Love in a Victorian

by Lisa Norato

  She pulled up to his Victorian in the company van and paused to admire her crew’s handiwork over this past week.

  The garish raspberry pink paint was gone, replaced by a three-color scheme of subdued earth tones most favored by Victorians. A light olive green covered the body of the house. The corner boards, window frames, porch railings, and support columns had been trimmed in a deep cream. An accent of Indian red set off the window sashes, front door, and side light. In addition, a short, white-painted, cedar, Quaker-style fence now enclosed the perimeter of the property.

  It was Jamie’s job to preserve and restore a building’s original architectural integrity, but she made it her personal mission to also strive to capture its personality as it had originally fit within the community.

  She’d done her research, visiting the local libraries and historical society, same as she did before beginning any restoration. But this house was special, because at the time she’d done the research, she’d had every intention of living in it herself.

  Towards the end of the nineteenth century, Elm’s Corner had been a farm hamlet comprised of a church and eight family homes. With the addition of a post office and its own train station on the Hartford Railroad line, quickly followed by a trolley line, the hamlet had expanded into a suburb.

  A local carpenter, Henry Pratt, raised several one-and-a-half story Queen Anne dwellings in the neighborhood. In 1887, he built Rick’s Stick style Victorian for a silversmith who worked in downtown Providence. The silversmith would have taken a short walk to the railroad station and caught the Providence-to-Hartford for an eighteen-minute train ride into the city. His children would have bought penny candy at Callery’s small variety store and blacksmith shop, which also offered customers the only gasoline pump in the village.

  According to its original plans, the Victorian had been constructed on a balloon frame in a tall, linear, architectural design, drawing the eye upwards to a cross gabled roof. Carpenter Pratt installed long, narrow windows and basic cutouts in the stud frame. He added no gingerbread trim, and the only millwork he employed were the turned posts of the porch railing. The resulting Victorian was simple but elegant, with a pleasing symmetry and informal lines.

  It had housed families throughout a span of three centuries. It had outlived generations to become a historical landmark, a proud dwelling that — thanks to her crew’s efforts this week — stood out once more in the suburban hamlet of Elm’s Corner as one of the village’s most picturesque houses.

  She must’ve been daydreaming, because the front door opened and Rick stepped out from under the portico and down the porch steps to wave her inside. Jamie reached for her handbag on the passenger seat, checking for her tape measure and the slip of paper with her handwritten measurements of the kitchen. She heaved the sample books of interior paint colors and vintage wallpapers into her arms and stepped from the van.

  Ragged-edged leaves in shades of gold and brownish red covered her path up the walk. They’d begun dropping like crazy this week, which had made painting the house a challenge, but the result was well worth the effort.

  “Good morning.” Rick met her halfway to relieve her of the heavy sample books. He grinned down at her laced boots. “I’ve gotten used to the checkered flannel, waffle shirts, and cargo pants, but this is something new. Do you have plans to go fishing afterwards? Because I thought we might spend the day. I’d like to take you to lunch as a thank you for your help, then maybe hit some antique shops afterwards.”

  Jamie answered with a long-suffering sigh. “No, I am not going fishing.” She stared at him from beneath her lashes, just short of rolling her eyes.

  He wore a pinstriped oxford shirt tucked into his belted jeans with a black sports jacket. She’d seen him in enough social situations to know he hadn’t dressed for her sake. Rick’s clothes all seemed to come from his closet freshly pressed from the cleaners. Jeans included. She wondered if he brought his shoes somewhere to be polished. He was nothing like the men in her social circles.

  The dimple at the corner of his mouth engaged. “Great, then you’re free to spend the day with me. And if I’m going to hang out with you, looks like I’ll need to get used to these youthful fashions trends.”

  “I might seem young to you, but I am old enough to have graduated.”

  “You’re never going to let me live down the fact I asked whether you’d graduated high school, are you?”

  Jamie shrugged.

  He smiled, a little too brightly, she thought.

  “Are you laughing at me?” she asked.

  “No, it’s just that I was thinking. I can’t believe I ever mistook you for a boy. You might like to dress like one, but you’re clearly not a boy. Not with those big brown eyes, delicate face and lips from the Italian side of your family.”

  Her stomach fluttered. This is not a date. Why is he acting so weird? And why do I feel flustered? “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” she said, changing the subject.

  “Ho trentasette anni.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t speak Italian?”

  “I catch words here and there.” Actually, she’d been too distracted by the ease in which he spoke the language, by how captivating and sensual his pronunciation was, to translate the words themselves.

  “I’m thirty-seven,” he explained.

  She’d always been attracted to older men. Maybe because she was such a daddy’s girl.

  Before she could connect that thought to Rick, he hefted the sample books under an arm and directed her towards the Colonial across the street. “Have you noticed the chalkboard’s latest message?”

  Scrawled in large bold letters, it read, “Congratulations, Jamie. Well done!”

  Jamie laughed. She knew it referred to the Victorian’s new paint job. “See, I told you painting the house would help you settle in with your neighbors.”

  “Me? You seem to be the one scoring points.” A cool breeze swept the tree tops, rustling the branches with a hollow sound. A flurry of dried leaves drifted down. Rick plucked one from her hair which Jamie hadn’t realized was there.

  “C’mon, it’s getting chilly out here. I’ll drop these inside,” he said, indicating the books, “and we can start our day.”

  They took his BMW. Its interior was infused with that new car smell. Jamie sank into the buttery soft luxury of the passenger seat and enjoyed the drive into Providence.

  Inside the appliance store, they walked the vast aisles, inspecting washers, dryers, refrigerators, and dishwashers. Shopping for Rick was an experience, the fantasy of being able to choose anything she could have imagined for her perfect kitchen but never would have been able to afford.

  He brought her to the Bertazzoni range he’d had his eye on. Jamie looked it over. It was tasteful and elegant, all gleaming stainless steel and Italian made with six burners but compact enough to work within her measurements.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I love it, and I don’t even cook. It’s gorgeous, but why do you need a top-of-the-line, professional grade stove?”

  He opened the oven door and peered inside. “I’m thinking resale value.”

  Jamie scoffed. “C’mon, from all you’ve told me and my family, you have no intention of selling your Victorian. What do you plan on doing with this stove? Do you even know how to use it?”

  “My grandmother prepared and served food for a living. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. You never gave me a straight answer about whether or not you can cook.”

  He nodded, turning to face her with a slowly growing smile. “Gran showed me some things. Nothing like your family’s Italian specialties, but she taught me a few dishes. Like her chicken and dumplings.”

  “I’ve heard you mention them before.”

  “She made her dumplings with homemade chicken broth and rolled them flat, southern style, not that Gran was southern. Her cabbage casserole was another of my favorite
s. And her alphabet soup.” A small sigh escaped him. “Gran could make a grilled cheese taste like the most delicious sandwich in the world.”

  “Must’ve been the secret ingredient?” Jamie said. “All the best cooks use it.”

  He smiled, confused. “What secret ingredient?”

  “Love. The best cooks prepare their meals with love. The secret ingredient that can’t be found in a recipe.”

  Jamie caught the appreciative twinkle in his eyes as he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that sounds right.” He turned for another admiring glance at the stove. “Gran wrote her favorite recipes in the end pages of her address book. Mostly just a list of ingredients. They’d be almost impossible to follow unless you had watched her make the dishes, like I had … and could read her handwriting. I remember going through the house with my mother after Gran’s death. She didn’t want me bringing a ‘whole bunch of junk,’ she called it, back to Texas. But my stepdad made sure my grandfather’s leather chair got shipped home. I took all the photos I could find, Gran’s address book and my grandparents’ wedding portrait.”

  Jamie didn’t recall seeing the portrait around the house, and at her inquiring look, he explained, “I’m having it restored and reframed.”

  There was a vulnerable edge in his voice that tugged at her heart. She smoothed a finger across the polished stainless steel. “Well, this stove will do your gran’s comfort food proud. Let’s ask one of the sales people if they have a nickel finish range hood to complete the look of your Victorian kitchen.”

  After purchasing all the appliances on their list, Rick took her to lunch at a seafood restaurant on Providence’s historic waterfront. They sat at one of the tables that ran along a wall of windows with a view of the sun reflecting off the river and trees lining the brick sidewalks in full autumn color.

  Over fish tacos, Jamie told him of her plans to begin restoration of the dining room ceiling. “It needs re-plastering in the center, but the good news is, the original horsehair plaster was applied with a layer of fabric and it’s held intact. I’ll be able to preserve the decorative detail around the edges. We’ll join the new plaster seamlessly to the original.”

  Rick looked distracted, as if he hadn’t been listening, and leaned forward, staring at her as though trying to read her mind. “What’s going on with you and Dylan?”

  The unexpectedness of his question took her aback. “Going on? Nothing. Why?”

  “I thought you two seemed pretty friendly the other night. Are you dating?”

  “No. I don’t know. We went to see the jack-o-lantern display at Roger Williams Park the other night. It was amazing. I’ve never been before.” Actually, she’d had a great time with Dylan. Turned out, they did get along well. Like brother and sister. But she wasn’t going to tell Rick that.

  “So you are dating?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Is there somebody else?”

  “No, there’s nobody else.”

  “Well, Dylan doesn’t seem your type. Just saying.” he tossed out before shoving the taco into his mouth for a bite.

  “What would you know about my type?” Jamie averted her gaze from his chewing and inquiring blue eyes to pluck a slice of avocado from her own taco. “Maybe I will go out with him again.”

  Rick took a sip of water and carefully set down his glass. “I’m surprised you don’t already have someone special in your life.”

  She’d done her best to keep their conversation focused on the house, because today’s outing was business, and theirs was a working relationship and nothing more. Well, she did suppose they had developed a sort of friendship, but not the kind where romance was a comfortable topic of discussion. Rick had a girlfriend. A beautiful celebrity girlfriend, and if he couldn’t commit to Vera, what chance did someone like Jamie have? What did she care? She didn’t. Whatever.

  “I guess I haven’t met the right guy yet, and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject, so stop fishing. I’m not in the mood to discuss my litany of disappointing relationships, starting with my high school boyfriend who dumped me two weeks before senior prom.”

  “Two weeks? Ouch.”

  Why had she told him that? Jamie swallowed her piece of avocado. “What do you think of adding a ceiling medallion above the chandelier lighting fixture in the dining room?”

  He chuckled. “Not going to let me pry into your personal life, are you?”

  She sighed. Actually, there was something he had a right to know. “I suppose I should tell you this one thing.”

  He set down his taco and wiped his hands on his napkin, clearly intrigued. “And what’s that?”

  “You already knew there was a sale pending on the Victorian when you came in with a higher offer?”

  He nodded and Jamie dropped her hands in her lap. “Well, that was me. I was the other buyer. I fell in love with your Victorian. Something came alive inside me when I saw it, and by the time I’d finished touring the house, my heart was racing. I have friends in the neighborhood, and it’s close to my family’s restaurant, so I went ahead and sold my little bungalow to afford the mortgage. I signed a letter of intent and gave the seller a five hundred dollar deposit. I even agreed to adopt Boo Boo. Then, the day before I was set to sign the P&S, I got a call from the seller that another offer had come in at a ridiculously unmatchable amount. A few days later, my deposit check was returned to me in the mail, uncashed.”

  His expression flooded with shock.

  “I thought I should come clean and tell you my history with the house,” she added. “No hard feelings. Really. I’m beyond all that.”

  “I had no idea you were the other buyer. That’s crazy. What are the chances? We both fell in love with the same house.”

  He glanced at his meal without really seeing it, and Jamie could almost feel the lump in his throat. Leaning back in his seat, he lifted his eyes to hers. “I’m so sorry, Jamie. I took your house and your cat. You already know why I wanted the Victorian. I guess I felt entitled to it. I can imagine how you must’ve felt. When I walked through the house for the first time after all these years, I got chills. It felt so good to be home. Memories came flooding back, and I knew it was where I belonged. I saw myself entertaining in the formal dining room, hosting card games and pool in a game room, reading before the old fireplace as I remembered it. My realtor was referred to J. Kearly Restoration from the seller. I had no idea there was a connection. Gosh, I don’t know what to say. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you.”

  “I know, and it’s okay,” she assured him. “You have a much stronger connection to the Victorian. Boo Boo’s happy, and I would have eventually flipped that bungalow anyway. I just hadn’t planned on moving back home with my parents. At first, my father wasn’t going to accept the restoration job, but I told him I was fine with it as long as he handled the work. Then he sprained his ankle, and the rest is history.”

  Rick lifted his fork and pushed at the fries on his plate. “Well, at the very least, I hope what you’re charging me is some consolation.”

  At her smile, he asked, “So where do we go from here? Are we okay?”

  “We’re good. Actually, it’s been an exciting job. If I were restoring the house as my own, I never would have had access to those original photos of yours. I get a lot of satisfaction knowing I’m restoring an old house back to the beautiful Victorian it was designed to be.”

  “Funny how things work out. I guess you were meant to restore my Victorian one way or another. In any case, I’m glad we share a special fondness for it. You’re quite a woman, Jamie Kearly. You don’t hold a grudge. What do you say to a drive to South County to pick out pumpkins?”

  Chapter Nine

  Remember, this is not a date. Easy enough, Jamie thought. She felt too at ease to be on a date.

  Outside her passenger window, the last of the dying leaves clung to the trees, withered and brown. Rick had bypassed the highway and taken the scenic route. Driving south, they’d passed produce
farms, looking sparse and yielding up the last of their crops, then passed through the town of Wickford with a few boats still moored in the cove.

  Jamie relaxed into the headrest and the warmth of her heated leather seat and watched the stark autumn scenery.

  Rick drove his BMW past Narragansett Beach. He looked contented and relaxed behind the wheel. Jamie let herself admire his profile, from his strong brow to the slightly off center line of his nose to his lopsided grin.

  Sensing her stare, he glanced her way, darn, dazzling her with the full intensity of his smile. She smiled back on impulse, a little too moony-eyed she thought, relieved when he returned his attention back to Ocean Road. Gone was the heavy traffic and beach crowds of summer — all those tanned young girls in bikinis looking far too exposed and wrinkled old men looking far too happy. A few people walked along the beach wall including a dog walker and a couple holding hands. Then there were the cyclists. All of them enjoyed a panoramic view of a rocky shoreline and the Atlantic beneath a clear autumn sky.

  “So, how’s it been so far?” he asked.

  “How has what been so far?” Their date?

  “Living back home with your parents.”

  “Oh.” They were passing the estates that lined the ocean front, their elegant homes shielded from view by stone walls, boxwoods, and iron gates. “Me, back in my old room, my mom loves it. My grandfather lives there, too. It’s been … cozy. Stella’s not sorry I lost the sale of your Victorian. She was worried I’d end up an old maid with too many cats. Guess that’s what you have to look forward to now.”

  “Ha, funny. Yeah, I wish I could feel sorry for you, but I’ve met your family. I imagine all your meals are taken care of — hot, home-cooked and waiting for you when you get up in the morning and come home every night.”