by Lisa Norato
Jamie had never worried that what she did for a living might be considered unfeminine to some. She loved old buildings, their history, and the stories behind each piece of wood or rusty nail or antique fixture. Restoration was in her blood. She fell in love with construction the day her dad gave her a tool belt at age four, complete with plastic tools. But imagining herself through Richard Damien’s eyes, Jamie felt invisible as a woman. Of course, she hadn’t exactly been dressed to attract the opposite sex at their first meeting. She’d worn no makeup and her wavy dark hair had been tied into a ponytail tucked beneath the lucky baseball cap her father had bought her when he’d taken her to her first football game at Gillette Stadium.
Sort of the way she was dressed right now. And every workday, for that matter.
Her mother gave a throaty laugh and grabbed Jamie’s face, squeezing her cheeks until she cut the blood flow and Jamie’s lips puckered. “No woman on earth can compare to my gorgeous bambina. You have true beauty, Jamie. Beauty that shines from the inside out. You cannot see what I do, but a clever man like Rick … he will not be able to ignore this about you. You will be the one to make his house nice for him, a place he wants to come home to. You will be the woman to make his house a home.”
Jamie jerked back her head, freeing her jaw from her mother’s iron grip. She opened her mouth to work out the soreness and said, “Only from a strictly structural and design perspective, Ma. I’m just doing my job. There’s nothing personal or romantic about it, so stop with these crazy ideas.”
The conversation had made her uncomfortable, and Jamie turned and strode toward the steaming sauté area. “Hey, Papa,” she called, “where’s my pasta? I’m starving.”
“It’s acoming,” he called back.
Behind her, Jamie thought she heard her mother’s tsk-tsk. “You’re starving all right, Jamie. But it’s amore you are starving for, I think.”
Chapter Five
Monday morning brought a cool autumn shower. The ladders on the overhead rack rattled as Jamie pulled her van onto the Victorian’s stone drive. She was running later than usual, not because the rain had detained her, but because she’d planned to arrive after Mr. Damien had left for work.
It was counterproductive, silly really, to avoid the client she strove to please, but Rick Damien unsettled her. It didn’t help that he’d captured her mother’s interest. He’d been marked a “good catch” who would soon be available, and the spooky thing about Stella — time usually proved her “feelings” correct.
That didn’t mean Ma wasn’t wrong in this instance. Mr. Damien may have invaded her personal life by befriending her family, but Jamie had no interest in him, other than to see the renovation of his house through to a successful completion.
Soon though, Jamie would have to collaborate with him on interior details. And she really needed those photographs of the original fireplace mantelpiece so she and Sean could get to work on producing a replica. A professional would be arriving later this afternoon to give the chimney an overall inspection for soundness.
This morning, however, Jamie needed time alone to think and strategize. Her plan was to go through the entire Victorian from top to bottom and complete a punch list. She and Sean would refer to the list when they met with Mr. Damien to discuss things such as ceiling medallions, chair rails, baseboards, and paint colors.
She stepped out of the van, strapped on her carpenter’s belt and reached back inside for her coffee and a bag of donuts.
Boo Boo’s little gray face made a pretty picture in the front window. The kitty lent a homey touch the empty Victorian needed on this dismal morning. Jamie dodged raindrops in a quick jog to the porch and the shelter of its portico, then knocked on the door and waited.
Rain pattered the porch roof overhead.
She called out and waited some more, and when she felt assured no one was home, she let herself in with her key.
Inside the foyer, a beautiful red cypress staircase climbed against the wall to a landing on the second floor that showcased a small stained glass window. Jamie caught her breath in awe every time she walked in and saw it.
One of the first jobs her crew had tackled was to remove the old carpeting from the staircase. When she had believed the house would be hers, Jamie had intended to replace the carpeting with a patterned runner to expose more of the woodwork. She had wanted to paint the foyer a warm, welcoming butter yellow, install a Tiffany light fixture on the ceiling, and furnish the space with a Victorian hall tree and a large potted plant. Design decisions which were no longer hers to make.
She poked her head into the front room to say hello to Boo Boo. Everything looked exactly as she’d left it. Perhaps Mr. Damien contained himself and his air mattress to an upstairs bedroom. Didn’t seem much of a way to live, but with his travels, he was probably used to impersonal surroundings. Or maybe he was maintaining the home’s empty shell for his “girlfriend” to decorate. Not that it was any of her business.
“C’mon, Boo,” she called. “Breakfast in the kitchen and then you can keep me company while I work.”
Passing through the hall, she spied a large piece of heavy furniture in the once empty downstairs bedroom and approached the doorway for a closer look. A gargantuan pool table dominated the center of the room, medieval-looking in style. Its thick carved legs formed arches beneath the table. Jamie recognized its Craftsman design, dating from the turn of the nineteenth century.
She’d passed judgment too soon. Attorney Richard Damien was not waiting on anyone. He had asserted his presence in his new home and was making himself comfortable.
It could work, she acknowledged before continuing to explore what other surprises Mr. Damien had for her, but the only addition to the kitchen was a professional grade espresso machine.
High class, she mused, which made her wonder what Mr. Damien had planned for his kitchen. It was almost impossible to create anything close to a faithful replica of a Victorian kitchen without sacrificing convenience and comfort. She would, however, suggest a few Victorian touches — decorative items like a big, rectangular farmer’s sink or period wallpaper, a tiled back splash perhaps, or even the addition of a Victorian dresser to display dishware.
Jamie deposited her breakfast on the kitchen island’s worn Formica surface, imagining how it would look replaced with a beautiful slab of black soapstone.
She pulled a small can of cat food from the pocket of her quilted down vest. First order of business was to feed Boo Boo, but as she popped off the lid on a can of tender ocean whitefish, she heard a creaking on the stairs.
She froze, then chastised herself for not heeding her father’s stern directive to never, ever go to a construction site alone. He was going to kill her, if someone else didn’t get to her first.
The sound of footfalls drew close. She’d been about to reach for a screwdriver from her tool belt when Richard Damien strode into the kitchen, his brown hair damp and towel-dried, sticking up over his brow in a drooping cowlick. He wore a pair of sweatpants and an open silken robe. He was so freshly shaven Jamie caught the woody scent of his shaving cream.
She released the breath she’d been holding. “You frightened me.”
He regarded her with displeasure, creating a crease between his brows.
“I scared you? Really? So, you don’t knock?”
Jamie had hoped his manners would improve after speaking with her father and dining at her family’s restaurant, but that obviously was not the case. “I did knock. I called. I shouted. Now that you’ve moved in, you really need a doorbell. The house isn’t wired for one. I can take care of that for you, but even better, I found this old wire-feed doorbell in the attic. It must have been original to the house. I’ll show it to you, and if you like it, I’d be happy to polish and install it,” she said, her thoughts distracted by a peek of pectoral muscles and dark chest hair between the lapels of his robe.
Look away. Look away.
Ugh. Her mother had planted an awareness of his masc
ulinity in her head, and now Jamie couldn’t stop sizing him up as an attractive male even though she knew it was so-not-good on so many levels.
He scowled and tied his robe closed.
Standing behind the kitchen island opposite him, Jamie averted her gaze to the can she’d just opened. “We can discuss the bell later. I’m sorry if I alarmed you. I thought you would have left for work by now.”
“I have a mid-morning meeting, so I decided to sleep in. I guess we’ll have to get used to getting in each other’s way during restorations. Your father phoned me last week, you know.”
She nodded. “He told me about your conversation.”
“So, we’re good then?”
If this awkwardness was his version of good, what choice did she have but to accept?
“We’re good,” she said.
“I see you moved a few possessions in over the weekend.” She spoke conversationally and not because she was interested in his odd choice of priority items.
“I’ve moved in all of my possessions. I sold everything with my condo, all the furnishings except for a pool table and a leather chair that once belonged to my grandfather.” Stepping forward, he reached for the can she’d just opened. “Are you always eating, or do I just happen to catch you during mealtimes?” Taking a whiff, he made a face of distaste. “This can’t be your breakfast. Do you not trust me to feed my own cat?”
Jamie was struck with a warm glow of satisfaction. “You said, ‘my cat.’”
“The cat, I meant to say.”
“Sure you did. And this” she said, reclaiming the can, “is just habit. I’ve been bringing cat food to this house for weeks now. I guess I was a little worried about Boo Boo, but I’m not anymore. I did bring donuts, too,” she offered.
He narrowed his incredibly blue eyes at her. “You’re a shrewd and unusual woman, Ms. Jamie Kearly.” Reaching into the bag, he pulled out one of her donuts. The one with the rich dark chocolate frosting on top and festive harvest-colored sprinkles—her favorite.
“I feel like an espresso. Care for a cup?” He bit greedily into the donut then licked a bit of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
Jamie didn’t understand why, but she was captivated by the sight of the creamy chocolate, or the chocolate on his lips, she couldn’t figure out which. She cleared her throat for no apparent reason. “Espresso sounds great, thanks.”
No, wait! She didn’t like espresso. Too bitter. Plus, she’d brought her own wonderful doughnut house coffee — pumpkin spice.
Biting off another chunk of donut, he strode to the espresso machine on the counter behind her and plugged it into an electrical outlet. “What’s the story with that house across the street? The property looks like a small colonial settlement.”
He looked to Jamie as though it were her business to know these things, when he was the one to have grown up in the neighborhood.
She lowered Boo Boo’s breakfast bowl to an out-of-the-way spot on the floor. “It happens to be the oldest home in Elm’s Corner and one of the oldest surviving buildings in Rhode Island. You must remember it. You grew up across the street.”
He turned on the coffee grinder, waiting to avoid responding over the noise, as he filled the small espresso filter with fresh ground beans.
“I do remember, Miss Smarty. A nice couple lived there. They had a son. He was a quiet kid and younger than me, so we didn’t hang out with the same crowd. What I meant was, it must be another historical home, and I thought you could tell me something about its style.”
“Oh, well, I can. It’s gone through some upgrading and additions over the years, but the section at the end of the dirt drive with a massive stone fireplace rising up the side is an original Colonial stone ender. Stone enders were built primarily in Rhode Island and during the late seventeenth century.”
The entire house and its outbuildings sat on a rise, set back on a large wooded lot that afforded the home some privacy, but not so far removed from the street you couldn’t read the chalkboard hanging by the large batten door. Today, she’d noticed it read, “Every house has a story.” She had to agree.
She’d met the homeowner. “Mr. Callaghan stopped by the day we were working on the porch and introduced himself,” she explained. “He’s retired but says he likes keeping busy. He’s been renovating his small barn into a compact apartment with a loft. He lives with his grown son, who you might have noticed likes to eat his morning cereal on the porch in a hoodie and pajama bottoms.”
“Callaghan. Yeah, that was the name of the family I remember living there. The guy in the hoodie must be Declan.” Mr. Damien opened a cupboard and pulled down a pair of small white cups. “Guess I was right then. You have been gossiping with the neighbors.”
“You should reintroduce yourself sometime. It wouldn’t hurt to engage in a little chit-chat with the neighbors yourself.” After a brief hesitation, she added, “If you’re into that sort of thing, that is.”
He turned from operating the knobs and levers of his espresso machine with a disgruntled look. “Gossip? No, thank you.”
“I meant being friendly.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe. “You don’t think I’m friendly?”
“Not judging by our first meeting.”
“What about our first meeting?”
Clueless male. “You were rude.”
He scoffed, then gave her a smirk that implied he thought her absurd. “I was not rude.”
“You asked my age and whether I’d graduated high school.”
He considered. “I might have been a little … impolite.”
Jamie was tempted to laugh, because that response had been comical, but she didn’t appreciate his insult to her intelligence. “Impolite? Is that what you call it? When I offered you my hand, you refused to shake it.”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “All right. I can see how you could interpret that as rude, but in all fairness, I was surprised to discover that the Jamie Kearly I’d hired to work construction on my house had been replaced by his female counterpart. I was also jet-legged from an international flight.”
Jamie crossed her arms over her vest. “Am I really expected to keep calling you Mr. Damien?”
The hint of a smile sparked his blue eyes, and he broke into a grin that raised a dimple at the corner of his mouth. “There’s probably lots of things you’d like to call me, but Rick will suffice.”
Mamaluke was another name that came to mind. It was slang for someone, usually male, who had done something stupid, to be followed by a swift palm-smack to the back of the head.
“In the interest of calling a truce,” he said, returning to his machine, “let’s you and I make a deal over a cup of espresso. I’ll promise Boo Boo a permanent home, if you’ll agree to help me shop for kitchen appliances.”
His proposal left Jamie momentarily speechless, caught between relief for Boo Boo and surprise that he was actually requesting her company and opinion. She dropped her arms by her sides and clutched her tool belt. “You won’t regret keeping Boo Boo, but are you sure there isn’t some woman in your life you’d rather help you choose appliances?” She sounded like her mother, fishing for information.
“I am seeing someone. We’ve been dating a few months. I made my feelings clear from the start, but I think Vera wants more of a commitment, and I don’t want to suggest anything that might give her the idea I’ve changed my mind, because I haven’t. I have no interest in getting married.”
Too bad for you. Because your girlfriend is beautiful, Jamie almost said, but held her tongue. All she needed was for him to find out she’d been spying on him. And then she realized he sounded exactly the way she’d felt when she first put an offer on this house. He was living the life she had envisioned for herself, in her Victorian, with her cat. Alone and without love, because romantic love came with too many disappointments and usually ended in heartache. A lonely life that she was now observing from the outside. She didn’t want to think
her mother had been right, but… .
“I’d really like your input,” he was saying. “I want modern conveniences and professional grade appliances, but I also want to stay true to a Victorian structure and design. I’ve had my eye on a stainless steel Bertazzoni stove with six burners, but I’m not sure what or how much you can make work in this space.”
Jamie shook herself out of her thoughts. “Wow, you’re serious about this. I thought you didn’t cook.”
“As I recall, I mentioned I didn’t eat at home often. That doesn’t mean I don’t cook. I might want to entertain.”
He was a curious guy. He made Jamie curious, at least. She wondered about the extent of his culinary skills. Would he really need a six-burner stove?
“Okay. Rick. I get it. You want my help on how to work in Victorian elements and still have an up-to-date, fully functional kitchen.”
He turned around holding two full espresso cups. “Exactly. Here. Wait’ll you taste this,” he said, handing her a cup that warmed her fingers and emitted a steaming fragrance of rich Italian coffee. He reached into her bag for another donut. This time it was the airy and delicate French cruller, which left Jamie with only the plain stick donut the server had tossed in for free because it was broken.
She sipped the strong, hot brew, mourning the loss of dark chocolate and sprinkles. First opportunity, she’d give Sean a call and have him pick up a box of donuts for the whole crew on his way in.
“What do you say?” Rick asked through a mouthful of sweet crispy cruller. Boo Boo climbed over his bare feet, rubbing her soft gray face against his ankles, releasing her feline pheromones and claiming him as her own. He never so much as twitched, as though a kitty, and this kitty in particular, weaving between his legs was completely natural to him.
Looked as if this was going to work out for little Boo Boo. Jamie smiled and lifted the tiny cup. “Tastes good.”
“Good? I thought you had Italian blood. I bought those beans at the Mercato Centrale in Florence.” He shook his head, disappointed. “I meant about coming shopping with me.”
