by Mara Wells
Grandpa William had said “quaint.” He’d said “charming.” He’d said “original period details.” Caleb should’ve known real estate code for money pit when Grandpa William first said “fresh start,” something Caleb could really use after the chaotic, life-altering disappointments of the last two years but seriously doubted this old apartment complex could provide.
But he was here. Might as well take a look, even if Grandpa William’s plan was half-baked and, well, surprisingly sentimental. The surprise wasn’t that Grandpa William wanted to rebuild the family business but that his plan apparently also included rebuilding the family. Or at least the part of the family currently not serving time for fraud, embezzlement, and a slew of other state and federal crimes.
Caleb slammed the door of his carmine Porsche Boxster, then immediately patted the door handle apologetically. In the left-behind neighborhood not far enough south to be part of the upscale South Beach scene but not north enough to technically be part of North Beach, either, the Boxster was distinctly out of place on a block full of aged Volvos and family-oriented SUVs.
A coconut fell from a curbside palm tree, bouncing off the Porsche’s front bumper with a loud thump.
“Son of a—” Caleb kicked the coconut into the street and inspected the bumper and front grill. No visual damage. No chipped paint. He ran a hand over the area to be double sure then glared up at the offending palms when he felt the slightest indentation above the bumper. A half-dozen lawsuits-waiting-to-happen hung high above the sidewalk, ready to attack a vehicle or a litigious neighbor out for a power walk.
Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of manager on-site? Someone making sure the coco palms were trimmed regularly so that innocent bystanders weren’t thunked on the head by coconut bombs? Of course, it’d be terrible if someone were hurt—he’d read somewhere that falling coconuts killed more people than sharks—but at the very least, the manager should make sure the building wasn’t liable for injuries and damages.
Caleb thumbed through the notes on his phone until he found the name. Riley Carson. Hired a year and a half ago. His trained-from-the-cradle real estate developer’s eye took in the three boarded-over windows on the front of the old apartment complex, two stories high, and the peeling paint on the portico’s stepped columns. So far, not so good.
This Carson guy might think he could get away with collecting a paycheck from Grandpa William for doing nothing, but Caleb wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of his grandfather, not on his watch, and especially not now that he feared Grandpa William was growing soft—definitely in the emotions, but maybe it was impacting his business sense, too. With Caleb’s parents on frequent, prolonged business trips and his two older brothers striking out on their own, cutting ties with their father before Caleb was even in high school, Grandpa William was the one person he could count on.
Although the past two years had made Caleb question a lot of things about what it meant to be a Donovan, his love for his grandfather never wavered. The very least Caleb could do while scoping out Grandpa William’s claim that the crumbling apartment complex had “unlimited potential” as a condo conversion was to put the fear of God—or at least a fear of the Donovans—into this do-nothing building manager.
Caleb strode toward the double front doors, cutting across the front lawn that was more sand than grass. Okay, he admitted to seeing some potential. Install a bit of lush landscaping—a bougainvillea or two and a handful of traveler’s palms—and the curb appeal would improve one thousand percent. Above the arched front door, the name Dorothy stood out in relief, a pale reminder of how many buildings from the era were named after women. Original details, indeed.
“Well, Dorothy, I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Caleb stopped at the call box that was easily as old as he was and punched in the code Grandpa William’d given him. The box wheezed and the door locks clicked, but when he pulled on the handle, it didn’t open.
Fantastic. Not only did the place need a serious makeover, but the technology was both outdated and inoperable. He knew from viewing dozens of foreclosed properties that the possibilities for disaster were endless. But this wasn’t a foreclosure. It was Grandpa William’s secret weapon, a property his grandfather had separated from the company holdings before the authorities confiscated all of Donovan Real Estate Group’s assets.
“One property at a time,” Grandpa William had said last night over drinks on his deck overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. “That’s how you build a solid business.” Caleb had bought into the fantasy that he’d somehow restore the family name and bank accounts.
Now, Caleb wondered if he was being naive. He’d only done one thing in his life—follow in his father’s business footsteps. For good or for bad, real estate development, especially in the hospitality industry, was his specialty. Hotels, casinos, time-shares—that was the world he knew, and the one his father so carelessly lost with his less-than-legal approach to dealing with city officials and the IRS. Residential real estate wasn’t Caleb’s thing.
But things could change, even his things. They had to. Since the trial and his father’s subsequent conviction, he couldn’t rely on his father’s example anymore. Robert Donovan wasn’t the respected and powerful businessman he’d portrayed himself to be. He was a criminal. Caleb hadn’t believed it at first, not at the indictment, not at the beginning of the trial. Seeing was believing, though, and as the prosecution slowly and methodically convinced the jury of Robert’s guilt, Caleb became convinced, too, and he’d lain awake many nights after, cursing himself for his gullibility. His blind faith. He should’ve seen the fall coming, should’ve listened to his brothers’ numerous warnings over the years. But he hadn’t, and he’d lost the business right along with his father. Caleb fingered the metal key chain in the pocket of his pressed trousers, the keys his grandfather had tenderly handed over.
“Lots of good memories in that building.” Grandpa William wasn’t usually nostalgic, but he had a distinct gleam of tears in his sharp blue eyes. “Never could part with it. Figured I’d go back someday and make something of it. Now it’s your turn, Caleb. Rebuild. Make the family whole again.”
Grandpa William’s plan included Caleb’s half brothers and Caleb convincing them to work on this project with him for the good of the family. The family they’d wanted so little to do with that Knox joined the Marine Corps as soon as he was legally old enough to sign the paperwork himself, and Lance started his own construction company, refusing any jobs their father tried to send his way.
Somehow, though, Grandpa William had faith in Caleb, that he could do this. Rehab a building, reel his brothers back in, take the nightmare of the past few years, and turn it into some kind of American Dream fairy tale. It was unrealistic; Caleb had thought so when Grandpa William spelled out his terms, but now, looking at the run-down Dorothy, he wondered if it was downright delusional.
When Caleb’s father had argued that Caleb didn’t need college, that he could learn everything he needed on the job, it was Grandpa William who’d paid Caleb’s college expenses. Grandpa William who showed up at parents’ weekend, helped him deck out his dorm room, and was the only family member at his graduation. At the very least, Caleb owed him a walk-through.
He used the key to open the front door and stepped into the lobby. Original terrazzo floors, pockmarked and stained, would need to be restored. Rattan furniture circa 1970-something would have to be replaced and, judging by the mold growing on the cushions, possibly torched. He checked his phone again. The manager’s apartment number was 101. Mr. Carson was about to get an earful, for sure. Or maybe Caleb would simply fire him with no explanation. Florida was an at-will employment state, after all, and Mr. Carson shouldn’t need to be told that he was seriously derelict in his duties.
Caleb was about to take the right hallway, following the placard’s directions that apartments 101 to 108 were to the east, when straight ahead, a si
ngle elevator dinged. An older woman, white-haired and thin, pushed herself forward on a cheery yellow walker. She angled her path toward the five-foot-high bank of mailboxes against the lobby’s south wall. She wobbled as she walked, and when she held out the mailbox key, her hand wobbled, too. Wobbled so much the key shook right out of her hand and hit the floor. He rushed to her side, bending to pick up the key.
“Here you go, ma’am.” Caleb pressed it into her palm, glad that Grandpa William, though well into his seventies, was in good health. There’d been a scare a few years ago, right at the start of the legal troubles, but he’d pulled through. He walked with a cane—an intimidating hand-carved contraption with a silver handle specially molded to his hand and engraved with his initials—but he was still as headstrong and opinionated as ever. “Slippery things, those keys.”
The woman exhaled a labored breath, and for the first time, he saw the clear tubes snaking from her nose to a small oxygen tank mounted on her walker. “Aren’t you the gallant one? Thank you, young man.”
“No problem. You take care now.” It didn’t surprise him that a woman of her age lived in such a run-down building. It was a sad truth that those on limited retirement incomes often couldn’t afford any better. A rush of gratitude flooded him. Thank goodness Grandpa William separated his personal holdings from the Donovan business when he did so he could keep the home he’d custom-built over twenty years ago.
A high-pitched yip brought Caleb’s attention back to the elevator—not a cute Deco-style box with brass trim that would make a great selling point but a clunky 1970s-era contraption that, no surprise, clearly needed updating. A tiny dog, some color between orange and pink, dashed out of the ancient elevator before the doors stuttered to a close. The fuzz ball, no taller than eleven or twelve inches, turned dark eyes up to him and let out a soft woof.
“Ma’am?” Caleb called, and when the woman didn’t turn around, he tried again, louder. “Ma’am? Your dog?”
“That’s not my dog.” She angled her walker back toward the elevator, a few envelopes in her left hand. Her shoulders sloped dramatically in her faded housedress, and she leaned more heavily on the right side than the left. “Never had a dog. I’m a cat person myself. How about you, young man?” Even her smile was a bit crooked.
“I don’t have any pets.” Caleb slid his hands into his dark trouser pockets and rocked on his heels. “Never have. At least, not of my own.”
“Isn’t that a shame.” She shuffled a few steps forward before resting again. “Everyone needs a little unconditional love in their lives, don’t you think?”
Caleb straightened, her words hitting him almost as hard as Grandpa William’s “You owe it to your family to try.” He cleared his throat before saying, “I thought cats were too independent for that kind of sentiment.”
She blinked rheumy eyes at him. “No one loves more fiercely than an independent creature. It’s too bad you don’t know that yet.”
Caleb didn’t know what to say so he stuck with a safe “Yes, ma’am,” and she made a humming sound of agreement before continuing her slow progress toward the elevator.
Something soft and damp nuzzled against the tips of his fingers. He looked down and found the fluff ball gazing up at him with a clear—though to him, unreadable—plea. Guessing, he scratched behind her soft ears. She stood on her hind legs, placed her front paws on his thighs, and bounced. Mr. Pom-Pom—hey, he didn’t name his mother’s Pomeranian—used a similar move when he wanted to be picked up, so Caleb crouched down and scooped up the poodle. Her little heart beat fast against his hand, and her soft, springy fur curled around his fingers.
“LouLou!”
Caleb heard the frantic voice seconds before the stairwell door slammed open, and a young woman emerged, blond ponytail collapsing, sending wild curls springing every which way. She was tall, leggy, and long, with brown eyes that dominated her round face.
“Patty, have you seen my LouLou?” Barefoot, the blond rushed toward the woman with the walker. “I was just leaving Grams’ when the elevator dinged. You know how she is about the elevator.”
Patty smiled her crooked smile, scrunching up the wrinkles around her eyes. “She rode down with me. Such a sweet girl. You know I always enjoy her company, but right now, she’s enjoying someone else’s.”
“What do you—” The blond’s eyes caught on Caleb’s dark-brown Gucci loafers and traveled up his legs until they landed on her dog. Her brows pulled together, and she angled her face up, one hand to the base of her throat. “What’re you doing?”
Caleb wasn’t sure if the question was for him or the dog. Patty shuffled back to the elevator, leaving him alone with the poodle and her short-shorts-wearing owner. Suntanned legs and delicate bare feet with hot-pink nail polish. He’d never considered himself the type to have a foot fetish, but the flip-flop tan across the top of her foot was definitely turning him on—making him wonder what other tan lines she might have. But he was here for business, and he never let anything get in the way of business. Time to hand over the dog and be on his way to find and fire Mr. Carson.
He hesitated, though, strangely reluctant to let go of the dog or the view of that flip-flop tan line. LouLou’s warm body grew heavy, so he shifted the poodle into a more comfortable position and scratched under her chin. “LouLou’s a cute name. How old is she?”
“She’s a rescue so we’re not completely sure. The vet guessed around eight or nine years old.” Riley’s back pocket buzzed. She pulled out her phone, frowned at it, swiped, and tucked it away again. “Should’ve named her FloJo, though.”
“Is that a rapper name or something?” Caleb continued to pet LouLou, but apparently he wasn’t doing it exactly right. The poodle maneuvered her head so he could get behind her jaw.
“FloJo? Florence Griffith Joyner, the fastest woman of all time?” The woman laughed, a light and airy sound that hit him like a shot of his favorite sipping rum—straight to the gut. “My girl here loves to run. A bit too much, I’m afraid.”
“She’s a getaway artist, huh?” He didn’t usually chat up residents of buildings he was scoping out, but he was curious about her and her dog. When was the last time he’d been curious about anything? Anyone? When the judge’s gavel came down and his father’s sentence was announced, Caleb’s whole world had turned upside down. He’d been scrambling for so long to put things to rights that he’d forgotten what it was like to simply be, to have a conversation with a stranger for no other reason than she and her little dog interested him. The gentle smile he’d given the woman with the walker spread to a full-out grin. “An escapee? A dog dodger?”
She laughed again. “Indeed she is. Luckily, everyone in the building knows her. She rarely gets far.”
“This building?” Caleb didn’t care for the sound of that. Pets could do a lot of damage in a small space, especially in a situation where all the units were rentals. Owners fixed up their places before selling, but renters moved on. “I thought no pets were allowed.”
The blond flushed, turning almost as pink as the polish on her nails. “That’s what the lease says, for sure, but you can, you know, get special permission from the manager. In special circumstances. That are, you know, special.”
So pet damages were another thing Carson would have to answer for. The list of grievances grew by the second, and Caleb felt even more justified in his decision to fire the guy as soon as possible. But none of it was this woman’s fault.
“She seems like a special dog.” A special dog who didn’t live here. The woman was visiting; she’d said as much. Maybe her Grams had a cat or something. That was why she’d been flustered. Didn’t want to rat out her own Grams. He roughed the poodle’s fur and widened his smile.
She smiled back, and it did weird things to him, narrowing his focus until all he could see was her. The wide lips, the way her eyes tilted at the corners, the color still staining her cheeks.
Would she say yes if he suggested a coffee date? Drinks? Dinner? Her left hand darted up to tuck one of those wild curls behind her ear. No ring. What was her name? That was what he should ask first. Say something, say something. But nothing came out, and the silence grew longer and more difficult to break.
She licked her lips, drew in a deep breath. Maybe she’d ask his name. Ask him out. The dog squirmed in his arms as if even she knew someone needed to break the awkwardness.
“Come on, LouLou. Let’s go.” The woman reached for her dog.
Caleb knew he should hand her over, but then LouLou turned her head so he could dig in behind her ears, which he did. She grunted a doggy sigh of satisfaction and angled her head, encouraging him to scratch the other side.
“I’m sorry.” The woman sighed, too, so forcefully that a curl bounced on her cheek. “It’s a bit embarrassing how shameless she is. Her first owner must’ve been very affectionate. She’s sweet and well socialized. I can’t imagine anyone giving her up. But they did. In the cruelest way. People are terrible sometimes, you know?”
“They certainly are.” Caleb flashed to his last visit with his dad, separated by a pane of glass, surrounded by other inmates and vigilant guards. “Even people you think you know.”
Her surprised eyes locked with his. “Isn’t that the truth? Luckily, dogs are good through and through. All the way to the bone, you could say.”
Her optimistic words washed over him, soothing the tightness in his neck that never quite went away. The lilt of her accent sounded local but more musical than that of a typical South Floridian. She settled a hand on the dog’s back, just below the hot-pink collar. Their hands were an inch apart, then half an inch when she slipped her fingers under the band to give a good scratch. The poodle’s fluffy tail thumped double time against his arm.
What would it be like if he moved his hand that small distance to touch her? Although he kept up the steady pressure under LouLou’s ear, his mind wandered to how the woman’s skin would feel. As warm and soft as it looked? He was holding his hand very, very still, careful of her space, careful not to spook her, when Riley’s finger slipped from under the pink collar and brushed against his.
