by Arlene James
“Excellent,” Garth said, brushing back the sides of his suit coat with both hands. “At least the historical society didn’t hold up things on this end.”
“This falls under the heading of new construction,” Bowen pointed out.
“Excellent,” Garth said again, looking around. “Quality work.”
“And on budget,” Bowen added. The sound of a revving engine had him reaching for his pocket, from which he pulled a cell phone. “Excuse me.” Crossing the room, he tapped the tiny screen and lifted the phone to his ear. “This is Dale.”
Petra turned away, affording him as much privacy as possible, and found Garth watching her. He stepped close enough to lightly brush a hand down her arm.
“Pretty nice, huh?”
“Lovely,” she agreed, shifting away.
“And roomy,” he went on, adding softly. “You know, staying here would be much more convenient for you than that old family mausoleum across town.”
Petra kept a smile firmly in place as she whispered, “Chatam House is blocks, not miles, away and my aunts would be offended if I didn’t stay with them.” Triplets in their seventies, the sisters held some old-fashioned but laudable ideas about hospitality and family.
“Just tell them you need to be on-site,” Garth pressed.
“If I stay anywhere else,” Petra insisted quietly, “their feelings will be hurt. Besides, Chatam House isn’t a mausoleum. It’s quite grand, actually.”
Garth narrowed his eyes. “I’d like to see that for myself.”
“I’ll have my aunts issue an invitation when it’s convenient,” she returned lightly. “You understand, of course, that it’s a busy time for them just now.”
Her Aunt Odelia was getting married after more than seventy years of maidenhood—to the same man she’d jilted fifty years earlier! Petra’s brother, Asher, had also married last month, and two family weddings in so short a space of time had had the house in an uproar for weeks. The former gardener, Garrett Willows, had recently married, too, so of course the aunties had insisted on hosting a small reception for him and his bride. No, this was not an optimal time to introduce a new face into the mix, and Petra could only be glad of that. She was having enough difficulty keeping this relationship on a business footing as it was.
Bowen returned. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to track down—” He broke off. “Never mind. Another job. Now then, if you’ve finished here, we need to stop on the third floor to take a look at a problem with the railings there.”
“What problem?” Garth asked, frowning.
“They’re gone,” Bowen reported. “Whole sections of them. And none of my suppliers can find anything like them. We’re probably looking at having them replicated.”
Garth threw up his hands and charged for the door. “I don’t suppose we could just replace them with something similar?”
“We’re not going to find anything similar,” Bowen called out to him, following. He stopped and held the door open for Petra, who hurried through on her bare feet. He winked, as if to say that the boss was having a bad day.
Petra had the sinking feeling that it was only going to get worse, and she proved entirely correct.
The two men disagreed on everything from the depth of the carpet pile to the placement of light switches. Petra thought Garth would pop a blood vessel when it came to the issue of closets, of all things. The Vail didn’t have any, and Dale doubted that the historical society would approve of having them built.
Garth finally turned on his heel and stormed off. Petra shot Dale Bowen an apologetic glance before hurrying after Garth in her killer shoes. This project was becoming more complicated by the moment, and she couldn’t help worrying.
Please, Lord, she prayed, please help me work it all out. For once, Lord, help me get it right!
* * *
Bam! The pickup truck rocked as Dale slammed the door. He took a firm grip on the steering wheel with both hands and closed his eyes, calming himself.
Okay, Lord, he thought, it’s obvious this job isn’t going to be easy.
“Man,” he added aloud, “that guy rubs me the wrong way!”
Sucking air in through his nose, Dale blew it out again through his mouth. An image of Special Assistant Petra popped up in his mind. Average height with a truly lovely face, she had captured his interest instantly. Unfortunately, she was obviously very “special” to Garth Anderton, even though he had to be forty if he was a day, and she couldn’t be older than her mid-twenties.
Not that it’s any of my business, Dale admitted silently, frowning.
Business. He’d somehow forgotten the importance of this job as soon as he’d laid eyes on the woman, which wasn’t like him at all, especially considering that business had been slow these past couple of years and the doctor had told his dad to take it easy. Sitting back in his seat, Dale closed his eyes again and began to pray.
Lord, You know that we need this job. This one job could let Dad step back, maybe even retire, so please give me what it takes to see it through. Amen.
Feeling better, Dale started up his white, double-cab truck and eased it out of the alley and onto the street flanking the downtown square with its turn-of-the-century, pink granite courthouse and circa 1930s storefronts. A few blocks later, he turned right onto Chatam Avenue then made a sharp left.
He’d been guiding his truck through the black wrought iron gate and up the easy slope in the circular drive to the big antebellum mansion—built in 1860—on the hill for weeks now. Soon after Odelia Chatam and Kent Monroe, both in their seventies, had gotten engaged, the Chatam sisters had hired him to reconfigure several rooms into a suite for the newlyweds. Dale had been pleased to take on the job, but with the three sisters’ insistence that he not work before nine in the morning or after five in the afternoon, the project had been slow going.
Still, the Chatam sisters were generous Christian women. His buddy Garrett Willows had worked as their gardener after he’d gotten out of prison, and the sisters had allowed Dale to take time away from the Chatam House renovation in order to help Garrett and his new wife open a florist shop and plant nursery in Kent Monroe’s old Victorian house. Then they’d helped Garrett get a much-deserved pardon.
Pulling the truck through the porte cochere at the west side of the mansion, Dale parked it out of sight, then gathered his tools and let himself into the back hall through the yellow door. As was his custom, he stopped by the kitchen to elbow open the swinging door and let the cook know he was on the premises.
“Hilda, I’m here.”
“Well, that makes two of us, sugar,” she quipped, turning from the sink. As wide as she was tall, with lank, straight hair cropped just below her chin, she winked at him. “I’ll let the misses know.”
“Thanks.”
Backing out of the doorway, he continued down the hall to the end, only to turn right into another that flanked the massive marble-and-mahogany staircase, which anchored the foyer at the front of the house. Dale always looked up when he started the climb. He dearly loved the painted ceiling with its ruffled clouds and white feathers against a sunny blue backdrop. No one could tell him who the artist had been, but he’d certainly been a genius.
The grand staircase, with its yellow marble steps and ornately carved mahogany banister, was an architectural wonder that few could appreciate more than the skilled carpenter who crossed the landing and went to work opening a new doorway into the unfinished suite.
Dale managed the chore with a minimum of noise and mess, while wolfing down his lunch, answering numerous phone calls from other jobs and, if he were to be honest, thinking about the blonde whom he’d left back at the hotel. He couldn’t help wondering about her. She hadn’t worn a ring, so he assumed she was single, but that didn’t mean she was unattached. Anderton had made his in
terest in her clear enough.
That didn’t mean they were involved, though.
Neither did it mean that Dale ought to get involved with her himself. He wanted an old-fashioned Christian girl, like his mom, a homemaker who valued family above all else. All he knew about Petra was that he was attracted to her. Maybe he’d get a chance to know her better, and maybe he wouldn’t. That was up to God.
Dale nailed the header in place with just enough time remaining in the workday to clean up the site before heading home. He pulled out his phone to call home and let everyone know that he was on his way. With his attention on his phone, he wandered out onto the broad landing toward the stairwell, only to bump into someone coming from the other direction.
“Sorry!”
Looking up, Dale meant to reply to the surprised female voice with an apology for not watching where he was going—and nearly dropped his phone, along with his jaw.
Petra stood on the top step in her bare feet, one slender hand on the curled end of the banister, the other holding her black-and-white shoes by the heels. Her sleek ponytail lay across one shoulder.
For a moment, Dale thought he’d conjured her up from his imagination, but then he backed up a step and watched recognition overtake her. Shock swiftly followed.
He knew just how she felt, especially when she smiled.
Chapter Two
“You!” they both said. “What are you doing here?”
Dale grinned. “I work here,” he supplied.
At the same time, she said, “I live here.”
They both laughed, and Dale spread his arms, trying to take in the situation. That simple act seemed to kick his brain into gear.
“Did you say that you live here?”
“That’s right,” she answered, nodding. “My aunts invited me to move in until the hotel is finished. Once I’m manager, I’ll find my own place.”
“You’re a Chatam!” Dale declared, smacking himself in the forehead—with his phone, as it turned out.
“Petra Chatam,” she confirmed, comprehension dawning in her warm amber eyes. “Ah. Garth didn’t say, did he?”
“No. No, he didn’t,” Dale agreed, feeling ridiculously pleased. “But I should’ve known.”
She raised her slender eyebrows at that. “How on earth could you?”
He reached out to tap the delicate cleft in her dainty chin, but at the last moment thought better of the gesture and reached back to tap his own chin instead. “That and the eyes. Though yours are darker, which is odd because your hair is so…” Beautiful, he thought inanely. He managed, belatedly, to say, “Light.”
She tilted her head. “You work here?”
He pointed behind him. “On the new suite.”
“I see. I didn’t realize. Well, it’s good of you to inspect the job that your crew is doing.”
“Uh, I am the crew on this particular job,” he informed her.
She blinked at that, and he could almost see himself coming down in her estimation, from partner and project manager to lowly carpenter. Uncharacteristically, his temper spiked. He was proud of what he did, proud of his skills and knowledge, proud to work with his father in a family-owned business, proud to be his own boss and provide jobs for others, proud of the quality of the work provided by Bowen & Bowen Construction. But he didn’t kid himself that he lived on the same plain as Garth Anderton. Or the Chatams for that matter.
Shocked to find that it suddenly did matter, he frowned and heard himself say, “Your boss is in for a tough time with the Historical Society.”
She parked her hands at her waist, the shoes sticking out in sharp-toed splendor from the fist that gripped them. “Maybe they’re in for a tough time with him. It’s not like he doesn’t have a great deal of experience, you know. He has done this before.”
“He hasn’t done it in Buffalo Creek.”
“True. But I’m sure his experience elsewhere will prompt him to—”
“Make enemies of the Society, most likely,” Dale put in testily.
“You don’t know that!” she shot back.
“I know his type,” Dale snapped. “Used to throwing his weight around and getting what he wants when he wants it.”
She bowed her head in an obvious attempt to curb her own tongue. Dale knew that he’d do well to follow her example, but something about Garth Anderton provoked him even when the guy was not around.
“Look,” he said in a softer tone, “I just want to avoid trouble. I know every member of the Society, and they’re not going to take kindly to any attempt at cutting corners.”
“Anderton doesn’t cut corners,” she insisted. “It’s just that time is of the essence.”
“Uh-huh,” Dale retorted gracelessly. “I don’t think the Society’s idea of the importance of time and his are the same thing. They honor times past and seek to preserve for the future what it leaves behind. Anderton’s after a quick buck.”
“He’s a businessman,” she argued. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing,” he conceded. “I’m a businessman myself, but I know something about historical sites, restoration and those who care about them. Believe me, the only way to save time here is to get it right from the first.”
She bit her lip, eyelashes batting. Clearly, she didn’t agree but wouldn’t argue the point further. Dale wished that he’d bitten his tongue, but the best thing he could do now was beat a hasty retreat before he upset her further.
“I, uh, I have to go. It, um, was nice to meet you. Again.”
Wincing inwardly, he twisted past her and pounded down the stairs, mentally kicking himself. Really, could he have been any more confrontational? Any less suave? He pictured Garth Anderton’s urbane face and the way he’d so possessively slipped his arm about Petra Chatam’s shoulders in the elevator earlier. Suddenly, Dale wanted to pound something else, if only to punish his own fists.
* * *
Moving toward her joint bedroom and sitting room with labored steps, Petra winced. That had gone about as well as her choice of footwear. The man had usurped her day from beginning to end. He “irritated” Garth, who had already given her orders to have him removed as the construction supervisor on the project. She’d already made an appointment to speak with Walton Bowen about the matter the next morning. As much as she dreaded the prospect, bumping into Dale right here at Chatam House somehow made it worse. Nevertheless, orders were orders.
Now, if only she could figure out how to go about the thing without offending everyone she knew and loved. Her brother, Asher, had sung the praises of Mr. Bowen the elder and his company. Now it turned out that her aunties had hired Mr. Bowen the younger to make the necessary changes in their beloved mansion. Great. Just great.
What was she supposed to say to the Bowens tomorrow, anyway? That the boss just didn’t like Dale? Or maybe that the younger man displayed entirely too much knowledge and confidence in his opinions? She certainly wasn’t going to admit that she would be as relieved as Garth to have Dale Bowen out of the way—but for other reasons entirely.
While changing into loose slacks, a knit top and her most comfortable flats, she decided that she would speak to her aunts about the matter. They seemed to know the Bowens. They might be able to advise her how best to approach the situation. Resolved, Petra padded into the well-appointed bedroom to comb her thick, straight hair before appearing downstairs.
As expected, she found her aunties and Kent Monroe in the front parlor, awaiting the dinner hour. Magnolia smiled at her from the armchair placed at a right angle to the settee, where Odelia and Kent cuddled, and the high-backed wingchair that Hypatia habitually claimed. Hypatia looked around as the others smiled in Petra’s direction. Her mood lightening already, Petra smiled back, if only because Odelia sat swathed
in layers of peach chiffon, from the big fluffy bow in her white hair to the ruffled toes of what looked suspiciously like bedroom slippers, not that Odelia gave a fig. She wore what she wanted and let the world gawk—and Kent moon. He did so adore her, and that was another reason to smile. The fact that he habitually hauled his great belly onto his feet in gesture of old-world gentility whenever a woman entered the room was yet another.
“Oh, Pet,” Odelia trilled, using the nickname that Petra’s late grandfather had coined. Odelia waved a lace hanky, jiggling the enormous square rhinestones clipped to her earlobes. They resembled framed, faceted mirrors. “Come and join us.”
Magnolia gestured toward another armchair at the end of the rectangular piecrust tea table, sadly lacking a tea tray at the moment. Petra rarely drank the stuff, especially in the summer, but tea was somehow necessary at Chatam House, as much a part of the gracious atmosphere as the antiques and old-world manners. And after the day she’d had, Petra could have used a cup.
“It’s so nice to have a young person in the house again,” Hypatia decreed, though in truth Garrett, Jessa and their young son Hunter had vacated the premises only a few weeks ago, along with Ellie Monroe, Kent’s granddaughter and Petra’s new sister-in-law. Dressed for dinner in her customary silk and pearls, her silver hair twisted into its customary chignon, Hypatia inclined her neat head as if she were a queen acknowledging a subject, but the elegant old dear was nothing if not loving and kind.
“How are things going at the hotel?” Magnolia asked. Ever the practical one, she wore her shirtwaist dresses until they were threadbare, augmenting them with odd pieces of her late father’s attire and on occasion trading her penny loafers for galoshes. Her steel-gray hair lay upon her slender shoulder in its usual simple braid.
Looking at the three of them, Petra felt her heart swell. She’d always found acceptance and unconditional love here. Not that her own parents, brothers and sisters didn’t love her, of course. It was just that she’d somehow never quite measured up to the rest of them.
