Blueprints

by Barbara Delinsky

  She made a sputtering sound. “I’m feeling incompetent about too many things, but I can load a dishwasher.” She went at it while he cleared the table. “This dishwasher looks brand-new.”

  “The old one died last month, but it was time.” He piled glasses and utensils beside the sink. “The hot water tank is up next, and in another year, a new heating system. I want to green up the place. Appliances today are energy efficient.”

  After standing the last of the plates on the bottom rack, she pulled out the top. “But expensive.”

  “I have the money. I just have to decide whether to stay here or move.”

  The glasses were easily loaded. As she reached for the forks, Jamie-of-the-sleek-white-condo surprised herself by asking, “Why would you move?”

  “I grew up in this house. I worry I’ll grow old here. I moved back when Buddy was born, because Williston is a great place to raise kids, and my parents wanted to leave. My sisters were both living away, so the house was here. But change is good. I keep an eye on the local market. When I hear of a place up for sale, I look.”

  Jamie envied him this house. Even all these years later, she felt tension when she thought of her childhood home. Then, unbidden, came the image of her grandmother’s Victorian lace. She had always felt connected to it, all the more so after Caroline sold the big house and settled into her own. That lace was a relic of Jamie’s past. She wished she had more.

  “You’d leave these memories?” she asked Chip now.

  “To make room for new ones, yeah. To start fresh. There are times when I feel like I’m hiding.”

  “From?”

  He frowned, seeming unsure for the first time. The eyes he raised held vulnerability. “Myself. My future. Taking a chance. Being able to handle a challenge without going off the deep end.”

  “You can handle it.”

  “You didn’t know me before.”

  “I see you now.” She also saw herself in that instant, felt priorities shifting. Forget being an architect. Forget starring in reality TV. “Raising a child alone has to be the greatest change in the world, and you haven’t gone off the deep end. You can handle a new house.”

  His lips twitched. “Says the woman who could sell me one.”

  “Who could design you one.”

  “Well,” he sighed, “it’s still hypothetical. I haven’t seen anything great yet. The good news is that I did well when I went pro, so when I do, I can act. My dad insisted I bank half of what I earned. The money’s grown.”

  Squirting soap on a scrubber, Jamie worked on the casserole dish. “I could tell you about land that’s just been snatched up by our competitors, but I do not want you dealing with the Barths. Whether you move to a new place or renovate this one, MacAfee Homes is a better choice.”

  “I take it the Barths are your rivals?”

  “Lately, yes. It’s a game to see which of us can sniff out houses first and preempt a sale.”

  “Who’s winning?”

  She stopped scrubbing to look up. He was leaning against the counter on the other side of the dishwasher, all dark hair, blue eyes, and amused mouth.

  “It’s not funny,” she said. “They’ve scored lately. That’s not good for us.”

  “You’ll come back.”

  “I hope so. Williston is a transitional town. It has a huge inventory of old houses ripe for renovation or teardown. There are cycles. Every five years, a different neighborhood starts to change hands. Yours is probably on the cusp. If you wanted to stay,” she coaxed as she rinsed the casserole dish, “I could draw you some nice plans.”

  His mouth quirked. “I’ll bet you could.”

  “I’m good.” She held out the dish.

  He took it and began to dry. “I know you are.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “You’re humoring me, Chip.”

  “It’s Charlie. And I’m not.” He paused. Looking away, he opened his mouth, flexed his jaw, closed his mouth. Then, setting down the dry dish, he looked at her again, and in that instant, with humor gone, everything changed. “I have a problem,” he said in a low voice. Intense blue eyes held hers, slowly falling to her mouth, then her breasts, before rising again. Everywhere they touched, she felt singed.

  She didn’t move, couldn’t move.

  Catching her left hand, he fingered her engagement ring. “I don’t date much, Jamie. I haven’t wanted to since Buddy was born, but I’m thinking about you a lot. I need you to tell me to stop.”

  She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe, her hand burned so, and the burning inside was even worse.

  “Tell me to stop, Jamie.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, because she had never, ever felt what she did now, and she couldn’t think with him near.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until she was back in the car on the way home with Tad that she realized there wasn’t much to think about. That was when terror set in.

  seventeen

  Six had come and gone when Caroline finally finished her meetings and went down the hall to see Dean. He sat with a mess of open folders at one of three desks in the general contractors’ office. Wearing thin-framed glasses, he was poring over what she knew were either subcontractor bills or supply invoices. Using a pencil to keep track, he darted her a glance over the glasses, then returned and made several notes.

  Caroline liked seeing him this way. It was a different side of him. Perversely, she liked the glasses. They made him look his age.

  Sinking into one of two chairs facing the desk, she put her elbows on its arms and exhaled.

  He tossed the glasses aside. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am. How can four hours in an office do what eight at a worksite cannot?”

  “Was it tough with the Realtors?”

  She shot him a dry look. “Is Dana ever any other way? She had a chip on her shoulder from the get-go because of the time. She didn’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic, even though she lives in Boston and does a reverse commute. We couldn’t meet earlier, because Linda had a closing, but our only other option was waiting until next week, which I didn’t want to do.”

  Linda Marshall, Caroline’s friend from the nail shop, lived in Williston. With four children who were not only attending local schools but were involved in every sport, she was in a prime position to know what was happening in town before it happened, and she had agreed to work with MacAfee Homes in that regard. Caroline had sold Theo on the idea of hiring her, but with the stipulation that she sell the idea to Dana; hence today’s meeting.

  “Dana isn’t happy,” she told Dean now. “No matter how vehement Linda was about not wanting to touch the buyer side, Dana just didn’t want to hear. She likes things the way they are and doesn’t see any need for change.”

  “Did she come around?”

  “Grudgingly. Not that I care if she up and leaves the company. My gut says Linda is worth it. She just gave me tips on two houses we may be able to buy.” She slid a piece of paper his way. Coming forward, he put on his glasses to study it.

  “Interesting,” he said, then, “Good. I’ll check them out in the morning.”

  Dean was vital to a preemptive buy. With a quick look, he could tell how much a property was worth and what MacAfee Homes would have to spend in order to turn it around and sell it for more. His instinct rarely disappointed—which was why Caroline refused to begin to discuss the country house he had bought. That one was doomed.

  Removing the glasses, he sat back again.

  “I like those specs,” she taunted, knowing he hated them enough to wear them only when his eyes were tired, but she was tired, too, and the country house was a bad move.

  “You would,” he said, undaunted. “Has she picked up chatter on the Weymouth place?”

  “Only vague speculation.”

  “That’s the land we want.”

  “Oh yeah.” Caroline closed her eyes. “I dream of developing it for Gut It! We
could have three seasons right there—a continuing saga. We’ve never done that. It’d be great from a marketing angle.” Opening her eyes, she saw reality in Dean’s sympathetic expression. “Not that I’ll be around for that, and if I am, they shouldn’t listen to me anyway. I’m no marketer, which is why my interviewing marketing candidates for Theo was pointless.” Just prior to the Realtors’ meeting, she had spent time with three potential replacements for Roy.

  ”Not pointless,” Dean argued. “You have years of experience working with marketing.”

  “With Roy. By comparison, none of the people I met today felt right—and trust me, I wanted to think one of them, at least, would be better than him.” Weary and confused, she sighed. “I’m no executive.”

  “Theo is grooming you to take over.”

  “You think?” She did, too. It only added to her stress. “I shouldn’t be here, Dean. This isn’t my job to do. Yes, I can do it. Yes, I can handle people. But I’m so much better with wood.” Wood was easy to nail down, and being nailed down was what her life lacked right now. Without Jamie to love, Gut It! to anticipate, even Roy to resent, she was feeling adrift—all that even before factoring in what she was or was not with Dean. “Lately I’ve been a little of this and a little of that, but not a lot of any one thing. So who am I?”

  At first, he said nothing. She knew he was thinking of Jamie—could see it in the planes of his face. To hear him tell it, all it would take was a phone call on one of their parts. But it wasn’t that easy. She had said it a dozen times and wouldn’t say it again.

  Seeming to sense the extent of her frustration, he began pushing papers into folders and folders into a pile. “Go home, Caro,” he said as he stood and scooped everything into the ratty canvas messenger bag he had been using for as long as she’d known him. “I’ll pick you up there in an hour.” He put the strap on his shoulder. “Wear jeans.”

  And oh, she knew what that meant. “No, thanks. I don’t want to ride on the bike.”

  “Too old?” he taunted, standing right before her now.

  She looked up. “Too smart.”

  “What if I promise to go slow?”

  “On a big, burly new Harley?” She snorted her disbelief.

  “What if I promise to grill us some fish?”

  That stopped her. “What kind?”

  “Whatever kind I can get at the market.”

  “I want trout,” she said.

  “Would that make things better?”

  She was about to say that nothing would when he took her face with his free hand, lowered his head, and kissed her. She was so taken off guard that she couldn’t push him away, and then so curious that she didn’t want to. His mouth was firm but fluid, controlling the kiss—and then gone. He raised his head and, while intense eyes held hers, dropped his hand.

  “How about that? Did it help or hurt?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. It was too short.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Good to know.” Throwing an arm over her shoulder, he walked her to the door.

  * * *

  Caroline showered, put on dark green jeans with a sleeveless blouse in a matching green and orange plaid, and took care to tack her hair up in a way that might survive a helmet, because she was sure that despite her objections Dean would be on the bike—and she wouldn’t refuse it. She needed an escape, maybe even needed danger or risk. He must have known that, which possibly explained why he had kissed her at that moment, in that way. The kiss was actually better than expected, not because she didn’t find Dean physically appealing, but because she had always found kisses either too tame, as in closed-mouth and dull, or a slobbering mess. Dean’s kiss had fallen somewhere in the middle—aggressive enough without invading. She hadn’t felt violated. And as for being too short, that was perhaps why it had been good—as in, quitting while he was ahead.

  Now what? He had taken his time making his first move. She wondered if he had anything planned for tonight. She assumed he would be taking her back to his place, a doddering A-frame several towns over that he was rebuilding and would sell for a profit when it was done. In the meanwhile, he had a grill on the back lawn and plenty of grass.

  Last time, he’d done a mixed grill, steak for him, chicken for her. She liked the idea of trout. But the physical stuff? Not so sure about that. She had shaved for the sake of a sleeveless blouse, not Dean, and if she slathered on more body cream than usual, it was to counter motorcycle wind. She had also worn a bra, which on a warm night she might have foregone, but the blouse definitely looked better with lift.

  Waiting on the front steps, she was restless. Master soothed her by rubbing one ear and then the other back and forth against her leg. She loved this cat, loved all her cats. They didn’t care if her breasts sagged, her neck wasn’t smooth, or her hand had an age spot.

  Master’s purr grew louder.

  No, not Master. Dean’s Harley.

  Lifting the cat, she put him in the house, checked to make sure her phone was in a pocket, and locked up. She was midway down the front walk when the big machine arrived with its helmeted driver on board. His jacket was black, his belt wide, his jeans faded, his boots old. He silenced the bike, kicked down the stand, and climbed off. Setting his helmet on the handlebar, he came at her with a spare one, along with a jacket from the saddlebag.

  She felt an alarming excitement, so much so that she might have turned and run if he hadn’t already reached her. “The jacket’s lightweight,” he said, “but you need leather on your arms.” He rolled the helmet on her front to back, pulled the strap tight, and, with a large hand spread, jiggled it to make sure it was snug. With the face shield still raised, he brought his eyes level with hers. “You okay in there?”

  She was terrified, and not of the bike, not even of how tough and male Dean looked with his dark hair mussed from the helmet and his hazel eyes direct. What terrified her was the buzz in her own body. Again she thought about turning and running, but it was really too late for that now.

  “This smells new,” she said of the helmet.

  “It is. I got red to go with your hair.” She might have said red could easily clash with auburn, if he hadn’t already been holding the jacket open like a gentleman, then zipping it before she could do it herself. The jacket was snug, bringing his fingers straight up her torso, but they didn’t stray, just did their job and left.

  Taunting, yes—but sweet, too. He made her feel like he was taking care of her, and, given that the weight of the world was on her shoulders, being taken care of was nice. He lowered her face shield, then turned and, after putting on his own helmet, straddled the bike. When he extended a hand, she took it and swung her leg over the back.

  Too old? She’d be damned if she was that. She knew the moves, knew to put her Chucks on the foot pegs and her hands on his hips, knew to lean into corners with him and use her thighs to hold her in place. True to his word, he didn’t speed—at least not until they passed through the center of Williston and hit open road, and even then she wasn’t bothered. His body protected her from the force of the wind, and the Harley was surprisingly smooth. Imagining that the weight on her shoulders was lighter for the sheer unreality of the moment, she let him do his thing—until she realized that they were headed in the wrong direction.

  She tapped him on the shoulder. He slowed fractionally and tipped his head.

  “Where are we going?” she yelled.

  “My house,” came the muffled reply, followed by a resurgence of speed, and all at once she knew exactly where they were going, because there was only one house that Dean owned in the boonies.

  Sure enough, he turned off the main road onto a side road, then again onto a rutted drive, and here the Harley wasn’t so smooth. By the time it stopped, he had gone up a steep incline, and she was holding the back of his belt for dear life.

  Riding on a rush of adrenaline and relief, she climbed off and removed the helmet. Her hair spilled free, its band God knew where, but she
was too gripped by the house to care. It had the bones of a Victorian, but where her own spoke of age and charm, this one reeked of the dead. She had thought it spooky when he had first brought her here, and nothing she saw now changed her mind. This late in the day, with the sun low in the west, the house was all shadowed angles and peeling paint.

  Dean traded her helmet for a bottle of wine. Taking two grocery bags from the Harley’s trunk, he showed her up the side steps. He had gutted the kitchen, which was some improvement from the graveyard of broken-down appliances that had taken up space here before. In their place against the wall was a cluster of tools. A large worktable sat in the middle of the room. He set the bottle and bags there, then clicked on a single bare blub.

  Wondering how he was going to pull off grilled trout, she folded her arms. Yes, she felt smug, because the how of it was not her worry. She was a guest. Since she was against this purchase, nothing here was her fault. She had zero responsibility.

  Seeming off-balanced by her docility, Dean said in a tentative voice, “The grill’s outside. And a table and lanterns.”

  She nodded.

  He added quickly, “Just so you know, I had a geologic analysis done to pinpoint where to dig the new well to avoid rust, and the zoning board is granting an exemption from conservation land use. Rollers are coming next week to level the road.” He frowned, tapped his forehead.

  “Carpenter ants,” she cued.

  He straightened a finger. “Right. There were two nests. We destroyed them and treated everything nearby. I’ve already replaced the infected wood.”

  “Well, then,” she said lightly, “you’re all set.”

  He remained visibly wary. “You’re still mad I bought it.”

  She had to laugh. “I’m actually not.” She had seen enough gutted kitchens to be able to picture this one rebuilt, though she wasn’t telling him that. Nor was she telling him that he was adorable when he was nervous, or that she felt removed from the world here. “I’m just tired and hungry and wondering if you’re seriously going to be able to produce an edible meal.”

  That quickly, he grinned. “Just watch.”