Starting Over on Blackberry Lane--A Romance Novel

by Sheila Roberts

  He had, but surely she didn’t think...

  “I need a new roof.”

  In a day. Yeah, right. Not even if he had a whole crew.

  The third woman in the trio, a cute little redhead, held up her right hand, which was in a cast. “I fell off a ladder. I need my house painted.”

  “Your whole house?” Did these women think he had superpowers?

  “Okay, one room?”

  “That’s probably doable.” He turned to the blonde. “How about you?”

  “My living room and dining room are completely torn up,” she said. “My husband is... Well, he has a problem finishing things.”

  Oh, boy. Grant knew the type, the guy who thought carpentry and home remodeling was easy—until he got in over his head.

  “My house is a disaster,” the blonde continued. “I wanted a great room and instead I have a curtain hanging between what used to be the dining and living rooms. My master bathroom is missing a tub and I’m losing my mind. You’ll be saving my marriage.”

  “Ladies, I can’t do all that in one day.” Surely he was stating the obvious.

  “We know,” said the blonde. “We were hoping we could work something out with you, maybe get a group discount? We’re desperate,” she added.

  No kidding. He looked over at Cass. Her situation seemed the most urgent.

  “I do need a roof,” she said. “I’m hoping you could at least fix the parts that are in the worst shape.”

  That was no way to do a job right and Grant said as much.

  Her hopeful smile fell away like a loose shingle.

  “But let me take a look at it.”

  The smile came back. The lady had a nice smile. Nice curves, too. He liked a woman with a little bit of flesh on her. Lou had been curvy.

  The thought of his wife made it difficult to smile.

  Suddenly anxious to escape the social squeeze and hide in his room at Gerhardt’s Gasthaus with a beer and a movie on demand, he cleared his throat and got down to business. “I’ll tell you what. Write down your phone numbers and I’ll make an appointment to meet with each of you. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll give you an estimate.”

  Cass beamed and both of the younger women breathed a thank-you. They were all looking at him as if he was a god, and he could already see the writing on the wall. Someone was going to come out of this a real winner. Three someones, in fact, and he would not be one of them.

  Chapter Seven

  At the Raise the Roof fundraiser Grant had been swarmed by women all wanting his services. Some, he suspected, were hoping for services that fell outside the handyman range. The woman who called herself Priscilla had eyed him like he was steak on a platter, and he wasn’t anxious to follow up with her. A few women, though, genuinely needed help, several of them widowed or old with husbands who weren’t able to swing a hammer anymore. It looked like he was going to have plenty of business in Icicle Falls.

  But the first order of business was to help the three women who’d bid on him. He’d arranged to meet Griffin James around one in the afternoon, as she’d said she had to work in the morning.

  Pulling up in front of the old Craftsman, he saw a lot of potential in the place. The outside of the house was thirsty for paint but the bones were good. The yard had been mowed and Shasta daisies were starting to make their appearance in the flower beds. A lilac bush stood guard over one corner of the house and made Grant think of his grandmother’s farmhouse. A tired-looking old Honda Civic was parked in the driveway. You couldn’t always tell a person’s financial health by the age of his or her car, but judging from Griffin’s age, Grant could safely deduce that she wasn’t a millionaire hiding her wealth behind a worn set of wheels.

  She answered the door wearing jeans, a green top and the cast on her arm. She was cute, with freckles and that long strawberry blond hair, and she had a girl-next-door kind of smile that said Yes, you guessed it, I really am nice. Too bad his son hadn’t met someone like her instead of Miss Wrong.

  “Thank you so much for coming over today,” she said as she let him in.

  “No need to thank me. It was your money that went for a good cause.”

  “Um, about the money. I know we only got you for a day but...”

  “We’re going to see what we can work out,” he assured her. They walked into the living room and he saw the half-painted walls, plus the drop cloth, paint can and ladder camping at one end.

  “Hardly anything would need to be done if I hadn’t fallen off the ladder and broken my wrist.” She frowned at the ladder as if it had deliberately bucked her off. Then she sighed. “I was hoping to get everything painted right away so I could put the house up for sale, but I have to admit, I’m a little afraid to get back on that ladder again.”

  “Maybe not such a good idea. So, you’re moving?”

  “I think so.”

  Interesting answer. “Where are you going?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m hoping to move to New York.”

  He nodded as he tried to picture this woman in the big city, striding purposefully down the street. Somehow she seemed more suited to a small-town setting. It was easier to imagine her sitting on the front porch, sipping lemonade, or teaching a class of second graders.

  “What’s in New York?”

  “Big magazines and ad accounts. I’m a food photographer.”

  “Ah. So those pictures of hamburgers I see on billboards?”

  “Were made by a food photographer. Not me, though. Not yet.”

  “Every time I drive by one of those billboards, I want a burger,” he confessed.

  “The food in those pictures is nothing you’d want to eat,” she said. “Often the hamburgers get colored with a mixture of gravy color and clear liquid dish soap to make them look better.”

  “Now, that’s disillusioning.”

  “I guess it’s no different than Photoshopping models to make them look better. When we take pictures of food we try to make it look as appetizing as possible so people will want to eat it.”

  Wanting to eat food had never been a problem for him. “Well, you learn something new every day,” he said. “You still able to take pictures with that hand?”

  “It’s a little awkward,” she admitted. “But I’m managing. I’m sure glad I didn’t break both hands, though.”

  It was always nice to meet someone who could look on the bright side.

  “So, how long do you think this will take?”

  “I can do your living room pretty fast.”

  “That would be great,” she said eagerly. Then, not quite so eagerly, “What about the rest of the house?”

  Griffin James was frantically counting costs. He could almost feel the anxiety coming off her. “What do you need done most?”

  “Everything,” she said with a frown. “The outside for sure, and I have two bedrooms.” She chewed on her lip.

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “I have a step on the back porch that needs to be fixed. My fiancé—” She stopped herself. “It didn’t get fixed.”

  “Your fiancé isn’t a handyman?”

  Her fair skin went from cream to tomato in a blink. “Um, my fiancé isn’t. Period. We broke up.”

  That would explain the move. Leaving the scene of the crime and going off someplace new to start over. Grant acknowledged this with a nod and then said, “Let’s go check out that broken step.”

  She led him to the back of the house and through the kitchen. Not bad, but it could use a remodel. The porch was swaybacked and one stair was hanging like a loose tooth needing to be pulled. There was a tidy little backyard, though. It was already a nice place; some sprucing up would make it shine.

  “A lot of potential here,” Grant observed.

 
“My real-estate agent thinks it’ll sell pretty quickly if I can get it in shape.” She looked at him hopefully. “Can you help me, Mr. Masters?”

  “Grant,” he corrected her. “Yeah, I can. But I’m not sure how fast I can get all of this done. Did you have a time frame in mind?”

  “The agent did say summer’s the best time to put a house on the market, so I was hoping to do that in June.”

  They were already into May. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Now she was looking anxious again. “How much will all this cost?”

  The kid had just broken up with her fiancé. She was obviously trying to find her footing. He quoted her an insanely lowball price.

  Even at that she gulped but nodded gamely.

  “If you can’t afford it, we can let it go at fixing the back porch step and painting the living room and the bedrooms.”

  “No, no. I need to do the outside, too. My parents will lend me the money.”

  Okay, she had parents. She had help. But he still felt...guilty. “Tell you what. We’ll work something out.”

  She smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem,” he said. He had money in the bank. He could afford to be generous. Anyway, he wasn’t doing this to get rich. He was doing it for something to do. He didn’t need to make a lot.

  You won’t make anything if you turn every customer into a charity case, he warned himself.

  He’d get tougher. He was, after all, a businessman. He set up a loose schedule with Griffin, then went to Cass Wilkes’s house later that day.

  Cass had just gotten off work and was wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt, which informed him that bakers do it in the kitchen. Doing it anywhere sounded pretty darned good to him. It had been way too long. She wasn’t wearing a hairnet, but her hair looked like she’d recently taken one off. Brown hair, no highlights. Unlike the other night, she was in her natural state, and she still had a smudge of flour on one cheek.

  That cheek was rather rosy at the moment. “I must be running late,” she said.

  “I’m a little early. Sorry.”

  “I’m a mess.” She raised a hand to her hair and fluffed it. Chin length, pretty. “But hey, I match my house.”

  There was something refreshing about a woman who could get messy. Lou had always been perfectly put together, and between manicures and pedicures, clothes and whatever they did at hair salons, she’d spent a small fortune. He’d thought she was pretty no matter what, and it had seemed like a waste to him. He really hadn’t cared if her hair had highlights or if her toenails were pink. But he’d always complimented her anyway. It made her happy. And making her happy had made him happy.

  “No worries,” he said to Cass. “I think you look fine.”

  She smiled and shook her head at him. “With flattery like that, you’re really going to be in demand.” She paused. “So I imagine you need to go up on my roof?”

  “I’m sure my son did a great patch job, but, yes, I want to check it out.”

  “I’ve got a ladder in the garage.”

  As she walked past him to lead the way, he caught a whiff of vanilla. It brought back memories of his mom baking his birthday cake every year. Of Lou in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of chocolate-chip cookies for the boys.

  The thought of cookies was quickly replaced by other thoughts as he followed Cass into the garage. She had a nice ass. Being single, a man lost out on a lot of benefits.

  She’s not for you, he reminded himself. He didn’t need to be taking up with someone who was almost young enough to be his daughter. He pulled his gaze away from her well-rounded bottom.

  She was ready to help him carry out the ladder, but he assured her he could handle it. She nodded and let him do his thing on the roof. It didn’t take more than a cursory check to see that, yes, indeed, the woman needed a new roof, just as his son had said.

  He came back down and entered the house to find her missing. “Uh, Cass?” he called.

  She appeared at the head of the stairs. Still wearing the same clothes but she’d put on some lipstick and brushed her hair. And the flour was missing from her cheek. “You might have told me I had flour on my face,” she said with another smile. Yep, he remembered that smile. She had a little extra weight around the middle, but when you were a baker that probably went with the territory. Lou had gotten a little round herself, starting in her midforties. He hadn’t minded. It shows you’re enjoying life, he used to tell her.

  With her ready smile, Cass Wilkes looked as if she enjoyed life, too. “So, what’s the verdict?” she asked, reminding him why he was there. “As if I don’t know.”

  “Dan was right. You need a whole new roof. Metal would be best.”

  “So I hear, but way too expensive.”

  “Okay, then composite. They have some good stuff out there now.”

  “Obviously you can’t do this in one day.”

  “Afraid not, but if I get Dan to help me, we can do it fairly quickly.”

  “I guess you’d better give me a quote. Hopefully, it’ll be less than thirty thousand.”

  “I can get under that. Dan mentioned you also have a deck in need of repair.”

  “I’m not sure I can afford to replace both my deck and my roof,” she said. The smile was disappearing fast. “Kids in college.”

  She had kids. That meant she had an ex. Was she footing the bill alone?

  Was it any of his business? “Let’s go look at the deck anyway,” he suggested.

  With all that rotting wood, the deck was termite heaven, and not really safe to use. “I think you’d better replace this as of yesterday.”

  Now she was frowning.

  “I’ll give you a twofer,” he said impulsively.

  She looked hopeful, then guilty. “I can’t do that to you. This is your business. You need to make a profit.”

  Yes, you do, agreed the businessman in him. “I’ll make a profit,” he said. If he did it would be a miracle, but this woman needed help.

  Her relieved expression made him feel like a hero. That feeling is priceless, he told his hard-nosed self.

  He threw out a lowball estimate and she happily caught it. “Are you sure this shouldn’t be costing me more?” she asked.

  “Remember you did win me for a day.”

  “I won you for a third of a day.”

  “We’ll make it all work,” he promised her.

  “I might wind up owing you cookies for life,” she said.

  “I like the sound of that.” Could he put in a request for chocolate chip?

  “I’ll put you on the same plan as your son.”

  “All right. Meanwhile, I’ll order your roofing materials.”

  “Thanks. It really will be good to have this done,” she said. “I don’t want my ceiling crashing in again. And I’m more than willing to pay fair market price. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  His baser self could think of all kinds of ways for her to take advantage of him. He told himself to quit being a letch. “No worries.”

  He started for the door and she walked with him. Part of him was inclined to stay a little longer, visit some more. But to what purpose?

  You don’t need a trophy wife and you sure don’t need to be seducing younger women. Don’t piss in your own pool.

  That again. He sighed inwardly, said goodbye to Cass and headed for Stefanie Stahl’s place.

  * * *

  Cass watched from the window as Grant Masters walked down the street to Stef’s. I don’t want to take advantage of you. Who was she kidding when she’d said that? She’d take advantage of him in a heartbeat. The man was too gorgeous for her own good. And what was it about a man in jeans and work boots? He’d had on a shirt, but
it was unbuttoned, worn over a plain gray T-shirt that lovingly hugged his pecs...something she was sure she’d have no trouble doing.

  “Oh, stop,” she scolded herself. As if a hot man like Grant Masters would ever be interested in a chunky baker. She needed to get a grip on reality and quit thinking about getting a grip on Grant Masters.

  If only she’d had time to shower and change into a nicer outfit. Okay, she didn’t exactly have a closetful of power suits or drawers full of sexy camisoles, but she could at least have changed out of her baking grubbies and into clean jeans and a pretty top. She’d done a quick toothbrushing while he was on the roof and put on some lipstick, dragged a brush through her hair. But that was all she’d had time for.

  Anyway, would more makeup and a cute top have made that much difference? Of course not, she scoffed, not with a man who looked like a movie star—literally—and could have any woman he wanted.

  Still, she was sure that at one point he’d been checking out her boobs.

  No, idiot. He was probably reading your stupid T-shirt.

  Ugh, why had she worn that today?

  She took a shower and slipped into her favorite sweats and yet another T-shirt. This one said Bakers Have Nice Buns. (There was a clear case of false advertising!) Good Lord, she had to tell Dot to stop giving her these goofy T-shirts every Christmas.

  She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Was it her imagination or was this shirt fitting a little more tightly? She couldn’t use the old it-shrank-in-the-wash excuse, because the thing had been washed multiple times. Obviously, she didn’t have a shrinkage problem. Quite the opposite.

  Her cell phone rang, Dot calling to see if she wanted to pop over to Zelda’s for dinner.

  “Sure,” she said. She’d order a salad.

  Good idea. Salad for dinner...for the rest of her life.

  Would it help?

  Chapter Eight

  Grant’s final appointment was with Stefanie Stahl. He got to her house as she was pulling her car into the driveway, her little boy in the backseat. She waved, lowered the window and called out that she’d be right with him, then drove into the garage, the door shutting after her. He stood on the walkway for a moment, taking in the house. It was an old Victorian that had recently been painted. A small bicycle leaned precariously against the front porch and a softball lay in the yard, which was ready for a mowing. In short, the Stahl house seemed to be a typical young family’s home. Looking at it from the outside, you’d never suspect it wouldn’t look as good on the inside.