’t looking for a friend; she wanted to get her house fixed. But it was strange that the head of such a large company wanted to meet personally.
The representative from Big Sky had been extremely thorough and hadn’t anticipated any problems. Emily had contacted a number of their references and they were all quite satisfied. The conversations had taken a while, since a lot of them wanted to chat—something she’d learned was typical of people in Schuyler. Most said they’d never dealt directly with the owner of Big Sky. A few knew Trent Hawkins through community contacts or his family, but their vague comments gave her the impression of caution, as though they considered him a slightly dangerous enigma.
One retired schoolteacher had mentioned that she’d taught most of the Hawkins and McGregor kids in her classroom, but had never understood Trent.
“At first glance he reminded me of his father,” she’d said. “But Gavin was such a bright, charming man. Trent isn’t as...cheerful. Of course, losing his parents that way has to affect a child. It’s probably no surprise that he was socially awkward.”
Emily had found the comment irrelevant. Trent Hawkins’s charm, or lack of it, wasn’t important. It was his company’s skill and honesty that she cared about. Nonetheless, the opinions expressed by other Big Sky clients certainly jived with her own brief impressions of him.
The doorbell gasped out a disgruntled squawk at precisely four o’clock and Emily realized that was one repair that had failed to make her list of improvements.
She opened the door and though she’d already met Trent Hawkins, almost gasped herself. While she wasn’t short, he seemed to tower over her in the doorway.
“Hello, Ms. George,” he said politely.
“Uh, call me Emily,” she returned, taking an involuntary step backward. “I’m from Southern California. We’re informal there.”
He hesitated a moment before nodding. “Emily, then. Call me Trent.”
She led him into the living room where she’d set up a card table and folding chairs. That, along with the air mattress in the back ground-floor bedroom, made up her current furniture. She’d bought them in Schuyler since most of her belongings were staying in California until she was completely settled.
Trent barely glanced at anything.
“Is there a part of the house you need to look at?” she asked, his silence making her nervous.
“No.” He seated himself and she sat across from him. Pulling a sheaf of papers from a folder he pushed it toward her. “You can see from the estimate that any renovations will be extremely expensive. Some might even say prohibitively expensive. So I have a proposal. I’d like to buy the house. I’ll pay ten percent over your sales price and reimburse your moving and closing costs on a new property. There are some nice homes on the west end of town you should consider purchasing.”
Surprise shot through Emily. “Do you do this often?” she asked. “I mean, try to buy a house instead of contracting to fix it up?”
“Generally, no.”
She leaned forward. “I don’t understand. If you were interested in Wild Rose Cottage, why didn’t you make an offer when it was for sale?”
“Wild Rose Cottage?” Trent repeated, staring at her as if she was batty.
It wasn’t a new experience to Emily, but this time it bothered her more than usual. Maybe it was the other, less defined emotions in his eyes that were getting to her. It was almost as if he’d been reminded of something both pleasant and deeply disturbing. On the other hand, he was hardly a touchy-feely sort of guy, so she might be projecting her own reactions onto him—she’d always had an active imagination.
“That’s my name for the house,” she said, lifting her chin. “There are wild roses growing everywhere. Someone must have loved them. There are even wild roses etched on the glass in the front door. Anyway, supposedly I was the only interested buyer.”
“I didn’t have time to learn it was for sale. The property was on the market for less than forty-eight hours,”
