“Right,” she said. The front door closed behind him, and through the beveled glass inset, Allison stared at Kyle’s departing back as he strode down the walkway toward the wrought-iron fence.
Well, blast. She was probably in for a fight with the historical committee if he was anything to go by. A guy who thought it was a crime to put down carpet on heart-pine flooring would definitely think vinyl siding—even the very high-end vinyl siding she’d been looking at—was a mortal sin.
CHAPTER THREE
AS USUAL, the old house showed her who was boss. By the time Allison managed to coax hot water out of a cantankerous set of hundred-year-old pipes for a bath in the claw-foot tub, she had managed to shift from on-time-just-barely to well-and-truly-late.
She rushed down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen, all the while making a blood oath to find a plumber. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be one insane enough or broke enough or some combination of both to tackle the old house’s hodgepodge of patched pipes, and yank that upstairs bath into the twenty-first century.
How had Gran survived? Allison hadn’t remembered the house being so...obstinate. Okay, she thought to herself as she pulled out of the drive and made the turn toward Gran’s rehab facility, so houses don’t have souls, exactly, but this one sure does have a cantankerous personality. In the rehab facility, way down the hall from the physical therapy suite, she could hear her grandmother—just as cranky and stubborn as those old pipes had been, Allison thought with a chuckle.
“Young man, in my day, people didn’t rush their elders, no sirree! I’m moving, yes, I am, but I don’t trust that contraption.”
Allison heard the poor physical therapist’s low, conciliatory mumble, and in response, her gran came roaring back with, “Why, yes, I do want to go home! I’m doing these exercises, aren’t I? My goodness, you are a strong fellow, aren’t you? Are you single? My granddaughter is in need of a good husband—but notice I said good, not just any old husband. A girl would do worse to have the wrong fellow than none at all, if you ask me.”
Allison paused outside the door to allow her cheeks to cool off from the embarrassment. Her grandmother, huffing and puffing from her exertion, spoke up again. “That girl is a hard worker—a nurse, so you two ought to have plenty to talk about, you being in the medical field. She’s given up a big career in Atlanta to come back to Lombard to live with me, so that I can go home. And that’s why I’m doing these ridiculous exercises! As if I need to be on a bicycle at my age! Do you know how old I am? I’m eighty-nine! And before I broke my hip, I lived by myself and drove myself and did all my shopping and housekeeping. Oh, but these old bones...What’s that? Save my breath?”
Allison covered her mouth to hold back her giggle. Poor fellow. Some people might call Gran standoffish, but once she decided she liked you, you couldn’t get her to hush.
Allison decided she’d better rescue the therapist. Sure enough, he looked as done in as Gran when she came in the room. Still, Allison was glad to see her tiny grandmother with her fluffy white hair, pink-cheeked and determined. That was Gran—a tiger when it came to any sort of goal.
I guess I got that honestly, huh?
The therapist called it quits soon after Allison had taken a seat near Gran’s stationary bike to cheer her on. “You’re doing good, ma’am,” he told her. “Let’s give you a chance to recover.”
“Now, I’m no wimp,” Gran assured him. “I’ve got Davinia Shepherd’s blood in my veins, I have. And I’ve got to get back on my feet. I am determined that I’m going to be strong enough to climb the stairs to my old bedroom. No more sleeping in the library for this old gal.”
It took the man another ten minutes to convince Gran of the law of diminishing returns, and that he wasn’t going easy on her because “you think I’m some frail old lady.” At that point, Allison helped her to her walker and assisted her down the hall.
Halfway to Gran’s room, Allison had to tactfully suggest that they take a seat.
“No, no, I’ll get there—”
“No, Gran, it’s not you. I’m tired out from working on the house this morning. Can’t I have a little bit of a break?” Allison didn’t like lying to her grandmother, but what choice did she have?
Gran gave her a sharp-eyed glance. “Well, maybe a few minutes. Help me to that bench over there.”
Allison noted how Gran blew out a long breath as she lowered herself onto the bench. Yes, the physical therapy had worn her out. Still, she gave Allison a beautiful smile and patted the seat beside her.
“Sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing to the old place. I can’t believe how much I miss it. How many days is it until I can go home?”
“Now, Gran,” she hedged. “You know the deal. You work hard on the therapy and I work hard on the house, and when both of us get done—”
“Pish-posh, that house has been standing since 1888. It’s tougher than I am. It doesn’t need much—just a good airing out, most likely.”
Allison rolled her eyes. “No, not much—just new wiring, a new heat pump, about four tons of insulation, and new windows. And a swimming pool’s worth of paint.”
“Now, did I raise you to be sarcastic? Oh, heavens, I guess I did. You have taken up my sharp tongue, haven’t you?” Gran folded her hand over Allison’s, and it shocked her afresh to see how thin her grandmother’s fingers were. Lillian Shepherd Bell Thomas had always seemed a force of nature. Now Allison could detect a new frailty—as though her grandmother’s eighty-nine years had caught up with her in two short months.
She’s much stronger than she was. I have to remember that. The rehab facility wouldn’t let her plan on going home unless they thought she would be well enough.
It was as if Gran had read her mind. “Not much longer until I can be home—and don’t you worry too much about fixing up that old white elephant of a house, Allison.”
She squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “I have to do some things, Gran. You fell because of that old place—”
“I fell because I was stupid and forgot about that ragged edge on that carpet. I knew it was there.”
Allison decided not to rile her with another debate about whether it was the carpet that had tripped her. “Never mind, I fixed it. That’s what I was doing this morning—ripping all that stuff out, and it’s down to the heart pine again.”
“Land sakes.” Gran shook her head. “It’s a wonder with all that fat light wood the place didn’t go up in smoke years ago. I’ll bet it looks pretty. Once I had the carpet installed, I never did like that old mess your Pops talked me into putting in. Too much vacuuming. But he teased me so much about the color, I didn’t want to let him know I regretted it.”
“It was a lovely shade of pink,” Allison observed in the mildest of tones, knowing what the comment would provoke.
Her grandmother harrumphed. “Whatever possessed me to think Mamie pink was the cat’s pajamas, I’ll never know! Thank goodness I didn’t have the money to redo the bathrooms then—else it would look like somebody had spilled Pepto-Bismol over everything.”
In a more serious tone, Allison broached the topic she knew they had to discuss. “Gran, another reason I was late was that I had to talk with the man about installing the chair lift. He came first thing this morning, and that put me behind.”
“The chair lift?” Gran’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “We don’t need to bother with putting in that. These legs will do all the lifting I need.” She patted her thigh, which was much too bony to reassure Allison. “That’s money wasted. My grandmother never had to have a chair lift.”
Allison swallowed and prayed for some patience and more of that tact. “It’s not anything permanent, Gran. And we’ll put it on the back staircase, so it won’t be ugly, like you were afraid of. But it would mean you could come home sooner.”
Gran appeared appeased by this. “W
ell, now...”
“But...” Might as well say it. “The man told me the wiring needs to be updated before he could install it.”
“I’ll say. Not enough outlets in that house—never were. That’s going to be a bear of a job, sweetie, and pricey, even if you can find somebody willing to tackle it. Why, I’ve had electricians and plumbers not even get out of their trucks when they got a gander of the old place. They knew it was going to be a nightmare.”
“I have some money. And...Gran, I’d like to put in better windows...and maybe some siding.”
“Vinyl siding? Now that’s an idea. I’d looked at some—they got a kind that really looks good these days, made for old houses, not that stuff on double-wides. No more painting to have to contend with.”
Allison let out a breath. She had expected her to blow her top over the siding, but apparently pragmatism had won out. Sometimes Gran would surprise her like that.
Her grandmother’s expression soured and the lines in her face seemed to be etched more deeply.
“But it won’t get you too far,” she told Allison. “Not with the historical committee running roughshod over you, no sirree. Ha. More like the hysterical committee. Tried to tell ’em I needed to put siding on the house, to save on painting, but no-o-o. Got to have historically accurate paint, you do. Five colors!”
“I think the siding is probably doable—just a lot of paperwork, maybe talk to the committee members—” Allison stated, but her grandmother broke in.
“You’d better just skip all that, Allie, girl. Because that what’s-his-name—Mitchell? Some sort of professor, he is, but he’s the head honcho of that committee. He’s never going to approve any of that.”
“Kyle Mitchell? I met him today—”
“Well, then, you know what I mean, don’t you? Surprised he didn’t run off the chair lift guy, because they didn’t have such things in 1888. They didn’t have air-conditioning or penicillin back then, either, but I don’t imagine Kyle Mitchell would like to go back to those days, now would he?”
“I can’t believe the committee won’t see reason and use common sense,” Allison protested. “If I explain the situation—”
“Common sense? That’s why I call it the ‘hysterical committee.’ It doesn’t matter what the committee members think. It only matters what Kyle Mitchell tells ’em. Nope, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, not when dealing with that Kyle Mitchell.”
CHAPTER FOUR
KYLE RUBBED HIS eyes and groaned as he took in what had to be the most horrendous response to his essay question on the causes of the Boston Tea Party. “Because they were ‘tea’d’ off,” the freshman had scrawled. To better his chances at getting at least partial credit, he had doodled a drawing of a stick figure in a passable tricorne hat, shoving a crate.
Kyle squinted. Yep. That was steam coming out from under the brim.
The student wouldn’t remain a freshman for long with answers like that, Kyle thought. He riffled through the thick stack of exams and saw he still had at least two dozen left to go. If they were all like this one, at least grading them would be quicker than the first twenty-five test papers.
Just appreciate the fact that you’re not in Afghanistan like your big brother. Or even herding teenage football players around the state like your little brother. Teaching history is a lot cushier than either of those two jobs. Plus, you could have graded papers yesterday instead of volunteering free labor for Allison.
Ah, but then he wouldn’t have been granted admittance to the mysterious Belle Paix. And it was worth every sore muscle and the double dose of ibuprofen he’d gulped down this morning.
Beautiful.
For a flash, it wasn’t Belle Paix’s intact side hall with its intricate carved banister that came into his mind.
No. It was red hair. Yards of it. And the barest hint of freckles. And how her dimples danced when she smiled.
Kyle yanked his attention back to the next essay question. The hapless freshman had made a better stab at describing the opening battles of the American Revolution, but had still managed to make a total hash of it.
Unbidden, Allison ambushed Kyle’s thoughts again. He liked her. And that surprised him, because she didn’t seem to appreciate historical preservation in the slightest.
Amazing how one woman could invade his mind. Why, he could almost swear he heard her voice now, floating down the narrow hall that ran the length of the social sciences faculty members’ offices. With a determined sigh, Kyle fixed his focus back where it belonged. He was just bored with grading, that’s all.
But then a sharp rap brought his attention to his open door. He looked up—to see Allison.
She wasn’t in jeans or shorts today. No, today she sported a light summery dress just right for the unseasonably hot temperatures. Her long legs were beautifully punctuated by delicate, strappy sandals that showed off her toned calves.
“Don’t look so blown away.” Her mouth quirked a bit at the corners as she seemed to smother a smile. “I promise, I’m not here to ask for help moving another china cabinet.”
“Good, because I don’t think my muscles will cooperate,” he admitted. “No, I’m zoned out by these absolute hideous exams I’m grading. I think I should have done a better job teaching the course material.”
Allison wrinkled her nose. “It’s not your fault. It’s the topic. History. Lotta dates. Lotta names. No offense, but history’s a dead subject. I never could get interested in people who lived a hundred years ago.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d been told that. He’d heard it so often that it was the kiss of death for any blind date that his ever-hopeful colleagues kept setting up for him.
Usually the comment inspired a guilty feeling of superciliousness, as if he was somehow wiser than whoever it was talking to him—that and the sure knowledge that no serious relationship could really develop between two people who didn’t appreciate the same things.
But Allison...Allison made him think differently. He wanted to drag Allison to the chair by his desk and keep her there until he could convince her that history was interesting. History was a story, and he was addicted to a good story.
She, however, seemed fairly convinced already—of the opposite, unfortunately. Kyle bit back a tart response. “Well, if it’s not a burning need to hear a good history lecture,” he asked, “what does bring you to my corner of the world?”
Allison beamed. “Ah! Thought you’d never ask. Is this a good time?”
“Yes, of course. Have a seat.”
She dropped down into the chair he had for students during conference sessions, and gazed around. “Somehow this is not what I expected,” she commented.
“Oh. You were thinking that it would be the typical history professor’s lair—stacks of papers and books and—”
“Junk,” Allison interjected. “It’s wonderfully bare. Did you just move into this office?”
“No. I’ve been chair here for, mmm, about three years now. I just like things neat. Easier to concentrate.” He followed her gaze.
The office was bare. Yes, he had the requisite diplomas up, and a bookshelf filled with texts and other sources. But he needed the quiet that a Zenlike bareness helped him achieve.
“I was expecting a lot of artifacts. Isn’t that what you history folks call them? The detritus you collect over the years?”
“Oh, I have artifacts. See?” Kyle pointed to some shadow boxes mounted on the wall. “My collection of bullets rescued from battlefields. And that center box has political campaign buttons. And then for the prehistory folks, I’ve got a middling collection of arrowheads.”
“My college history professors’ offices were a nightmare. Really gosh-awful,” Allison said. “But this? This is nice. I like it. Very modern. Very clean. No gewgaws anywhere.”
Kyle
regarded her for a long moment, detecting an unintentional insult to his profession, but certain from Allison’s winsome smile that she had meant no malice. “So...”
“Oh! You must think I’m an idiot. Here I am, blabbering away about interior design choices and wasting your time.” Her smile widened. “I stopped by the historical society office. Good thing I went this morning, as it closes at lunch.”
“Yeah, we can only afford a part-time secretary.” Was Allison thinking about taking up his invitation to attend some of the society’s events? Maybe there was hope, after all.
“The very nice lady there...Trish? Yes. Trish. She told me that I would need to see you about some of the paperwork I need,” Allison said.
“Paperwork? You don’t need to fill out any paperwork to attend a meeting.” What had Trish gotten so confused?
“No, no...very nice of you to invite me, and maybe I’ll get around to it, but you know...well, yeah, you do know that I’ve got my hands full, what with working on the house and getting it ready for Gran and all. No, a waiver request. I need a waiver request.”
“A what?” Now he was the one totally confused. What on earth was Allison talking about?
“There’s gotta be a way, right? To request an exemption? From the ordinances? You know, the ones you were telling me about earlier. I looked at the code, and it did say that any exemption was to be made by the city council at the recommendation of the historic preservation committee.”
“Wait.” Kyle had managed to ground himself back in the present, not distracted by the way the sunlight from the window bounced off Allison’s red hair, nor by the way her smile made him want to smile right back at her and say, “Yes, anything, just name it.”
“Trish said she wasn’t familiar with any sort of paperwork like that. But there has to be, right? I mean, come on, you’re a bureaucracy—oh, not you, I mean the committee. No offense.”
“None taken.” That was a tiny fib. But Kyle didn’t think it counted against him too much. “Honestly, I can’t think—oh. Oh. Wait.” He held up a hand. “I know what you mean. Sorry. It took me a minute.”
What the Heart Wants Page 3
