“I drove by a few times. Your old landlord told me you were the tenant. I knew it would be an easy property to manage. It was going for a great price and I didn’t want to chance losing it. When I called and inquired about the property, I made an offer to the seller. I think he was grateful to be rid of it.”
You knew I was the tenant and didn’t say anything to me about it? Our offices were in the same building. How hard would it have been for Dylan to call me or even drop by my office at Harshberger to talk about it?
He walked across the wooden floors and peered through the large picture windows. Several of the panes still had the original handblown glass. “It has charm. It’s one of the centennial homes in town. I always wanted to restore an old house like this.”
Becky picked up Gigabyte from the floor and perched on the sofa. “Have you restored a house before?”
He swallowed. “No.”
Becky arched a white-blonde eyebrow at me. I cleared my throat. “It will be nice to have a landlord in town when problems come up.”
Becky squinted at me. “Timothy has always fixed everything around the house.” She hopped off the sofa. “My brother works on the house when he can. He’s the best carpenter in town, and now, he’s starting his own contracting business.”
Dylan unbuttoned his coat. “I’ll keep that in mind in case I need any help.”
“I want to give the tour,” Becky piped up. “That way I can show him all the good work Timothy’s done. You may not have noticed, but Timothy completely rebuilt the front porch of the house. When we first moved in, the porch was a mess. The floorboards were warped and the support beams swung back and forth.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s start in the kitchen.”
Dylan allowed Becky to lead him into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet under the sink. “See here. Timothy replaced the garbage disposal and the pipes.”
He bent at the waist for a closer look. When he straightened up, he voice was stiff. “How much does Timothy charge for all these improvement? The previous owner didn’t tell me he authorized any home improvements.”
Becky didn’t give me a chance to answer. “He doesn’t charge anything. He uses materials that he has left over from jobs and his labor is free. We’re family.”
Dylan’s jaw twitched. “That might be all well and good for you, but did he research the historical accuracy of the pipe and latches he installed?”
“I doubt it.” I tucked one of the kitchen chairs under the table. “We were more concerned with making the house livable than historically accurate.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Becky, please show me the rest of the improvements.”
Becky guided him through the rest of the downstairs and led him to the second floor. Inside my bedroom she said, “He replaced the latch on Chloe’s window.” She demonstrated how to use the brass latch, which was most definitely not historically accurate. Becky pointed her thumb at the other window. “The other one doesn’t open yet. Someone painted it shut. Timothy’s going to fix that next.”
“Hmm.” Dylan sounded wary.
“You girls ready to go?” Timothy called from downstairs.
Becky abandoned the window and headed for the door. “That’s my brother now.” Timothy stepped into the room just as she reached the doorway. The siblings nearly collided.
Timothy held her by the shoulders. “Where’s the fire?” He pulled up short when he saw Dylan standing next to me. “Am I interrupting something?”
Becky wiggled out of her older brother’s grasp. “This is Dylan. He’s our new landlord, and he also works with Chloe at the college.” She shot Dylan an apologetic smile. “I forgot what you teach.”
“Biology,” Dylan answered.
Timothy pursed his lips. “I thought your landlord lived in Cincinnati.”
“He does—did. Dylan recently bought the house,” I said.
Dylan held out his hand and Timothy shook it. “Dylan Tanner. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Becky continued. “I showed him all the great work you’ve done on the house.”
“I noticed you didn’t use appropriate fixtures during repairs.” Dylan smiled stiffly.
“I used what was available,” Timothy said.
“That’s admirable,” Dylan adjusted his glasses. “However, your Amish techniques aren’t in keeping with the period of the house.”
Timothy’s eyebrows shot way up. “My Amish techniques?”
“You are Amish, aren’t you? That’s what I’ve been told.”
Timothy’s lip curled. “By who?”
Becky jumped in. “Timothy and I grew up Amish but we have both left the church.”
Dylan nodded as if that confirmed something for him. “From here on out, please don’t make any more changes to the house without my authorization.”
Timothy crossed his arms. “Your authorization?”
“I’m planning to restore this house to its original grandeur, using only historically accurate materials. A charming centennial home like this can sell for three times what I paid for it after restoration.”
“You’re going to flip it,” Timothy said.
Dylan fiddled with a button on his coat. “I prefer the term restore.”
Becky looked from the biology professor to her brother. “But we live here.”
“I’m not asking you to move,” Dylan assured her. “Your lease is still valid. However when I do sell the home, you will have to move.”
“How long will this take?” I asked. “How extensive will the restoration be?”
He waved away my questions. “We will settle all of that in time.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Timothy shook his head. “I’ve worked on Appleseed Creek houses for years. Most people in town don’t have the kind of money you want for this house, and you will price it right out of the neighborhood.”
Irritation flashed across Dylan’s face. “All I need is one buyer.” He brushed his hands on his jeans. “I’d better get going. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Chloe.”
“If you have time, I can show you the rest of the rooms on this floor,” Becky said.
Dylan paused, then nodded. “I have a few more minutes.” He followed her out of the room.
Timothy pushed my bedroom door nearly closed. He spoke quietly, as if half-listening to the tour going on down the hall. “How well do you know that guy?”
“He’s the chair of the biology department at Harshberger. Our offices are in the same academic building, so I’ve run into him on campus. I don’t know him more than to say hello.”
“Isn’t he too young to be working at Harshberger?”
“I’m younger than he is. What is he . . . thirty?”
“You’re different. You’re super smart.”
I hid a smile. “Timothy, most of the folks working at Harshberger are super smart. It’s a college after all.” I locked the latch on the window Becky had opened.
“Did you know he was your landlord?”
“No, it was a surprise when he dropped by today. The previous owner was supposed to send a letter notifying me of the change. You know how great communication is with him.”
“How do you know if it’s true?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you know this guy really bought the house? Did he show proof of the sale?”
I frowned. “I didn’t think to ask him. Why would he lie about it?”
Timothy paused, as if considering his answer.
Becky called up the stairs. “Chloe, Dylan’s leaving. Do you want to come down and say goodbye?”
I poked my head out of my bedroom door. “I’m coming.” To Timothy, I said, “You have a point. I’ll ask him now.”
Downstairs, Dylan buttoned his coat. “Thank
s for showing me around. Becky, you were a superb tour guide.”
My face grew hot. “Dylan, I should have asked you this when you first arrived, but do you have a document that proves you’re the owner of the house?”
Dylan’s eyes cut over to Timothy as if he suspected where this question originated.
Timothy held his gaze.
“I do.” He reached into his coat pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the promissory note with my bank.”
I read the note over. It looked legit to me. Timothy leaned over my shoulder in order to read it, his warm breath brushing the top of my head.
“When will you begin restoration?” Timothy asked as I refolded the paper and handed it to Dylan.
Dylan replaced the paper in his pocket. “I want to start right away.” He nodded to Becky and me. “I’ll be in touch, ladies.”
Becky walked him to his car.
Timothy gripped the back of the armchair. “I don’t like that guy working on the house while you two are here.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It will be nice to have a landlord in town, and with the expansion of your business, you can’t be wasting your time on this creaky old house.”
“I don’t consider it a waste of time.” He sighed. “Even more, I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
My brow shot up. “How does he look at me?”
“The way I do.”
If I didn’t know better, I would say Timothy Troyer was jealous.
Chapter Four
Timothy turned into the entrance of Young’s Flea Market. In front of the market was a large Amish restaurant called Young’s Family Kitchen. It was the domain of Ellie Young, an Amish widow in her late sixties. Ellie had run the restaurant and flea market with the help of her sons since her husband died more than twenty years ago. Young’s was a main tourist draw to Knox County, attracting visitors from all over Ohio who were interested in a great deal and a slice of Ellie’s famous pie.
Normally, dozens of automobiles and Amish buggies crowded Young’s massive parking lot, but today, there were only two cars in the lot and a handful of Amish buggies. The snow stopped for the time being, but the temperature steadily dropped as dusk fell over the county. The horses stood sentinel at the hitching posts with dark-colored blankets on their backs to protect them from the worst of the cold.
Timothy parked, and I placed my hand on the door handle. “It seems late in the year to be doing construction.”
Timothy pulled a green stocking cap down over his ears. “The outdoor market closed for the season at the end of October. We have to finish the project while the market is closed. I want to get all the walls up before the weather gets worse. Unfortunately, winter’s early this year.” He opened his door. “We’re here a little early, so let’s go over to the job site, and I can show you around.”
We climbed out of the truck. Becky shivered. She wore jeans, her faux Ugg boots, and teal ski jacket. “It’s too cold to be outside. I’m going inside the warm restaurant.”
Timothy shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His eyes twinkled when his gaze met mine. My stomach did a little flip. I wasn’t sure what Timothy and I were to each other, but I knew we cared for one another. I knew there wasn’t anyone I’d rather spend time with and suspected he felt the same. Not knowing for certain, however, made me edgy.
There was one complication: I wasn’t Amish. Neither was Timothy anymore, but I doubted his austere father would want his son to marry an English woman who was so far from their roots. Like me. I was a computer geek, a city girl, and the product of a broken family. In his father’s eye, if Timothy wouldn’t marry an Amish girl, a Mennonite would be a much better choice. Hannah Hilty came to mind.
Becky ran toward the restaurant and disappeared through the “Staff Only” kitchen door. Timothy skirted the truck and took my hand, leading me away from the restaurant to the three pavilions behind it. Our fingers intertwined.
Business could not be better for the Young family. To take advantage of their success, they decided to enclose the three pavilions that house the outdoor flea market. This way, the market could be open all year long. Timothy was the main contractor on the project. Although he had been a skilled and sought-after carpenter in Knox and its surrounding counties for years, this would be the first time he tried his hand at running the entire operation. If he was successful, the Young job would catapult him to a whole new level in his career. I knew he was nervous about managing all the subcontractors, plumbers, drywallers, foundation workers, and carpenters, who were both Amish and English.
Timothy subcontracted electricians too. Even though the restaurant and flea market were run by an Old Order Amish family, electricity was allowed because it was a place of business. Home was different for the members of the district. All the lights and appliances in community members’ houses ran on natural gas or propane.
Timothy led me to the second pavilion. He pushed away the plastic sheet that covered the entrance. The door hadn’t been put into place yet. “Watch where you step,” he warned. “Most of the guys are careful, but there may be a stray nail on the ground.”
The floor was slab cement. Orange electric cords and clear air hoses snaked across the floor. The seams in the drywall were still visible. Clear tarps protected us from wind where doors and windows would be. The pavilion stretched the length and width of a basketball court.
Timothy released my hand. “For the most part, this is going to be an empty space with large windows to let the natural light in. The Young family will rent it to any number of vendors as they did before when it was open air, but now it will be open year-round. They will be able to extend rental leases for space and increase their prices. I don’t think they plan to increase the rental price too much, but whatever it is, vendors will be willing to pay. In this county, there aren’t other places like this where Amish can reach so many tourists. Englischers love to spend their money here.”
I knew that. When I first moved to Appleseed Creek, I bought most of the furniture for my new house at Young’s.
He smiled. “For the most part, vendors will bring their own wares to sell and their own tables and booths to display them. If they don’t have the tables or booths, the Youngs will rent those to them along with the space. The pavilions will have central heating but no air-conditioning. It’s too expensive, and the bishop put his foot down on that one.”
“The restaurant is air-conditioned, and all of the downtown Amish shops are too. What’s the difference?”
Timothy shrugged.
“What have you been working on in here?”
“I’ve been crafting the permanent booths for the produce and farmer stands. These Amish farmers will have a prime spot in the market.” He stepped onto a raised platform and stood beside a wooden structure that came up to his chest. “We’re going to stick a refrigerator unit in here to sell cheese and meats. I’m building the frame.”
A huge contraption the shape and size of a lawn mower sat on the platform. “What’s that?”
“An air-compressed nail gun. The carpenters helping me on the project are Amish and won’t use an electric-powered one. This one is powered by diesel.” He flipped on the switch, and the machine came to life. It sounded like an ill air-conditioning unit. He waved me up on the platform.
Since my legs were shorter than his, he gave me a hand up. “We’re going to add some steps,” he assured me. “You should make your mark on the pavilion too. You were the one to convince me to take this project after all.” He picked up the nail gun and pointed it inches from the last nail. “I can show you how to use it.”
“When am I ever going to need to know how to use a nail gun?” I teased.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You never know when a lesson like this will come in handy. We can finish this row of nails.”
He held the gun out to me. Tentatively, I took it. It was much heavier than I’d thought it would be, roughly the weight of a dictionary, and my hand dipped under the unexpected heaviness. Timothy covered my hands with his and steadied my wrist. He guided the gun to the wood. In my ear, over the gun’s air compressor, he said, “We’ll hammer in five more nails, four inches apart.”
I nodded, trying to concentrate on the nail gun instead of how close he was to me.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The air compression drove the nails into the wood.
“Perfect,” Timothy said as he removed the gun from my hand and turned off the air compressor.
My hand ached from squeezing the trigger, and I suddenly felt a chill without him next to me. I ran my hand over the new nail heads in the plywood. “Computers are overrated,” I said, feeling unreasonably proud of my work. “Maybe I should consider carpentry.”
He laughed. “Maybe so.”
I closed my eyes, imagining Timothy’s vision for the place. In my mind, I saw the sunlight coming in through the windows and the English visitors from the city buying fresh produce and quilts from Amish men and women. “It’s going to be great when it’s done.” I opened my eyes and found Timothy watching me with a particular expression on his face. Was that the expression he thought Dylan wore when looking at me earlier that afternoon?
I shivered.
Timothy hopped onto the platform. “Are you cold?”
I pulled my cotton gloves from my pocket. “I think it’s colder in here than it is outside.”
Timothy placed my small hands between his two larger ones. He rubbed his palms back and forth over my hands, his rough calluses scratching my skin. Warmth flowed into the small muscles of my knuckles and fingers.
His blue eyes were soft. “Better?”
I couldn’t speak.
A gruff voice disrupted the moment. “Who’s in here?”
Timothy dropped my hands, and suddenly my fingers were freezing again.
Near the door a portion of the plastic tarp moved and a large Amish man stepped into the work area. “Timothy? What are you doing in here? The site is closed on Sunday.” He was at least six feet tall and had a long, brown, wiry beard that fell to the second button of his black wool overcoat. He wore a black stocking cap and wire-rimmed glasses instead of a broad-brimmed felt hat. As the weather got colder, more of the Amish men in town were trading their felt hats for stocking caps.
Appleseed Creek Trilogy, Books 1-3 Page 31
