Hometown Series Box Set

by Kirsten Fullmer

  Tara wished she had more experience with men. Were all of them so confusing? She needed some kind of a plan, because working this way was impossible. She couldn’t keep arguing with him in front of the crew. How would they get the job done when they could never get completely through a conversation without something stupid or crazy happening?

  Maybe he’d be able to sit down and talk if they had a moderator, like Winnie. The old woman knew the business. If anybody could talk some sense into Justin, it was Winnie.

  She twisted her hair back into a loose bun and pulled the band around it twice. Standing, she brushed off her butt and headed back toward the house. As she passed the house, she saw Justin and some of the crew tearing down the porch using a Bobcat tractor. The rotten wood fell away easily, and the job was more than half complete.

  As she neared her truck, two men came from the house carrying floorboards. They nodded at her as they laid them carefully in the bed of her truck.

  Her mouth fell open as she watched the demo proceed, just as she would have planned. Not wanting to interrupt, Tara pulled her cellphone from her pocket. She texted Justin to invite him to the house to discuss demolition and her stash of supplies, then she headed in to help with the floors.

  * * *

  Justin sat stiffly on a kitchen stool, watching Winnie pour him a glass of iced tea. Footsteps overhead reminded him that Tara was getting ready to shower.

  With a clink of ice cubes, Winnie placed the glass in front of him. “She’ll only be a minute, dear. She’d been painting and she was a mess.”

  The sound of water surging through pipes caused him to flinch as he lifted the glass to his lips. He hoped the older woman hadn’t noticed.

  Distant off-key singing of “I Want a Man with a Slow Hand,” trickled down to them through the floor boards, and Justin pinched his eyes shut.

  Winnie cleared her throat and adjusted her cup of tea. “So, Tara tells me you have started demolition on the house.”

  Thankful for the conversation prompt, Justin turned his attention to the old woman.

  “That’s right. We took the porch down today and got some of the floors removed. I hadn’t planned to save the boards, but I know Tara wanted them.”

  Winnie reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “She’ll appreciate that, I’m sure.”

  “It’s more than that, she made it clear that she wouldn’t use her supply for the resort if we didn’t restock it with salvaging from the house and barn. I hadn’t considered the drain on her supply and the future of her business. I was short sighted.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve been very busy.”

  “Truth is,” he interrupted, “I’ve never done business this way. I looked at time as money and didn’t consider the options. She has a whole different train of thought than I do.”

  Winnie tilted her head in contemplation and nodded.

  “She’s a big-picture thinker, from beginning to end. I didn’t give her half-enough credit. I’ve been an idiot.”

  “Now now…”

  The water overhead turned off and Justin tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. When he looked back to Winnie, color rose to his cheeks.

  She smiled and sipped from her teacup.

  Silence settled between them and finally footsteps pounded down the back stairs.

  “Oh, you’re here.”

  Justin stood and Tara regarded him thoughtfully, her eyes bright, and her hair long and damp, leaving wet marks on her worn T-shirt. Her skin glistened with moisture, her legs were tan and smooth, and her feet were bare on the wood floor. His eyes fastened on her bright-red toenail polish and he couldn’t tear them away.

  Tara glanced down and lifted one foot to hide it behind her calf.

  Justin cleared his throat and his gaze darted to her face and then to Winnie, who smiled serenely.

  Tara moved toward the island. “I’m glad you came, we need to talk about the resort.”

  He returned to his stool. “I agree.”

  Winnie pulled a stool and teacup to the end of the island, almost as if she planned to preside as judge.

  Tara reached for her bag and tugged out a sheaf of printed spreadsheets. She situated them on the counter.

  Justin could see her red toes wiggling from their perch on the bottom rung of the stool as she shuffled through the papers.

  Tara placed the pages in three piles. “Where do you want to start?”

  “What are the three piles?”

  She placed her palm on one stack. “This one is demo and salvage items. It may have to change now.”

  He nodded, fighting the need to apologize.

  “This sheet is the current supplies I own and believe we can use for construction – you saw part of it the other day.”

  He glanced to the third sheet, but she wasn’t done.

  “It doesn’t always work out like I plan – sometimes things just don’t fit or look right, so I’ve added an adjustment equation into the totals on the profit page.”

  He nodded.

  “This last sheet is for interior design. It includes furniture, art work, as well as stocking the kitchen, eatery, theater etc.” She pushed it toward Justin. “It doesn’t include paint or other decorating supplies that fall under ‘construction supplies to purchase.’”

  He shuffled through the pages, amazed at the sheer number of items listed and totaled. “This must have taken forever.”

  She shrugged. “Not so much. I have spreadsheets of my stock already laid out, based on style and condition. I just highlight what I want to use and import them into a new project spreadsheet. Of course, I need to clean them up a bit.”

  His head came up. “You must be a whiz with spreadsheets.”

  At the end of the counter, Winnie agreed.

  Tara shrugged. “I set them up in college as a project, for a grade. Killed two birds with one stone.”

  His eyes met hers and held for a moment before he tore his gaze away to scan the pages in his hand. Once again, he had underestimated her skills and business acumen. A thought occurred to him and he laid the sheets on the counter. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Okay.”

  “When I went to the courthouse, before I knew who you were, I noticed that you didn’t make much profit on the properties you’ve rehabbed. I don’t get it Tara. I know you do quality design and construction, and it’s not that you don’t understand the logistics or financial end. What happened? Why did you sell the properties so low?”

  Tara was taken aback to realize that he’d thought she was an inept idiot. At least he wasn’t so sure of that now. Her plan to convince him she was intelligent and capable was falling into place, but she wasn’t sure he’d appreciate her motivation. “I didn’t rehab them to make a profit.”

  He looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  She grimaced, choosing her words with care. “I saw a need in the community, to both save our beautiful old houses and to offer decent places to live. I love old homes – their character and charm, the things they’ve seen. Homes represent family and I’ve…”

  He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “I just wanted to help. It took me a while to collect enough salvage to be able to rehab a home without racking up costs, but I was determined not to be indebted to a bank or supply store. I wanted to pay cash and own the supplies I used, as much as possible anyway. It actually saves me a lot of stress and I don’t ever have to worry about people not paying me, because I don’t owe that payment to someone else.”

  He was beginning to understand, his expression one of dawning acceptance. “So, people can get home loans easier because the price of the house is low.”

  She shook her head. “I finance them.”

  His eyes opened wide with shock. “You mean all those people make payments to you?”

  “When they can. And if they can’t, the property is paid for and they can make it right when things get better.”

  “Make it right?” he asked
.

  “You met Mac, the plumber?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He started working for me because the coal mine closed and he didn’t have work. He couldn’t make his payments, but he knew about plumbing. He worked for me, and I helped him get his license.”

  Justin couldn’t for the life of him find a response. Four years of finance classes had not prepared him for someone like Tara. Her unselfish stance had made her a very wealthy woman, in so many ways.

  “Let’s talk about the project now, okay?” She squirmed on her stool.

  Justin spent the next few hours overlooking pages of supplies and reviewing profit and time schedules for the resort, but he was just beginning to grasp Tara as a person. Winnie must be very proud that her financial backing had been put to such good use.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Behind the warehouse, Tara put the truck in park and sat staring at the garage door. She’d spent so many days here painting furniture that the thought of even one more paintbrush made her sick to her stomach. Gripping the steering wheel, she laid her forehead on her hands, trying to summon the interest to rework ten tables. It just wasn’t there.

  She supposed she could spend the day sanding – that didn’t take much imagination. Climbing from the truck, she approached the warehouse. Her back ached and her hands stung with blisters. She stopped in front of the door and grimaced. She couldn’t do it. Her head hung and her fists clenched at her sides.

  Trudging back to her truck, she searched her purse for her phone and pulled up the maps app. There was a new picking hole she’d heard about from Becky; maybe today was the day to go check it out.

  As she headed down the highway, she hummed with the radio but within minutes, she bit her bottom lip. Picking was one of her all-time favorite things to do. Today, however, even the prospect of digging through piles of junk didn’t sound as fun as it usually would. The resort was on schedule, but the lack of control doubled her stress.

  The fact that Justin avoided her like the plague also had her tied in knots. Every time she got close to him, he’d nod hello or talk briefly about supplies, but his eye never met hers and he kept his distance. Not that she blamed him. She’d messed up practically every meeting they’d had. Between running or screaming or fainting, she’d covered the gambit of chasing away a man.

  He had seemed impressed with her business model and spreadsheets the day they’d met in her kitchen – as a matter of fact, the meeting had gone amazingly well. She just didn’t like how cool he was to her in general. She’d originally given him more credit than to judge a person based on their parents, but as days wore on, his disgust with her looked like a reality.

  What had he meant that day when he’d said he couldn’t “do this to her.” Do what? She finally wanted to get close to him and he wanted nothing to do with her. She had been as surprised as he was when she didn’t jerk away or run in fear. When it came to their personal relationship, it seemed no one had been driving the runaway train.

  Obviously, their working relationship was beyond her control as well. She was used to managing projects by herself and taking a step back so he could run construction was more than a struggle – it had been impossible.

  She’d been driving out to the work site each evening, after the crew left, to check on their progress. For the most part, she was happy with how the resort was progressing, but she longed to pull aside Steve and ask him how the framing was going, when the trusses would be delivered, or a million other details. She’d spent many late nights going through the thick roll of design drawings, double-checking each detail of the additions and remodel of the house. The barn theater and eatery were slated for concrete to arrive sometime next week, and her hair stood on end, because she didn’t know dates or times.

  She’d never relinquished control of a project to anyone, and it just didn’t sit well with her.

  She knew that she’d get her turn to lead when she took over the interiors. She’d be able to direct the overall look and feel of the place, but she felt immense pressure to have everything right. Not only for Muffy, but for Justin and the town, as a whole.

  Since she’d started this project, she’d felt as if everyone’s eyes were glued to her, waiting to see if she’d do right by them or betray their trust. She had to get this right. It was too big and too important to drop the ball. The thought of letting everyone down was more than she could bear.

  She might not be able to control the flow of work, but she could double-check all the details. If there were more hours in a day, that is. She’d been working on the interiors every day and spending nights reviewing construction. Exhaustion and worry were wearing her down, and the project was just getting started.

  What was she supposed to do, just let Justin take over? She shook her head. It didn’t seem possible – it was not in her DNA to step back.

  Why couldn’t she just allow Justin to do his job? She knew he was capable, and her crews were skilled in their crafts. She could find no solution to her dilemma. What was the missing piece? The thing that she needed was to understand the convoluted relationship between Justin and her. Should she just accept that he didn’t want her anymore? It seemed like the answer, but his gentle kiss, his regret and sadness didn’t support that theory.

  Steering with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other, she considered turning around and going home to sleep. Instead, she punched absently at radio buttons. She would just have to make peace with Justin and find a balance with work, or she wasn’t going to stay sane.

  Following the route on her phone, she turned off the road and bumped down a gravel drive that quickly turned to rutted dirt. The narrow lane had been neglected for years. Tree branches and bushes encroached from the sides and from above as she drove carefully forward.

  She rounded a corner and saw old trucks and busses hidden among the bushes, some with trees growing right up through the old automobiles. Further along, she saw shacks and lean -tos dotting the forest. Her old pickup truck barely fit between piles of rusting cars and trees. Finally, she stopped and pushed the gearshift into park, her eyes darting from pile to pile.

  Climbing from the truck, she stretched her arms and rubbed her aching lower back. The sound of a rifle cocking behind her sent a chill up her spine. She wasn’t too surprised, however – this happened on picks occasionally, but caution was definitely called for.

  A grizzled voice called out. “Don’t know who ya are and don’t care. Get off my property now.”

  Slowly, she turned but didn’t see anyone. Leaning to the left, she saw an old man in overalls, partially hidden behind a bush. His rifle dipped when he realized she was a woman, but his surprise didn’t change his mind and he jerked the barrel toward the road. “I said git!”

  “Are you Hyrum?” she asked evenly. “Becky Lathrop told me you might have some things to sell.”

  The rifle barrel dipped again. “You know Becky?”

  “Only since I was born.” She smiled and did her best to appear calm.

  Tara gave him a moment to consider his options, hoping he’d settle on one that didn’t involve the rifle.

  He regarded her for a long moment, his jaw working under his dirty, gray beard. Finally, he spat out the side of his mouth and lowered the rifle. “What kind of stuff you lookin’ to buy?”

  Tara relaxed – she was in. “I’m not sure what you’ve got. Can we chat for a minute?”

  He leaned the rifle against a tree and nodded once, then turned and sat on a stump.

  Tara picked her way toward him, a shack and fire pit coming into view. She pulled up a hunk of firewood and sat on it, taking in the piles of rusted machinery and trash. “You have a nice place here.”

  The old man grunted and spit.

  “Becky said you may have some wood trim in one of your buses.”

  He watched her through narrowed eyes. “I might. Then again, I might not.”

  She nodded. “How long have you been collecting?”

  He tilted
his head to one side. “My daddy collected fer years before I was born. I just took up where he left off.”

  “Do you mind if I look around?”

  He didn’t move or answer her, and she wondered if he’d heard her. Finally, he nodded one time; his jaw working under the beard.

  She smiled. “Appreciate it.” Pulling her work gloves from her back pocket, she bobbed her head in farewell and headed toward a rusted school bus. The door had long since disappeared, as well as most of the windows. She scrambled up the steps and leaned in. The bus was crammed full of car bumpers, grills, and hubcaps. Not a bad day’s pick but she was looking for wood trim. If she played her cards right, she’d be able to come back again and again.

  Moving to the next bus, she climbed in, batting at cobwebs, and moved several rotting boxes full of magazines. There was a method to the old man’s madness – she just had to find the right bus.

  Carefully picking her way along the well-worn walking track between buses, she passed one full of decaying bicycles and another with what looked like tractor parts hanging from the windows. She rounded the front of another bus and saw a path leading between the trees. Following the footpath, ducking under low hanging branches, she found herself in a small copse of trees that formed a circle about twenty feet in diameter. She gasped in pleasure, her hand coming to her chest.

  Wildflowers bloomed around the perimeter of the clearing, mingling color and texture. But the most amazing aspect of the place was the wind chimes hanging from every branch within reach, some as high off the ground as ten feet. Drifting into the circle, she reached up to touch one of the chimes made from bent and tarnished silver spoons. They clinked cheerfully at her touch, and a wide smile bloomed across her face. Slowly, she skirted the edge of the clearing, admiring the many chimes. Some were made from car parts, or pipes, others from household items. The chimes hung from a variety of rings and hoops with fishing line and colored thread. Many of them had obviously been hanging there for years, and some looked nearly new. A breeze picked up the chimes, causing them to dance and ring. Several sang with fairy-like voices, others rang with deep hollow bongs. Flower blooms bobbed in time with the wind gusts, dancing to the peals of the chimes. Tara felt as if she had entered an enchanted world.