by Linda Seed
“It is under control, isn’t it?” Martina asked.
“Well …”
“Bianca!”
“Look. I didn’t know it was going to be so hard to manage a pediatric practice while being pregnant. I thought … you know, I’d just go about my life while being pregnant. How hard could that be? But I spent the first trimester hurling, and then the second trimester was all about getting caught up on the stuff I let slide during the first trimester.”
“But—”
“And now,” Bianca went on as though Martina hadn’t spoken, “I’ve got to get the nursery ready, and buy a car seat and a crib, and oh, God, I’m so tired, Martina, so tired, because I’m already the size of a cement truck and I can’t find a comfortable sleeping position.”
“So, what you’re saying is that it’s not under control,” Martina said dryly.
“And I’m supposed to be maid of honor!” Bianca said. “Which means I’ve got to write a speech, and the baby’s going to be due about five minutes after the wedding, which means I’ll be huge and my dress probably won’t fit, and my water will probably break during the reception. I don’t want to let Sofia down, but … it’s just a lot.”
Martina’s tone softened. “Oh, Bianca. Why didn’t you say something before? We’d have pitched in. We’d have—”
“I’m saying something now. I need you to pitch in.”
Martina was sitting on the edge of her bed, getting ready to change out of her work clothes and into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She sighed and slipped off her shoes. “Of course I’ll do it. I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Thank you, Martina. You know you’re my favorite sister.”
“Last week, Sofia was your favorite sister.” Martina propped her foot up on the edge of the bed and massaged her toes; she’d been standing in heels much of the day, and her feet ached.
“Then it’s really good you’ve got an edge on her now.” Bianca already sounded perkier. “Seriously, thank you.”
“No problem. Just let me know what you’ve got done on it so far.”
Silence.
“I see,” Martina said.
“Favorite sister,” Bianca reminded her.
When she’d finished the phone call and was dressed in her comfortable home-for-the-night clothes, Martina made herself a cup of herbal tea and got settled at the kitchen table with her laptop to check the real estate listings.
Martina had been in the habit of checking the real estate websites since long before she’d decided to get her own place. It was relevant to her career as an interior designer, and anyway, she just loved houses—their spaces, their stories, their vast, unknowable potential.
The Cambria listings were usually a mixed bag of beachside behemoths, midrange single-family homes, and eccentric cabins.
When she called up the new listing in the Lodge Hill neighborhood, at first she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Initially, she thought it was a vacant lot because the main photo was of a grassy space dotted with towering pines, with no structure in sight.
On closer inspection, she saw there was a house—if you could call it that. Amid a gallery of twenty photos of the land—a glorious, riotous mix of wildflowers, trees, and native plants too numerous to list—was one photo of the house itself. Mid-century modern in style, the building was an oddly shaped structure with sharp angles and lots of glass, some of it broken. The front deck looked as though it had collapsed in places.
Martina squinted at the photo, suddenly recognizing the house.
She scrolled down to read the Realtor’s text and gasped in shock and dismay.
All it takes is a little imagination!
A gorgeous half acre with water permit, available to build on immediately. Structure is a teardown, but this spectacular piece of land is the perfect place to put the house of your dreams! Call listing agent Riley Whittaker for details.
“Oh, my God!” Martina put her hand over her mouth, staring at her computer screen.
“What?” Benny, who’d gotten home ten minutes earlier, was walking past on her way to the refrigerator. “Did Gwyneth Paltrow say we’re supposed to put something weird in our vaginas again?”
“Look at this.” Martina spun her laptop around on the table so Benny could see it.
Benny bent to look at the screen, peering at the photo displayed there.
“It’s a house,” she said.
“Yes.”
“A crappy house,” Benny went on.
“It’s the Hall house!” Martina exclaimed with some indignation. How could her sister not recognize it? Of course, Benny tended not to notice anything that didn’t have gills and fins.
Benny looked at the picture and made a face. “If you’d said ‘hell house,’ that would have made more sense.”
“Maxwell Hall!” Martina raised her voice as though an increase in volume would help Benny to know what she was talking about. “He was one of the most noted architects of the mid twentieth century! He built that house and lived in it for twenty years, from 1952 to 1972. And now they’re advertising it as a teardown!”
The pure idiocy of that had Martina sputtering with indignation. Why would anyone want to destroy a Maxwell Hall house? And that didn’t even touch on the fact that the house had been built to minimize its interference with the natural world around it, to blend in with its surroundings. What was likely to go in its place? A five-bedroom monstrosity with a three-car garage and a hot tub?
What about the oaks and pines that coexisted peacefully with the existing house? Would they be cut down to make way for some rich person’s weekend getaway? What about the squirrels and deer and wild turkeys that roamed the parcel, grazing and foraging peacefully? What about the wildflowers that dotted the landscape?
Benny shrugged and continued on her way to find something to eat for dinner. “Maybe it won’t even sell,” she said.
Martina didn’t respond, but she knew her sister was wrong. It would sell. Cambria had been in the grips of a severe drought until the rains of the past few years had ended it. As a result, the county wasn’t allowing any new residential water service and hadn’t for decades. If someone wanted to build a new house in Cambria, they either had to tear another one down or buy someone else’s water permit at a cost of $200,000 or more.
A reasonably low-cost teardown—especially one on a good-sized lot—would be snapped up in no time.
“I have to do something about this,” Martina said.
“Do something about what?” Sofia had come in the front door just in time to hear the last sentence of the conversation. She hung her purse on a hook just inside the door and came into the kitchen.
“The Maxwell Hall house on Lodge Hill is up for sale. They’re advertising it as a teardown. Which is just … just …” She searched for a word. “Just criminal!”
Sofia looked at Martina and then at Benny. “Am I supposed to know who Maxwell Hall is? Because it’s been a long day, and I’m so tired I’m not even sure who you two are.”
She opened the refrigerator, took out a half-full bottle of chardonnay, and poured herself a glass. Then she turned to Martina, her hip leaning against the kitchen counter. “Wait. Is this that place off Pierce that’s been falling apart for decades?”
“Yes!” Martina was gratified that at least Sofia had some idea what she was talking about.
Sofia grimaced at the memory of the place, much as Benny had when she’d looked at the photo. “I’d think tearing that place down would be a good thing. It’s a safety hazard. I don’t even think it’s habitable.”
“It’s not. But that’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” Benny asked.
Martina snapped her laptop closed. “The point is, I’m going to save that house.”
She just didn’t know how she would do it, or if anyone besides her would care when she did.
8
Chris had expected fireworks when he sent the message through Margaret
that he and Alexis were through. He’d expected yelling, fighting. He’d expected her to throw around obscenities, possibly some that questioned his parentage.
What he hadn’t expected was to hear nothing at all.
Margaret had left the day he’d told her to go. A few days later, she’d contacted him to inquire about boxing and shipping Alexis’s things to her new address in San Francisco.
Her new address. She wasn’t at the condo anymore, and the address Margaret gave him wasn’t her parents’ place, either. Had she already found a place of her own, in this real estate market?
Curious, and more than a little bit suspicious, he had Googled the address and learned it belonged to a mutual acquaintance—a male acquaintance—whom Chris and Alexis had met at a charity ball a couple of months earlier.
The woman worked fast.
Or maybe she didn’t—maybe she’d had it in the works for a while. Maybe she’d already been seeing the guy, and that was why she hadn’t wanted to leave San Jose.
The man’s net worth wasn’t as high as Chris’s, but it had to be pretty damned high. There was no way Alexis would be with him otherwise.
He knew it without a doubt—knew Alexis was only in it for the lifestyle—and that made him feel like an ass. Why had he wasted his time with someone who only saw him as a meal ticket? And why had he done the same thing with other women over and over again?
It was worth thinking about—probably in a therapist’s office. But for now, he needed to take some time to adjust to his new reality.
Living in his cavernous house with only himself and his thoughts proved to be more than he could handle.
Since he’d sold his company, he didn’t have anything to fill his time. And his own thoughts weren’t nearly interesting enough to prevent him from succumbing to a deep, gnawing loneliness.
He was wandering around the place one morning, alone, thinking about his next move and whether he should return to his condo, when Martina Russo called him.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. It was midmorning, with bright light filtering through the windows of the library. He hadn’t gotten dressed yet—he was barefoot, wearing only a pair of pajama pants.
“No bother. What’s up?” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin—he hadn’t bothered to shave lately—then tucked his free hand into his armpit as though he might be able to keep it safe there.
“It’s just … I wondered where we stood on the remodel. You said you’d be in touch, but I haven’t heard back, and I have to work on my schedule for the coming month, so …”
Shit. The remodel. In the turmoil of his current life, he’d forgotten about it.
“Ah. Of course. I’m sorry I haven’t called.” On top of everything else, he’d inconvenienced Martina, who’d only been doing her job. He’d need to get an invoice from her, pay for her time so far, apologize profusely …
“That’s perfectly fine,” she said. “But I do need to know whether you’re planning to go forward.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say no. To ask her what he owed her, then add a hefty bonus to compensate her for her trouble. But was that really what he wanted to do? He hadn’t changed Cooper House much since he’d bought it. He’d never made it his own. Wasn’t it time to do that? And anyway, the silence around here was about to drive him mad. A remodel would mean people, noise, activity.
And maybe even Martina making him cups of herbal tea.
“Of course we’re going forward,” he said. “When can you come over to get back to work? And … bring your contractor. We’re going to have to start from scratch.”
The mood at Cooper House was considerably different when Martina and Noah returned a couple of days later. For one thing, it was quieter, because Chris and Alexis weren’t yelling at each other and throwing things.
Alexis wasn’t there at all, in fact. Neither was Margaret, her hyperefficient assistant.
“So, will we be working with Margaret today?” Martina asked when they first arrived.
“No, just me.” Chris smiled, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
“Oh. Really.” Martina hadn’t expected that answer, and it had thrown her off.
“Sure. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. It’s just … you didn’t seem all that interested in the details before.”
“Things have changed,” he said mildly. “Shall we get started?”
Chris walked her and Noah through the main rooms of the house, asking questions and making comments while Martina took notes.
“This kitchen looks like it belongs in a restaurant,” he told her as they looked over the stainless steel countertops, the professional-quality appliances, the gigantic refrigerator. “I’d prefer one that looks like it belongs in a house.”
Martina assessed the room with a critical eye. “Well, the size and the functionality certainly would come in handy if you were holding a big event. A catered dinner, maybe, or—”
“I don’t plan to hold any big events.”
No, clearly he didn’t. She’d be surprised if he ever had anyone here at all, other than girlfriends. She walked around the room, looking at the shape of the space, the structure.
“I’m thinking this room was originally half the size,” she said. “A smaller kitchen would have been more common in an original Victorian. A previous owner probably expanded it into a neighboring room, probably for a professional kitchen staff.”
Noah pointed out a beam in the ceiling and said it likely had been the dividing point between rooms.
“What would it have looked like originally?” Chris asked. “In a typical house of this type, I mean.”
“Here. I’ll show you.” Martina set her messenger bag on the counter, got out her laptop, and opened it. She did a search, clicked on a photo, and turned the laptop so he could see the screen. “See? The room would typically be fairly good size, but nothing like this one. A lot of the elements weren’t very practical—you’d want modern appliances, obviously—but there are ways to make the room feel authentic while preserving functionality.”
“Okay. Like what?” He leaned against the counter, his legs crossed at the ankles, watching her with interest.
“Well, we could take out this cabinetry here and add an antique farmhouse table.” She motioned toward the area where the table would be. “We can install a farmhouse sink here, and some open shelving here. If this were an authentic Victorian kitchen, the flooring would probably be linoleum. Of course, you don’t want that. I’d suggest a natural stone tile for durability as well as a period look.”
She went on, telling him about the wonders of crown moldings, cabinetry with rich wood finishes, appliances hidden behind wood panels, and options for countertops—she suggested a mix of butcher block, matte zinc, and stone to mimic the look of mix-and-match furniture.
Now and then, she asked Noah questions about what was practical from a construction standpoint, and he grunted his answers.
“Do you cook much?” she asked Chris.
“Not much.” He shrugged. “But coming into this room has always made me feel like I was sneaking into a hotel kitchen. Like the chef was going to chase me out any minute.” He looked around thoughtfully. “I like your ideas. Let’s start here. We’ll do the kitchen, then we’ll see about what comes next.”
By the time Martina had taken photographs and measurements and had consulted with Noah on the practicalities of plumbing placement, lighting fixtures, and the possible moving of walls, she was feeling excited and energized. The idea of restoring this place—or, at least, one room of it—to something resembling its original spirit was more than she’d hoped for, especially after the blowup between Chris and Alexis. She couldn’t wait to dive in.
Noah left by late morning. He had to get to another job site, and Martina had gotten the information from him that she needed. Now she had to draw up an initial schematic design with her ideas about the layout, finishes, and furniture for Chris’s approval.
>
She was sitting at the kitchen counter happily taking notes when Chris, who had retreated from the room more than an hour ago to let her work, poked his head in the doorway.
“How’s it coming along?” he asked.
“It’s great. I’m just about done for today. I can’t wait to have my way with your kitchen.”
He gave her a mischievous grin and said, “Is that right?” in a way that made the whole thing sound dirty. She wasn’t entirely sure she objected.
“Let me just finish my notes and I’ll be out of your hair,” she said.
“Okay, sure. No rush.” He lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching her. “Or …”
“Or?”
“Or, I could buy you lunch. As a way of apologizing for the rough start I put you through here.”
Lunch? He wanted to buy her lunch? That was unexpected. There was something vulnerable in his face as he waited for her answer, something that told her he needed her to say yes. Alexis was clearly gone, and he was lonely after the breakup, that was all. He needed to talk to someone.
“All right.”
His face brightened in a way she found heartbreaking. “Really? Great. Should we take my car?”
9
Martina had thought his car would be something showy—a Tesla, maybe, or a red Ferrari. She hadn’t expected a car that was considerably older than she was, and certainly not one that growled uncomfortably when it ran, as though it were begging for mercy.
“This is your car?” As they stood inside one of the two three-car garages at Cooper House, she gaped at the oxidized aqua blue paint job, the primer, the small dent in the hood of Chris’s 1965 Mustang.
“One of them, yeah.” He beamed with pride as he looked at it. “I keep it here in Cambria for when I’m visiting, but Alexis wouldn’t ride in it, so I had to sneak in time with it whenever I could. I guess that’s not an issue anymore.” He opened the passenger side door for her—it made a grinding screech—and she got in.
