Love in a Victorian

by Lisa Norato

  He thanked her, and at his charming smile, Jamie’s resistance to him slipped a notch.

  “We’ll talk later about the fireplace mantel, and you’ll get those old photos for me?” she asked.

  He agreed and Jamie walked him through the first floor to the front parlor, where her construction crew — Sean, Kevin, and Dylan — were polishing off the last of the pignoli cookies.

  She made the introductions. Dylan, the cute new guy, finished his soda with a loud slurp from his straw before shaking Mr. Damien’s hand. His sandy hair lay hidden beneath a soft gray wool cap. He was fresh out of grad school and looked the part.

  “Mr. Damien is leaving. He’ll be moving in today, guys, so after lunch, I’ll need you to help me start cleaning up,” she told them. “We have lots to do.”

  “Arrivederci a presto.” Her mother’s goodbye held a promise to see him again soon. “Do you have someone special, Rick, to share this lovely house with?” she asked.

  Jamie cringed beneath her cap brim and bit her bottom lip to stop herself from screaming.

  His gaze followed Boo Boo as she jumped onto the window seat in the large front window. “I do now, apparently,” he groused.

  Jamie knew this was not the relationship her mother had been inquiring after with that prying question.

  They gathered at the window with Boo Boo and watched Mr. Damien’s BMW drive off.

  “I don’t want him finding a single hairball,” Jamie warned her crew.

  “We’ve got your back, Jamie.” Dylan gestured with the white bakery bag. “There’s one left. You look like you could use a cookie.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled gratefully into his dark grey eyes and reached inside the bag. Jamie still wasn’t sure what to make of him. Dylan had studied historical architecture at Cornell and her dad agreed to hire him on construction as a favor to an old college buddy. His employment was a trial, a chance for Dylan to get a feel for the restoration business, but Jamie suspected Dylan thought his father’s connection gave him an edge with her.

  “So he’s really moving in before the work’s done?” Kevin asked. With his dark ponytail reaching to the middle of his back, he was a throwback to the hippie era. He had a Bohemian vibe and wore colorful and sometimes even vintage tie-dyed T-shirts.

  “That’s what he said, and I don’t think he’s going to change his mind. He arrived with an air mattress and dropped the bag at my feet.”

  She’d been clinging to the off chance Mr. Damien had been kidding about moving in. No such luck. Richard Damien was here to stay, and Jamie could only pray that his long work hours would keep him out of her hair.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning Rick was back at the office when his assistant announced she had Mr. Jamie Kearly holding on the line.

  For a moment he was taken aback. “Did I hear you say Mister Kearly?”

  “Yes, sir. Mister Jamie Kearly.”

  “Thanks, Natalie. Put him through.”

  Leaning back in his seat, Rick swung his chair around for a floor-to-ceiling view of the heart of Providence from ten stories high. The Woonasquatucket River flowed directly below, bordered on both sides by a tree-lined riverwalk that reflected the harvest colors of autumn. He turned on his headset. “Good morning, Jamie. How’s that ankle?”

  “Healing well, thanks. Welcome home, Rick. How was your trip?” Quickly dispensing with pleasantries, the restoration contractor got straight to the purpose of his call. He apologized for any confusion, expressed his insistence that Rick be completely satisfied with all renovations to his house and the crew who worked there, and asked Rick if he wanted him to take his daughter off the job.

  Rick turned his gaze toward where the State Capitol sat in clear view. If he had any doubts, this was his chance to back out before things progressed further with the gutsy Ms. Kearly. But honestly, he was happy with her work. Last evening, he’d inspected the house from attic to basement to the carriage house garage. She had done some impressive work of seamlessly restoring the tired old house to a solid structure while holding on to its originality and Victorian roots. Besides which, he had since come around to thinking that a woman foreman might actually work to his advantage.

  Jamie had a passion for restoration and a comprehensive knowledge of Victorian design. He needed someone he could trust to help him with cosmetic decisions — paint, wallpaper, colors, moldings, kitchen cabinets. He knew nothing about interior design. He had hired someone to furnish his condo and had gotten rid of it all in the sale.

  He wanted that homey feeling he remembered when he lived in the house with his grandmother. A woman’s touch might be just the thing.

  “No, I’d like Jamie to remain and continue the job to completion,” he informed her father.

  Kearly cleared his voice. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear that, Rick. I would never have turned this project over to my daughter if I weren’t confident she could do as good a job on your Victorian — if not better — than I could myself.”

  He sang her praises, regaling Rick with stories that dated back to Jamie’s childhood. She had excelled in shop class above any of her male classmates. She’d learned construction on the job as her dad’s teen apprentice and weekends had volunteered at their church alongside him, repairing homes of families in need. “You can imagine how proud I was when she received her degree in historical restoration and then continued her education with an evening course in interior design at Rhode Island School of Design. In fact, I’m going to fax you a list of the historical restoration projects she’s worked on and the awards she’s received.”

  Rick was about to say that wouldn’t be necessary but found he was curious and answered with a simple “Thank you.”

  The proud father ended the call by adding, “I’m happy to do whatever I can to reassure you. I don’t believe it will ever come to this, but if at any time you’re unhappy for any reason, just give me a call, and I’ll take Jamie off the job.”

  Rick cut the connection, but the image of a wide-eyed kindergartener in a pink tool belt stuck in his head throughout the day.

  Later, as the sun began to fade behind the Providence skyline, his attention grew further distracted by an empty stomach. He’d eaten a quick sandwich at his desk for lunch, trying to catch up on matters that had piled up since he’d been away. He had arranged to meet his dinner date at the steakhouse on the ground floor of his building, but suddenly he was in the mood for Italian. Rick phoned to let her know he’d be picking her up at her apartment instead.

  “I thought we’d try someplace away from the city for a change,” he explained as he pulled his BMW off Elm Street into Bellucci’s Ristorante’s parking lot. “This will be a good way for me to feel out the neighborhood. It’s been so long since I lived in Elm’s Corner. I heard the chef here won a best of Rhode Island tasting contest for his calamari.”

  Rick was charmed by the diamond paned windows and floral burgundy draperies, but he wasn’t surprised to see Vera turn her nose up at its storefront location.

  “A family restaurant? Really, Rick?” She frowned in distaste and waved a hand in front of her nose. “I can smell the garlic from here.”

  “Come on, Vera. Where’s that spirit of adventure that took you from production assistant and into the spotlight as Rhode Island’s morning traffic reporter within a few months of working in the newsroom.” He grinned encouragingly and pulled the door open for her. As she glided past, he leaned forward to whisper huskily in her ear, “Be a sport, and next time I’ll take you to the Wein-O-Rama for a real treat. I used to love that place as a kid.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh joy.”

  Rick caught the smile she tried to hide. Pleased, he stepped into a cozy waiting area complete with sofa and throw pillows. It sat before a takeout counter bearing a large, vintage cash register on one side and a burgundy urn lamp that matched the florals in the draperies. Bellucci’s was charming and quaint, as anyone would expect an Italian restaurant to be. Wainscotin
g of dark, rich, red mahogany — brick walls hung with vintage copper pots — elegant white tablecloths—soft lighting with votives burning on the tables. Low-lit, but not so low he wouldn’t have a clear view of what he was eating.

  Rick nodded approval. “This is nice. And look, Vera,” he said, directing her attention deep into the dining room with a nudge. “Maybe we can score a table by the fireplace.”

  He examined it all with satisfaction, his gaze seeking out the hostess. He found Stella by a booth, an auburn-haired Italian beauty conversing with a pair of elderly businessmen who seemed to be flirting with her — the old geezers.

  He managed to catch her eye. She brightened and excused herself to join them. Stella opened her arms in greeting, the woman’s smile growing as she drew near in a black wrap dress that hugged her curves.

  “Benvenuti a ristorante familiar,” she exclaimed, welcoming them to her family’s restaurant. Her voice held a slight accent that added to her exotic appeal. “I’m so happy you have decided to visit us so soon, and you have brought a friend, I see.”

  “Girlfriend,” Vera corrected, linking an arm with his.

  Vera’s announcement stunned Rick, leaving a queasy feeling in his gut. They’d never defined their relationship beyond that of casual dating. Sure, they’d enjoyed each other’s company for a few months before business took him overseas. And he had left a set of house keys with her, as a precaution, in case anything came up, knowing full well Vera had absolutely no interest in anything to do with his Victorian.

  What, then, caused her to believe he was ready to take things to the next level? Truth was, he had never felt comfortable with commitment on any level. He’d be happy to keep things as they were, but he knew Vera. She was the type to go after what she wanted.

  He introduced her simply as Vera Andersen, and Stella showed her delight in giving them each a peck on the cheek.

  “I will tell my father of your arrival,” she said. “He values new patrons, and I know he will want to prepare something special for my new friends. But first, let me get you a table or would you prefer a booth?”

  Rethinking the wisdom of a romantic table by the fire, Rick was about to ask for a booth when Vera said, “Any chance we might be seated at a fireside table?”

  Stella pondered them as a couple with an adoring look in her dark exotic eyes. A hint of a smile played on her full lips, as she turned those eyes on Rick. “For you, si.”

  She left them to ready a table and returned momentarily with her apologies for the delay. Grabbing some menus, she escorted them into the dining room, past the length of the bar and toward the fireplace at the back of the restaurant, set within an entire brick wall. The furniture was dark walnut, thick and sturdy, in a colonial style. Tiffany ceiling fixtures, framed mirrors, and illuminated stained glass panels opened up the softly lit space. The restaurant felt comfortable. Familiar. A place Rick wouldn’t mind returning to again, and he hadn’t yet tasted the food except for a meatball sub.

  His lady foreman sprang to mind and he wondered what influence Jamie might have had in the décor or the restaurant’s construction. He didn’t understand why, but he sensed her presence within these walls and glanced about as though expecting to see her. Perhaps at the bar or seated in one of the high-backed booths. But she was nowhere to be found and he suddenly felt silly. As they reached their table, he forced her from his thoughts and held out a chair for Vera before slipping into the seat opposite her.

  Stella handed them each a menu and the wine list. “My papa, Santo Bellucci, opened his first restaurant nearly thirty years ago, waiting tables himself, then running back into the kitchen to fill orders, doing most of the cooking himself. To this day, he works to keep Bellucci’s a success, and even though business is much prospero and he employs a full staff, there are days he misses those early years. Well, he is in the kitchen this evening, and I’m going to ask that you please indulge him. He’ll be coming out shortly to take your orders and will prepare them personally.”

  “Sounds fantastic.” Rick grew even more pleased with his decision to come here. “Thank you.”

  Stella cast her smile around the table, happy to please them. “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed. Oh, and don’t let him intimidate you,” she added. “Look over the menu, and I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”

  “Intimidate us? What did she mean by that?” Vera asked him once Stella had gone.

  Rick shrugged. “Don’t know, but I’m really looking forward to this.” He relaxed back in his seat, listening to the quiet crackle and hiss of the fire, watching a scattering of autumn leaves blow past the diamond-paned windows at the front of the restaurant. A busboy arrived to fill their water glasses, and Rick snapped open his menu to search the Insalate & Antipasti section for calamari. “You have to admit, Vera, this is a nice break from eating in the city.”

  She’d gone straight for the wine list. “I see an interesting Santa Maria Valley Pinot Noir I think we should try,” she mused. “Oh, and here’s a very promising Tuscan Chianti.”

  Rick lowered his menu with a grin. “You know it’s customary to make one’s dinner selection before choosing a wine.”

  Her hazel eyes twinkled at him from across the table. “We should be safe with either a Chianti or Pinot Noir. Wines relatively high in acidity are pretty flexible.” She waited for the busboy to leave before whispering, “Actually, I’m a bit concerned about the menu. I just know it’s going to be an abomination of carbs and fat.”

  “It won’t hurt to splurge this once. And my palate’s craving a rich homemade pasta dish, thick with sauce and cheese.” He returned to the selections, this time moving on to the entrées, but Vera distracted him with a sigh.

  “Besides looking out for our health and figures, career-minded people like us need to include networking in our plans when dining out. Who we see, who sees us. It’s important, Rick. You know it is.” She straightened. “And I doubt either one of us will run into any useful business contacts here.”

  “Good.”

  “What do you mean, good?”

  Their waitress arrived with warm, crusty bread and a plate of seasoned olive oil. She introduced herself as Angela. Steam rose off the breadbasket, infusing Rick’s personal space with an insanely wonderful, fresh-baked aroma. His stomach rumbled.

  As Angela left them to ponder their entrées and Vera’s wine selection, he ripped off a hunk of the loaf and picked up the conversation where they had left off.

  “By good, I mean sometimes eating out is just about enjoying a meal.” He dipped the bread in the oil and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “But, Rick, you love your work.”

  “Well, tonight I love my stomach more,” he said between chews. “And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind more time for a private life outside of work.”

  Vera frowned at him, her expression one of confusion. “That doesn’t sound like you. What’s wrong? Has something happened to make you feel dissatisfied? Most attorneys would give anything to be corporate counsel of Rochford Industries.”

  Rick tore his gaze from the listing of a fall entrée — chicken cutlets and butternut squash ravioli in an apple caramel cream sauce with toasted walnuts and sage — and folded his menu.

  “Speaking of Rochford, I’ll soon be meeting with representatives of the St. Agnes Food Pantry and Health Center of Providence to learn more about their outreach to alleviate hunger in some of the poorer neighborhoods. We’ve had a great quarter, and I’m seriously thinking of proposing that Rochford make them a substantial donation. I want to learn more about their program and goals before making my decision. I’ll tour their facilities and meet some of the volunteers. Afterwards, I’ve been invited to share a meal in the church hall prepared by their kitchen ministry. I can bring a guest, if you’d care to join me.”

  She opened her menu, her expression noncommittal and a little tight. Rick knew his invitation was not romantic, elite, or exciting, as she had come to expect from their
dates, but then Vera had no idea how important this was to him.

  Maybe it was the atmosphere — the crackling fire, the sense of homey community of the restaurant and its patrons, but he felt himself opening up. Confronting how he truly felt, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to think about before this evening.

  “This is the part of my work I enjoy most, helping the company give back to the community. I know what I have and I’m grateful for my job, but sometimes I feel the traveling may be starting to wear on me. Now that I’ve bought my first home, I wouldn’t mind some free time to enjoy it.”

  “Your first home?” Conflicting emotions flickered across Vera’s strikingly feminine features. “And what would you call your gorgeous condo on North Main in Providence? That was a home, not the old granny house you sold it for. Why did you buy that house, Rick?”

  “You know why.”

  Clearly, the Victorian was still a sore subject. Vera’s objections had been lengthy. The location was middle class, the style too old fashioned, the amount of renovation work simply not worth the end result. He didn’t want to get into it again with her and spoil the evening.

  Now was definitely not the time to mention the cat.

  An elderly gentleman was headed for their table. Diners hailed him with cries of “Hey, Santo,” as he strode past. He had a healthy pink complexion, black eyeglasses, and a shiny bald crown with tufts of white hair winding around the back of his head. He didn’t wear a chef’s coat, just a simple white shirt with rolled sleeves and black trousers. In his strong, sinewy workingman’s hands, he clutched a pad and pen.

  “Buonasera,” he greeted. “What can I make for you tonight?” He spoke in broken English.

  Rick caught the faces of nearby diners who had stopped eating to watch. To be served by the restaurant’s owner and head chef was an honor, but he never imagined it would stir up this much curiosity.

  He rose and extended his hand. “Chef Bellucci, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Richard Damien and this is Vera Andersen. I’ve recently moved back into the neighborhood. Your granddaughter, Jamie, is restoring my home, as you probably know.”