by Lisa Norato
“Food is such a big priority in your life,” she teased.
He sighed. “It’s the simple pleasures.” They were stopped at a traffic light, and he turned. “Sometimes I think I should have been born Italian.” He was looking at her like Jamie was a dish of tortellini in a creamy Bolognese sauce, and for one crazy moment she let herself imagine what it might feel like to be devoured by him.
The light changed, thank goodness, and she directed her attention to the road ahead. “So, where exactly are you taking me?”
Turned out to be a farmers’ market in Point Judith. These were the last days for the market, and an enthusiastic crowd wandered the grounds and lingered at table displays and tents. The saltiness of the nearby ocean carried on the brisk, earthy air. Somewhere, someone was serving hot apple cider, and the inviting aroma overpowered the smell of baked goods, fresh herbs, and even kettlecorn.
Something caught her eye and Jamie trod ahead, past the vegetable stands, towards a pumpkin vendor artfully carving a jack-o-lantern. “My grandfather grows enough produce in his backyard garden to supply our family, neighbors, and the restaurant. He grows garlic cloves the size of peaches, but no pumpkins.”
Rick caught her by the arm and pointed in another direction. “Wait, Jamie, look. Candy apples. We have to stop there first before all the best ones are picked over. When was the last time you ate a candy apple?”
He looked like a kid at the fair. Jamie stole another longing glance at the pumpkin carver before agreeing with a smile. “Okay, I’ll join you in a candy apple, even though I’m stuffed from lunch, but you have to promise we’ll get our faces carved on a couple of jack-o-lanterns.”
Back at the Victorian later that afternoon, Jamie could swear there were still bits of caramel stuck between her teeth. Rick had invited her in for coffee, and while he fired up his espresso maker, she sat at the small dinette they’d found at an antique shop along their travels. They’d needed to borrow her father’s truck to haul the dinette and other items Rick had purchased. After unloading them and then decorating the porch with pumpkins, potted mums, and ornamental kale from the farmer’s market, she was pooped. Fatigued, but in a good way. It was a satisfied feeling that didn’t drain her so much as leaving her invigorated, alive … happy. Happy like a child full of expectancy and hope.
It had been a great day.
Rick stood staring at his coffee grinder in deep concentration. The guy was serious about his coffee and especially his Italian coffee beans. Jamie was fond of his little quirks. They made him more approachable, endearing and, if possible, more handsome. The way he looked now—with his shirt collar loosened, sleeves rolled over his forearms, and cowlick falling onto his brow.
He shut down the noisy grinder. “Jamie,” he said in the tone of a serious announcement. He turned to her, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans and swallowed. “Jamie, I need to say something. You’ve been such a good sport, which I know I don’t deserve for the way I swooped in at the last minute and stole your house, but I want you to know you’ve been a great support to me in my move to Elm’s Corner. I really appreciate all you’ve done. I guess I just want to say thank you. And thanks for tagging along with me today. I had fun. And right now this Victorian may seem empty but it already feels like home.”
Her mother’s words echoed in her head. 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. Before she could respond and admit to Rick, and more importantly herself, that she enjoyed spending time with him, a ringing came from the foyer — the tinkling of a bell like those once used in the servants’ quarters of an old Victorian.
“Hey, somebody actually figured out how to use that old thing,” he said.
Jamie took pleasure in the sound of the old wire-feed doorbell. Earlier in the week she had boiled the apparatus in water with a little baking soda, then stripped off the old paint with a toothbrush and gave it a good polish. Mounting it in the foyer had required running a stainless steel cable along the wall to the door, where it attached to an outside knob at waist height. Like the etched glass front door she’d also found in the attic, that antique doorbell was part of the Victorian’s history, and she didn’t mind the extra work it had taken to restore either of them. She’d enjoyed every moment of it. Making old things useful again and preserving the originality of a home was the most gratifying part of her job.
Also to be appreciated by Rick. Appreciation. Right. So don’t read any more than that into his little speech, because that’s all he’s feeling. Appreciation, not affection. So why was her heart pounding as if they’d just shared a moment? “Were you expecting anyone?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I have no idea who that could be.”
He left to answer the door, returning to the kitchen moments later accompanied by an attractive older woman with a smooth black bob.
“Hello,” the woman greeted Jamie. She had an engaging smile and strong features, and she wore glasses. “I was just telling Rick I noticed the two of you decorating the porch earlier, and with its new paint color, the house looked so inviting, I thought I’d call to welcome you to the neighborhood.” She bore gifts — a mounded plate covered with a cloth napkin and a twig wreath hooked over her arm.
Rick made the introduction. “Jamie Kearly, this is Doris Hutchins.”
“Dorie,” she corrected.
“Dorie,” Rick amended with a nod. “Dorie lives in the ranch at the top of the hill.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dorie.” As Jamie stepped forward, the woman presented her with the covered plate.
“Muffins,” she explained and handed the wreath to Rick. “For your door.”
“This is all very kind, thank you,” he said. Dried hydrangeas decorated the lower half of the twig wreath in a half moon shape, and it was strung with wide gold ribbon for hanging. “It’s great, but hey, this looks suspiciously like the door wreath on the colonial across the street … only smaller.”
Rick grinned a teasing smile, making Dorie blush. “I do love to craft,” she said. “Jack and Declan have been friends of mine for years. Have you met them yet?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure to talk to them since I moved in,” Rick admitted, “but Jamie has and speaks highly of the senior Mr. Callaghan. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but someone over there seems to have left me a message on the chalkboard this morning.”
Dorie nodded. “Ah, the chalkboard. It lends character to the street, don’t you agree? People purposely pass this way, curious to see what’s written. I notice Jack’s begun to decorate for Halloween in his usual Sleepy Hollow theme. His son, Declan, is a bit of a reclusive. Some consider him an eccentric, but Declan is simply a private person.”
“Well, these muffins smell delicious.” Jamie couldn’t wait any longer. She removed the napkin to reveal delicate blueberries muffins with glistening sugar tops.
“I use a recipe for the once famous Jordan Marsh muffins. You’re both too young to remember the department store, but my mother would take me shopping there in downtown Providence, and we never left without a visit to their bakery. Blueberry muffins from Jordan Marsh were always a special treat. I picked those berries myself at Rocky Point farm. You do remember Rocky Point?”
“Of course, I do,” Rick exclaimed. “I have fond childhood memories of that place.”
Jamie only vaguely remembered the historic seaside amusement park that had long since been torn down but remained a Rhode Island legend.
Dorie smiled from one to the other of them. “Are you newlyweds?”
The plate wobbled in Jamie’s hands and she nearly dropped the muffins. Newlyweds? Whatever had led this woman to such an assumption? She and Rick were friends, at best. Two people who had bonded over an appreciation for the aging beauty of a Stick Victorian.
But after today she had to wonder, could there be more?
Her mother has been reading it in the stars since meeting Rick.<
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Jamie let her thoughts take her to a place she hadn’t gone before and looked at Rick as an attractive, desirable male she could have feelings for. No denying he was ruggedly handsome. He had such great hair and that cowlick curling over his brow had a way of tugging on her heartstrings. When he looked at her, there was always a smile in his sharp blue eyes that bore right through her.
She felt a fluttering in her stomach, an uncomfortable tenderness and longing. Jamie turned from his gaze, embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts, horrified he’d read the emotion in her eyes.
“We’re not married,” he explained. “Jamie is the construction foreman on the restoration of my Victorian, and she’s been doing an amazing job. C’mon, let me give you a tour.”
Nice way of moving off the subject, Rick, Jamie thought.
But Dorie wasn’t ready to move on. “Not married? Well, you could have fooled me. The way you two were decorating the porch together, moving pots here and there. And Rick, you always seemed to concede to Jamie’s wishes. Sorry for snooping, but I found it romantic.”
Jamie glanced at Rick, who’d gone uncharacteristically silent. It was left to her to set the record straight.
“What you saw was a mutual love of this old house,” she said. “Working with Rick has given me an opportunity to do restoration on interior period details as well as the exterior construction.” She grinned. “Even decorating the porch.”
Jamie could see the woman had more to say and quickly added, “You might have noticed the odd doorbell. I found it in the attic. I believe it was original to the house. I love those kinds of finds. They’re heirlooms. Part of the house’s story and builder’s vision at that time in history.”
“Oh, I knew immediately it was some sort of antique doorbell.”
“I was impressed you knew how to use it,” Rick said.
Dorie grinned. “I consider myself something of a local historian. I’ve collected notebooks of information, clippings and trivia on Elm’s Corner over the years. Someday, I may put it all in a book. I don’t know. But I do know this particular Victorian was built by a local carpenter by the name of Henry Pratt.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Jamie agreed.
“His workshop still stands as an outbuilding on the corner lot at the bottom of the hill,” Dorie told them. “I’d love that tour, Rick. I’ve been inside a couple of the historical homes in the neighborhood, but never this one.”
They began in the front parlor, moved on to Rick’s billiard room and into the dining room. Jamie gestured overhead and turned her eyes up to the ceiling, once again admiring the delicate trail of raised ornamentation that ran parallel with the cornices and concentrated in a wider pattern in each of the four corners.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, turning to address their guest. “It’ll be tricky to keep it intact when I repair the ceiling, but that’s the challenge of preservation — finding a way to work with historical elements and blend them with repairs to keep the structure with its patina of age.”
Rick stepped forward into the empty space. “Jamie and I were about to discuss plans for this room over a cappuccino. And now we have muffins. If you don’t mind sticking around, Dorie, why not join us? Jamie’s brought period wallpaper and paint samples, and I’d be interested in your thoughts.”
“I’d like that, but I don’t feel it’s my place to make suggestions. It’s your house.”
“Sure you can. I’m only asking for your opinion.”
Dorie gave him a thoughtful smile, then let her gaze wander the room. “In Victorian times, parlors were considered the feminine rooms of the house,” she said, “while the dining room was given a more masculine decor and was often furnished with big, heavy pieces.”
She turned to Rick. “But you’ve already created your masculine space with the billiard room. For the dining area, I think what you want is something comfortable that fits your lifestyle. When you sit down to eat are you hoping for quiet time to reflect and unwind? Or do you plan on hosting big, boisterous family gatherings?”
Jamie was curious for his answer. She glanced at him and caught his eye. He grinned back, a weird smile. Sort of sweet and starry-eyed.
“I don’t have much of a family to speak of,” he said, “but I do hope to entertain and invite the people I care about.”
Why are you at looking me? Jamie couldn’t figure the guy out. He could not be referring to her as someone he cared about. When this job was finished, she expected to be out of his life. One thing she did understand. This Victorian wasn’t just a house to him. Richard Damien didn’t care about prime location, or resale value, or an opulent showcase of his wealth. He hoped to recapture the sense of home he’d felt as a boy living in Elm’s Corner with his grandmother.
Turning, she sighed, unaware of how loudly, until Dorie cleared her throat. She wore a knowing smile.
Jamie wanted to crawl under the hardwoods of alternating walnut and maple. Oh no, Dorie, you misunderstand. There is nothing going on between Rick and me. Nothing. He doesn’t think of me in that way. Believe me. He doesn’t. She didn’t know where to look. She couldn’t let Dorie see her embarrassment, and now was certainly not the time to look at Rick.
“I would like a formal dining room,” she heard him say. “I recently met someone who specializes in custom draperies, and I’m thinking of hiring her for this room and the parlor.”
“Heavy custom draperies are a wonderful way to warm up a room and give it a cozy feel,” Dorie said. With a wink to Jamie, she added, “For those of us who can afford them.”
Jamie relaxed. It must be me. I must be imagining meaningful glances where there are none.
Rick explained his connection to the house for Dorie’s benefit, continuing on to say, “My grandmother enjoyed entertaining. She may have cooked for a school cafeteria, but she was an elegant woman who loved fine dining. She owned several sets of china and fine glassware. What I wouldn’t give to have her antique cocktail glasses today. I didn’t appreciate their value when I was a kid, but still, I hated to see it all go when she died. My mother sold everything. I was lucky to have been able to keep my grandfather’s old chair. Probably because it was worthless.” The touch of bitterness in his voice seemed to shake him from his memories, and he moved on to the next room without another word.
They found Boo Boo in the sitting room on the lone piece of furniture — the old leather wing chair. She was curled up on a beautiful lap quilt, similar to the one Rick had given Jamie’s mother.
“Ooh, aren’t you a lucky cat,” Dorie said. “You get the best seat in the house.”
Boo Boo’s olive green eyes shone with a look of bored annoyance. She rose to present her backside to them, then pawed the quilt before resuming her nap.
Retiring to the kitchen, they gathered around the new dinette. Over cappuccinos and blueberry muffins, Rick passed around photos of the house as he once knew it, and Jamie explained his plan to tear down the brick surround and replace it with a Victorian mantelpiece.
Outside the curtainless windows, shadows began to fall but they went unnoticed until Jamie heard what sounded like someone knocking at the front door. The interruption reminded Dorie she needed to return home, as she was expecting a phone call, and Jamie offered to walk out with her. It had been a long day, and she wanted to get her father’s truck back to him.
They followed Rick out into the foyer, and when he opened the door, it was Vera Andersen who stood under the portico holding a large spider plant in a beautiful tiled pot.
“Vera.”
He sounded surprised, but Jamie also heard a note of excitement in his voice.
“Don’t you have a doorbell? Is this house that old?”
Vera pushed inside on three-inch block heels, prompting them all to step back.
“Happy housewarming.” She pressed the heavy planter into Rick’s arms, dusting off her hands on her fitted jeans, which she wore with a short black and pink tweed blazer. A silver bib necklace framed
the crewneck of her pristine white top.
She surveyed the foyer from its hardwoods and up the staircase to the stained glass window on the landing, until finally her attention came to rest on Jamie with a narrow, curious stare.
She was even more beautiful up close, and if that weren’t enough, Vera Andersen had height and presence and perfectly symmetrical features that had no need of the enhancement of the makeup she wore.
In her fringed, suede ankle boots, she stood level with Rick, and Jamie figured him for at least six-two.
Not even Dorie was immune. Jamie heard her sharp intake of breath. “You’re Vera. The morning traffic lady,” she blurted. “I knew I recognized you. You covered the Super Bowl last year.”
Vera. Her popularity was so great, she apparently had become a one-name celebrity.
“That’s right,” the celebrity admitted, “though I prefer not to be called ‘the traffic lady’.”
Rick set the planter in a corner. “Vera, this is my new neighbor, Dorie Hutchins, and I’d like you to meet my contractor, Jamie Kearly. Her grandfather owns that great Italian restaurant we visited a few weeks ago.”
Is that all you have to say about me? Jamie thought dejectedly. My grandfather owns that Italian restaurant? After I picked out your appliances and decorated your porch and hauled furniture for you in my father’s truck and then helped you carry it inside? Really?
“I watch you on the news every morning,” Dorie said, a little star-struck. “How do you two know each other?” She glanced confusedly from one to the other.
“Vera and I … we … well,” Rick stumbled. “Vera is my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. Of course. Vera was his girlfriend. Jamie knew that. She’d known it all along, but still, hearing the words from Rick’s mouth hit her in the gut like a wrecking ball.
“Thank you for the housewarming gift, Vera,” Rick said.
It was lovely. The colored tiles on the planter matched the stained glass window on the staircase landing.
“I was able to leave the studio earlier than expected, and I thought I’d surprise you,” she said.
