by Jan Hudson
He shrugged. “Things happen. Priorities change.” Dan stopped in front of a large old house that had once been a grand residence. He leaned against its magnificent cast-iron fence, now pocked and rusting from neglect, and stared at the vacant wooden structure that was on the verge of collapse. “How sad,” he said. “It must have been beautiful in its day.”
Knowing that Dan had closed the door to any more personal disclosures, Tess sighed and reminded herself that she must be patient. She leaned against the fence and turned her attention to the decaying two-story house with its ornate towers, curlicued cupola, and “For Sale” sign in front. Most of the windows were boarded up, and only raw lumber props kept the second floor’s sagging portico from crashing down on its Greek Revival twin below.
“It was. I have pictures at home. As I recall, it was built in 1886 by one of Galveston’s leading citizens. Or rebuilt, I should say, when the two smaller houses that were joined together and enhanced. Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe that it once housed a wealthy family who gave grand formal balls. Until it became uninhabitable a few years ago, it had declined to a rather shabby apartment house with wash hanging from the top gallery.”
“Doesn’t Galveston have a historical society to save wonderful houses like this one?”
“Of course,” Tess said. “An excellent one, but the island is filled with magnificent old homes going to seed, some even listed in the National Registry. They do as much as they can, but finances are limited. This one survived the great hurricane and the grade-raising, but it can’t survive neglect. It’s a miracle some of these houses survived Hurricane Ike in 2008. That storm devastated a lot of the island’s real estate.”
“I heard about it. Were you here when it hit?”
She shook her head. “No, but Aunt Olivia was. She and Hook evacuated early to Austin and stayed until the all clear. Luckily, she didn’t have any major damage.”
“You mentioned the grade-raising. What’s a grade raising?”
“Galveston used to be much lower,” Tess explained. “After the hurricane of 1900 killed thousands of people and almost leveled the town, the stalwart citizens who decided to stay built the seawall and raised the level of the island. Some of the buildings were jacked up and fill was put underneath. Others, like our house and this one, lost most of their basements. My ancestors, the Prophets, decided to fill in their ground floor—to turn it into the house’s basement—rather than risk structural damage by raising the house. Our yard was originally three feet lower, and this one was about the same.”
Dan shook his head and his face betrayed his pain as his gaze swept over the deteriorating, once-elegant residence. “Such a waste. It almost cries out to be saved. I wish there was something I could do. Once I considered—” His words trailed off as he turned abruptly from the house. “Hadn’t we better be going if we’re going to hang paintings?”
Tess waved a hand dismissively. “We have plenty of time.” Cocking her head and narrowing her eyes as a thought occurred to her, she said, “Do you really like old houses?”
“Sure. Is that so strange? I told you I studied architecture.”
“I guess IVe always associated modern architects with split-level houses or those giant smoked-glass phallic symbols that spring up in the cities and rape the sky.”
Dan laughed. “I take it you don’t approve of skyscrapers?”
Tess made a derisive sound. “Hate them. Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand. “I want to show you something special. It’s only a couple of blocks out of the way. You’ll love it.”
He matched his long stride with hers as she took off down the intersection. “Where are we going now?”
“I’m going to show you my house.”
“But I’ve seen your house. I’m staying there, remember?”
“That’s Aunt Olivia’s house. Oh, I suppose it’s half mine since my grandmother left me her share, but I’ve never been comfortable with all those gilt chairs and gold chandeliers. I’ve always wanted something . . . bolder. Something with more personality. Character. The one I want to show you is going to be all mine. You’ve heard of The House of the Seven Gables’? Well, mine has nine.”
A few minutes later they were standing in front of the strangest house Daniel had ever seen. No, this imposing structure was not a house, he thought as he studied it carefully. It was a small palace, a peculiar hybrid of Moorish and Victorian Gothic with a battlement tower and an assortment of dormers and elaborately sculpted gables along the gray slate-covered roof.
The shrubbery in the small front garden area was badly overgrown, and tangles of vines almost covered the iron fence. More vines climbed upward through the dilapidated storm shutters, crawled over boarded windows, and clung to the rusticated cement stucco of the walls.
It certainly had character. But for the life of him, Daniel couldn’t decide if this complexity of voluptuously carved corbels, lintels, and cornices was ugly or beautiful.
Until he glanced at Tess.
She was gazing up at the pseudo-stone house as if transfixed. Her lovely lips were curled into one of those smiles that made him want to follow her like a lapdog. She glowed.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Her husky voice curled around him and drew him into the magic that seemed to surround her like an aura.
“Magnificent,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. Anything that could spark such fire in her eyes, such a rapt expression on her face, must be beautiful.
His gaze swept over her from the shock of full dark hair to the rubber soles of her leather sport shoes, then zeroed in on the green glass eyes of the lion painted on the front of her shirt. One of the emerald eyes, which caught the sun and glittered with her every breath, rested just above the crest of her right breast. It fascinated him, teased him, tempted him to reach out and touch it.
Its shimmer increased and he looked up to find her watching him. Her lips parted; her eyes seemed to smolder, to sear right through to his core. Sensuality pulsated from her lithe body, wrapped around him, and tugged at him with invisible fingers.
He took a step toward her. Then another. Oblivious to everything except Tess Cameron, he would have taken her in his arms if an SUV hadn’t pulled alongside of them at that moment.
A middle-aged woman poked her head out the window. “Excuse me. Which way to the Railroad Museum?”
The moment was lost.
Daniel wanted to curse.
Tess turned to the woman and smiled. “Straight ahead for seven blocks. Turn left on Strand and you’ll run right into it.”
“Thanks,” the woman said, waving as the SUV drove away.
Tess stood on the curb and returned the wave. It was not so much a friendly gesture as an opportunity to gather her wits and give her heart time to slow down. One look from the depths of Dan Friday’s blue-gray eyes and she had almost attacked him in the middle of the East End Historical District at two o’clock in the afternoon.
If she’d ever had any doubt about Dan’s potential for passion, it was gone now. She felt as if she’d been inside a bottle rocket. She took a deep breath, puffed her cheeks and blew it out.
Pasting a bright smile on her face, Tess turned and said, “Would you like a look inside? I have a key.”
Not waiting for an answer, she grabbed his hand and dragged him past the “For Sale” sign and up the eighteen steps to the front entry. Her fingers were trembling so badly that even after three stabs at it, she couldn’t get the key in the lock.
Dan took the key from her and opened it on the first try. When he held the door for her, she flounced past him, irked to no end that his hands were steady. Obviously she hadn’t had the effect on him that he had had on her.
“It’s pretty grim inside,” she said, her voice echoing through the darkened house. “At some time or another it was chopped up into apartments. Walls will have to be knocked out and the entire inside redone, but I think it’s structurally sound. Isn’t that flowered wallpaper ghastly?” She detoured
around some mouse droppings. “Looks like I’ll need an exterminator, too.”
“Mmmm.” Dan stepped over a rotting section of the floor and followed her through the rooms.
“Isn’t the staircase fantastic? It only needs a couple of spindles replaced. Stripped and refinished, it will be beautiful. And the fireplaces are all in fairly good shape. Italian marble, most of them. Can you imagine how beautiful it can be with everything done in bright colors and a comfortable eclectic look? I want Russian samovars and Persian rugs and big cushy couches. Can you imagine the possibilities?”
Her enthusiasm was infectious. Daniel grinned. “Yes, I believe I can.”
“Of course you can. I forgot you’re an architect.” Her eyes widened. “I have an idea. Would you help me restore it?”
His grin widened. “For room and board?”
“If you like, but I’ll be happy to pay your fee.”
Daniel crammed his hands in his pockets and looked around. It would be a challenge. An exciting one. Then he frowned. “Most of the interior would have to be gutted. I’m sure it would need new wiring and new plumbing. Do you have any idea how expensive such a project would be?”
Tess shrugged. “I figure that the cost of the house, restoration, and refurnishing would be about two million—plus the ten thousand dollars earnest money I’ve put down to hold it for sixty days.”
Dan’s eyebrows raised. “And you can afford to lay out that much cash?”
She laughed. “Hardly. Although I did very well when I quit my job and got out of the stock market after I came to Galveston, most of the capital is invested in my businesses.”
“Your businesses? I thought you just worked part time at the Mermaid. What happened to your kick back and enjoy life attitude?”
“Oh, I did. I do. I’m a lazy entrepreneur. When I decided to stay after Aunt Olivia broke her hip, I planned to do nothing more than enjoy all the things I’d never had time for before. But I love Galveston and I wanted to do my part to help restore the grand old dame to at least a part of her former glory.” She leaned against the black walnut banister and her hand absently stroked the fine, neglected wood. “So I bought a half block of the Strand and provided the cash for my partners’ businesses. They’re excellent investments like the Mermaid, Sea Song Gallery, a couple of boutiques. And, though, it’s not on the Strand, Luis’s Custom Conversions. My partners in each business provide the skills and management in exchange for forty-nine percent of the profits. I simply lend a hand now and then for fun.
She looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve had my fill of the fast-paced, nose-to-the-grindstone life. When I moved to Galveston, Dan, I was plagued with headaches and backaches and neckaches. I didn’t even know I’d been clenching my teeth for years. I had to wear a special splint in my mouth for months to get my jaw back to normal. Now my biggest worry is hanging a few paintings or finding a substitute driver for the Mermaid’s delivery wagon.”
Tess watched his reaction carefully, hoping he would ask her more, hoping he would see the parallel between her former life and his. Apparently it went past him. He acknowledged her disclosure with only a “Hmmm.”
“Do you plan to get a couple million dollars’ credit?” he asked. “That’s a big commitment for someone who doesn’t want any worries.”
She slowly shook her head. “Nope. No loan.”
“Then how do you plan to pay for all this?” He looked around the dirty, decaying rooms. “With buried treasure?”
She ignored his sarcastic comment, and a big grin spread over her face.
“Exactly.”
Chapter 4
Dan looked at Tess as if she’d lost her mind. “I can’t believe you’re serious. Are you talking about the same screwball scheme that Gram was? I thought you were just humoring an old lady’s fantasies.”
“I’m perfectly serious. Aunt Martha told you we have Jean Laffite’s map and directions from—”
He gave a derisive snort. “A treasure map? Good God, Tess, that’s one of the oldest cons on earth. Out of all that assortment of oddballs, I was beginning to think that you, at least, had some sense.” His eyes narrowed. “How much did you pay for this map?”
Fighting the urge to sock him right in the middle of his gorgeous Roman nose, Tess ground her teeth together. How could she be about to throw herself in his arms one minute and be tempted to brain him the next?
“Not . . . one . . . penny. Give me some credit, Friday. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck.” She wheeled and stomped out of the house with Dan close behind her.
After she locked the door, they walked on toward the Strand without exchanging one word. It was Dan who finally broke the silence.
“Tess, I apologize. Why don’t you tell me about the map.”
Still stinging from his comments, she glanced over at him, trying to assess his motives. Was he truly interested or was he looking for more ammunition to debunk their plans? He looked innocent enough, but she was sick and tired of hearing him bad-mouth the people she loved.
“It appears to me, Daniel Friday, that you have a very bad habit of jumping to all sorts of erroneous conclusions. Are you really the pompous, self-righteous, crepe-hanger you seem to be, or have I misinterpreted your behavior?” She smiled sweetly.
Dan chuckled at her set down. “I suppose I have been acting like a condescending . . . jerk. I usually wait until I have all the facts before I make decisions. About situations and people. I’m honestly sorry, Tess. My only excuse it that I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t we all?”
He grinned. “Why do I get the impression that I’m the cause of it?”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
He laughed. “Will you forgive me if I promise to try to do better?”
Tess sniffed. “I tentatively accept your tentative apology.”
“Fair enough.” He hooked her arm in his as they walked. “Now will you tell me about the map?”
“Maybe later.” It was not in her nature to hold a grudge, but Tess figured it would do Dan good to wonder a while longer. “You might be interested in this street,” she said as they stopped at an intersection. “This part has some lovely old homes, but a few blocks west used to be one of the South’s most famous red-light districts. It was originally named Avenue E, but it’s better known as Post office Street.”
His brows went up. “Because the naughty ladies liked to play Post Office?”
She laughed. “No, because the post office is on this street. A couple of blocks down that way.” She pointed to her right. “Some of the bawdy houses were quite grand, I understand, and they operated quite openly from the late eighteen-hundreds until they were closed down in the fifties.”
“Where were the police all this time?”
“Taking bribes, I imagine,” Tess answered as they walked on. “Or simply looking the other way. Underneath its genteel facade, Galveston was a wild and wooly, wide-open town. Even during Prohibition and in the later days when most of Texas was dry, liquor flowed freely here, and there were lots of gambling clubs on the island that made a few of its residents rich. You should hear Aunt Olivia tell about the Texas Rangers throwing slot machines into the Gulf and raiding some of the fancier gaming rooms. She was incensed that the Texas attorney general butted into the island’s business. Most people around here simply winked and ignored the town’s vices and eccentricities. They still do. Galvestonians are a tolerant lot.”
“Do you mean it’s still going on?”
Tess straightened her spine and feigned a wide-eyed look. “Why, Mista Friday,” she drawled, “such things are illegal in Texas.”
They both laughed and, as they continued their walk, she slipped her hand into his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His fingers closed around hers and, as Dan looked at her, his eyes shone with indulgent tenderness and an unspoken promise of things to come. It was a potent look, and Tess felt almost giddy from it.
&nbs
p; A few minutes later, they arrived at Sea Song Gallery, which was on the Strand, two doors down from the Mermaid. Tess introduced Dan to Nancy Vaughn, a slender black woman who was her partner in the gallery. When a customer came in, Tess wiggled her fingers at Nancy and led Dan back to the storeroom.
“These are the ones we have to hang,” she said, pointing out a dozen large paintings and a half dozen smaller ones, still in their wrappings from the framer. “Let’s do the big ones first.”
She and Dan worked well together. In half an hour they had stripped off all the coverings and had tentatively placed the larger oils along the walls and display flats. Tess went back to the storeroom for a pair of the smaller watercolor pieces, and when she returned, she found Dan sitting on the floor, staring at one of the canvases that leaned against a cream-colored wall.
“Dan?” He didn’t look up. She knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. “Dan, is something wrong?”
As if in a fog, he turned to her. “Pardon?”
“I asked if something was wrong.”
He shook his head and turned back to the painting, a three-by-five foot underwater fantasy of cavorting sea nymphs. “This is magnificent. They’re all magnificent.” He waved his hand over the collection. “I’ve never seen such an unusual combination of power and delicacy. I can almost hear the musical sounds of the ocean and the nymphs’ laughter.”
Tess grinned as Dan rose and went from one to the other, studying each of the paintings, about half of which were abstracts. “Good. You’re supposed to be able to. It’s called the Sea Song series in honor of the formal opening of the gallery.”
“This is a local artist?” Dan sounded surprised. “Tess, every one of these paintings is museum-quality.” He peered at the lower right corner of two of the pieces. “Who is it? The only signature I can make out is something that looks like a fishhook.”
“It is a fishhook,” she said. “That’s the way he signs all his work.”
“So it is a man. I couldn’t be sure. Something in the style and power of the strokes told me it was, but I couldn’t imagine the same man being able to express such delicacy and sensitivity.” He went back to sit beside Tess in front of the underwater fantasy. “This one particularly fascinates me. Something about the nymphs seems familiar.”
