by Olivia Miles
She pinched her lips. Went back to business. “A string quartet will be sitting there, off to the corner near the carriage house. A salty breeze blows in off the ocean, rustling the bride’s veil. Everyone watches on bated breath as they take their vows, right here, on this special property that the bride and groom have chosen as the place where the most sacred of—”
He couldn’t take another minute of this. “Okay, I get it,” he said, holding up a hand.
“It would be a beautiful wedding,” she urged him. “And the bride has dreamed of getting married here since she was a little girl.”
He pulled in a breath. Guilt wouldn’t work with him. He had enough of it weighing on him already.
“And I’d oversee everything” she said quickly. “Well, along with the other women I work with. You wouldn’t have to do anything. No work. No cleaning. You wouldn’t even know we were here.”
He shifted the weight on his feet. She was never going to sell him on this wedding. But he could be bought on her other suggestion. “The help you offered. How much of it are you offering?”
Her eyes sprung open. “Through the week! And the weekend! I can help with the estate sale, too. From now through Sunday, you can consider me completely at your service.”
“Fine,” he said, knowing that he would live to regret this but not seeing much choice. After all, it wasn’t like he would be here when the wedding took place. He’d be back in Boston. Back in his life. Away from this house and all the memories it stirred up.
“If you’ll just hear me out—Wait. Did you say yes? Did you say we could have the wedding here?”
He was going to regret this, he feared, but what choice did he have? He needed help, and she was offering it.
“You can have the wedding here. One wedding. But be prepared to pay for it,” he chuckled. “You won’t want to be getting that dress all dusty,” he said, pointing to the blue sundress she wore that hugged her curves and skimmed just above her knees, revealing long, smooth legs. He looked away, swallowing hard.
“You said yes! You said yes!” She whooped with delight, and, before he knew what was happening, flung her arms around his neck. He closed his eyes, for one brief moment, smelling honey and vanilla and feeling the silky whoosh of hair against his cheek.
Just as quickly, it was over. She pulled back. Her cheeks on fire. She was so close he could see the blueness of her eyes, the dusting of freckles on her nose.
“Sorry. I got carried away for a minute there.”
And so had he. He righted himself. Cleared his throat. Pushed back the swell in his chest that was a strange mix of longing and regret. “So I take it you agree to the arrangement then?”
She blinked several times. “Absolutely. I’ll help you fix this place up and we can use the space two weeks from Saturday for a wedding.”
“Deal.” He held out his hand, and she slipped hers into it. She had a good grip, but there was still something soft and smooth and a reminder that it had been a long time since he’d touched another woman, and never on this terrace.
He stiffened. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.”
She nodded. “Tomorrow morning.”
He should say this afternoon, seeing as the day was young and she could go home and change, but he needed to clear his head. Needed to get back to work. Tomorrow he’d be ready for her.
“Well, then.” He backed up, toward the house, wondering why he was suddenly looking so forward to tomorrow when he’d been dreading the thought of coming to this house every day this week. “Tomorrow.”
“You won’t regret this,” she said as she walked away, toward the side of the house. “I’m a hard worker.”
“I gathered that,” he said, laughing softly.
He was still smiling when he went back into the house, and before he could close the glass French doors of the conservatory, he heard a noise that made him jump so hard, he nearly took the handle off.
It wasn’t until he saw Sarah toss herself into a cartwheel that made her dress fly up just enough to reveal a peek of her thighs that he realized that the squeal had come from here, and not from that mouse that he was near certain he had heard scampering around in the attic.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Sarah woke to her alarm, grateful for the purpose to her day. It was taking everything in her not to pick up the phone and call Chloe and blurt the good news, but she didn’t want to jinx herself—or get ahead of herself, which she had been known to do. What if she showed up today and Chris decided he had changed his mind? It wouldn’t be the first time a man had done that to her.
No cynical talk, she told herself. After all, that was exactly what had landed her in this mess in the first place.
She put on jeans and a tank top and pulled her hair into a ponytail. She would have loved to slide into her cute pink suede flip-flops with the bow near the toe, but they weren’t very practical for deep cleaning, so she put on her gym shoes instead, reminding herself that it wasn’t like she needed to impress the guy or anything—it wasn’t a date. She was ready to roll up her sleeves, if she had any. So she was wearing a smidgen of lipstick. She deserved to look her best at all times, didn’t she?
Still, she fought back the excitement that filled her as she rode her bike to Crestview. It was just the excitement of scoring a win for Chloe and Hannah, she told herself. The relief of finding a reason to keep her job. The simple joy of seeing her friend have the wedding of her dreams.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the promise of a day spent in the company of a single, attractive man of the right age bracket. He was grumpy and stiff and so not her type.
And she was not even going to think about what Melanie would have to say about that.
“Hey.” Chris greeted her with a smile and held the door open for her to pass.
My, what a difference from the last time, she thought as she crossed the threshold into the incredibly dusty house. She sneezed. And then she sneezed again. Four times in a row.
Make that five.
Her eyes were watering. No doubt her mascara was starting to run. She knew she shouldn’t have worn any, but… But nothing. She was here to work. Physical labor! She was not here to flirt or even to hope to flirt.
Chris winced by way of apology. “I’m afraid the house has been abandoned for some time. I haven’t visited in a while, and my uncle was in Serenity Hills the last few years of his life.”
“My grandmother lives there.” Sarah subtly wiped the mascara from under her eyes. She sensed something ease in him, the tension pull from his face. Something in common then. “I’m surprised she never hit on him.”
He laughed in surprise. “What?”
Sarah shrugged, but she was smiling too. “My grandmother got a little man crazy for a while there. Last I checked, she’s still at it. She’s not very particular about age, so if you ever run into her, don’t be shocked if she asks you to marry her.”
His eyes gleamed with amusement but he just shook his head. “You don’t need to worry about that. I have no intention of ever marrying.”
And there it was. She didn’t know why she should feel the weight of disappointment settle in her chest, but it did, like the final nail, the harsh reminder of why she was in this predicament in the first place. She didn’t believe that she would find the one, and Melanie’s silly challenge wouldn’t change her mind. She didn’t meet any men who were looking for the same things that she was. And Chris was just one of the same. If she’d let herself, she could have fallen for him too, dared to hope and wish for things that weren’t on the table and would never materialize.
Really, how could Chloe blame her for bursting into work and saying that she’d given up?
“So, where should we start?” she asked. She’d left her handbag at home and she was happy that she had. There was nowhere to set anything. The floors were covered in a layer of dust nearly as thick as the light fixtures. From the rooms that she could see off the hall, most furniture was s
till covered in tarps. Paint seemed to be chipping from doorframes, and wallpaper was peeling in the corners. It was almost impossible to take in the beauty and scale of the place when the condition was so overwhelming.
“I’ve been going room by room,” Chris said. He ran a hand through his hair as he led her through the first floor. Sarah tried not to show her horror as they walked. The rugs were faded, no doubt the floorboards they covered were discolored as a result, and the crown molding was cracked where it met the ceiling.
“I used to spend my summers here, growing up,” Chris said. “I don’t remember it being in such bad shape then. I guess the last few years were difficult.” His eyes took on a hard look as he stared out the window, and she was starting to wonder if he wasn’t thinking about the condition of the house anymore.
“Do you have cleaning crews coming?” She had a bad feeling that because she even had to ask this, that the answer would be that he did not.
He tossed up his hands. “I’m told that their first available appointment is two weeks out.”
“But the estate sale is this weekend,” she said aloud. She chewed her thumbnail, then, remembering her manicure, dropped it.
“Thanks for the reminder,” he said, an edge to his tone. He looked around the room they were standing in now, one of the rooms that had a pile of tarps in the corner. Had he just planned to leave them there, in a dusty heap?
He looked lost, like a little boy who was told to clean his room and didn’t know where to start. Sarah believed that if he had a bed to stuff everything under right now, that he would do just that. And maybe he had. She hadn’t been upstairs yet.
To think there was another full floor of this house! She fought back a growing sense of panic.
This was for Hannah. And for her job.
“Well, I guess we’d better get started then,” she said, pulling in a shaky breath. Really, when she’d offered to help, she hadn’t realized just how bad of shape things were in. She’d been so set on her mission to sell her idea to him yesterday that she’d sort of glazed over the details of the house when she’d walked through it. Now she realized that he needed her help. Needed it badly.
And if this was what it took to get on good terms with her boss and give a friend the wedding of her dreams, then so be it.
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you’ve done so far and what we still have to do?”
She looked at him, waiting for a response, but he just gave her a bewildered shrug and said, “I’ve been pulling off tarps—”
“I see that.” Her eyes widened on the pile of them. “Do you have a dumpster we could take them to?”
“I missed the trash pickup,” he admitted sheepishly. “I wouldn’t have been ready in time anyway. I have a bulk pickup scheduled for this Friday.”
Well, that was something. Not much, but better than nothing.
“I’ve been dusting. Sorting through drawers. Cleaning out closets.”
Some progress then. And if they worked together, they could get things dusted and polished in time for Saturday. Still, this place had the potential to be something better. Something truly beautiful. And she wanted to help restore it to what it once was and could still be.
“And for the estate sale,” she said, trying not to allow herself to become as overwhelmed as Chris clearly was when her eyes homed in on a curio cabinet full of figurines, on wall after wall of paintings, and tables full of vases and statues. “Do you plan to put everything out?”
“Jeff McDowell suggested that the place would show better if it was cleared out a bit. Hence the reason for the sale. But I still think there’s too much here. Not everything will sell.”
She didn’t want to break it to him that he’d be lucky if a third of it sold. It was clearly a home that had been passed down through the generations, and collections had been added to it overtime.
“I think it would help if we took down some of the drapery. They’re difficult to clean and probably adding to the dust. It would let more light in too.” She eyed the thick, velvet panels that seemed to flank each window and darkened the rooms. While pretty, they were a sign of their times, and buyers would want to freshen the place up a bit. That would be a quick fix, something they could knock off their list in less than an hour, with any luck.
If they got past the missing shingles on the roof and the windows which were clearly original and probably did a poor job, if any, at insulation.
He nodded. “Good idea. I can take those down with a ladder. Someone might want to buy them?” He cut her a glance but the quick shake of her head shut down that idea right away.
“I’m happy to help sort things into piles for you. That way when the truck comes on Friday we can discard anything that you won’t keep or plan to sell.”
“There’s nothing I want to keep,” he said in a clipped tone, sharp enough to pull her attention away from the cobwebs that seemed to be climbing the ornate drapes that were also fading at the folds. Yes, they absolutely had to go.
“Nothing?” She frowned at him. Not a picture or a clock or that stunning grand piano she’d noticed in the front room?
“Nothing,” he said crisply and turned away before she could say anything more. He picked up the pile of tarps. “I’ll bring these out to the garage. We may as well store everything out there until Friday so it’s out of the way.”
“Good idea,” she said. “I know you said you were going room by room, but the dust and cobwebs won’t clean themselves. Let’s pull the tarps from each room, clean, then decide what’s worth trying to sell and what isn’t.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Fair enough. Bottom to top or top to bottom?”
She wasn’t sure it mattered, but because she was eager to see the rest of the house, she said, “Top to bottom.”
“There’s an attic,” Chris said. “The stairs go all the way up to the third floor. Most of the stuff in there is old junk, but if you see something that looks worth putting out for the sale, we can bring it downstairs and find a home for it.”
She stood in the room while he carried the tarps down a hall. A moment later she heard a door banging, and some fresh air filtered through the dust. She sneezed. Three times in a row. Her nose was itching and her eyes were watering and she started to wonder what would happen if they didn’t get the place fixed up in time. Would he still let them hold the wedding here? Abby would need to use the kitchen for her catering and food prep. Did the oven even work, let alone the fridge? Would Hannah even want her wedding here if she saw the condition of the place close up?
She started to honestly wonder just what Chloe would even say once she stepped inside, until Sarah looked out the window, onto the wide stone terrace that overlooked the garden bursting with petals of all sizes and colors and her resolve strengthened. A stone bench sat under a weeping willow. The waves rolled in the sea just beyond the lawn.
She could do this. She had to do this. So what if she’d probably get hives from all this dust?
Tomorrow she wouldn’t wear any mascara. It was just dripping down her cheeks, no doubt. It’s not like she had to impress the man.
Still, as she watched his muscles strain against his light blue tee shirt as he carried the tarps to the carriage house at the far side of the house, she felt a strange flicker of excitement. One she promptly put in check.
Right. The attic. Maybe it would be less dusty.
She nearly laughed out loud at that. She’d always had too much hope for her own good. But not anymore. Now she was going to be practical. Lower her expectations. But she wouldn’t be a cynic. She couldn’t be a cynic. Not if she wanted to keep her job at Bayside Brides.
She walked back into the front hallway and started her ascent up the wide, bridal staircase, that seemed to swirl three levels above her and likely did. This house was huge, full of antiques, but more than that, it was full of memories.
Memories that seemed to mean as little to Chris as the house itself did.
Or perhaps, instead of not meaning anything, they meant too much.
Her hand grazed the banister as she moved toward the top of the house, pausing only slightly at the landing on the second floor, where hallways spread in both directions, interrupted only by rows of closed doors. She’d heard the house had nine bedrooms, but the downstairs was even larger, with a conservatory and a library and a dining room that could seat twenty-four.
What kind of family would buy this house, she wondered, as she moved up the last few steps that stopped short just outside a single closed door. She opened the door to a dark space and fumbled her hand along the wall for a light switch, hoping it wouldn’t find a spider instead.
Luckily, the switch was found quickly, and it was actually functioning. All at once, the room sprang to life before her, and she scanned her eyes, taking it all in. It must have been over a hundred degrees in there. There were two windows in the room, at either end of the space, but both were dusty and in need of a cleaning, letting in a sad, murky hint of sunlight, and, she guessed, there was next to no chance they would open and let in some fresh air. She was already beginning to sweat (ever so attractive), and she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Her palms felt grimy.
There were suitcases and trunks and paintings stacked against a wall. And boxes, piled at random, most of them not labeled, she noticed with a frown.
She suddenly missed Bayside Brides more than ever. The cool, calm storefront, with the lovely bouquets of flowers and the gorgeous, frothy material at every turn. The jewelry sparkling in its case. The classical music that played ever so softly in the distance.
She felt wretched. Hot, sweaty, already eager for a shower.
Best to get it over with. Eye on the prize and all that.
She started with the paintings, wondering if she might actually stumble upon something of value, but there was nothing that her untrained eye could see. A few seascapes, probably painted by a local artist at some point. Still, she set them to the side. They’d do well at the estate sale. People were always eager to buy up any kind of history when it came to Oyster Bay.
