A while later, he glanced at the clock. “You hungry?”
Phylicia laid her brush down. “Famished!”
“I’ll go grab us something to eat.” He went to the kitchen to take Joanna and Britt’s orders.
Half an hour later, when he returned with sandwiches from Panera, Phylicia was doing some kind of paint treatment on the fireplace. He’d never been a fan of painting over brick, but this method let a lot of the natural brick show through, while considerably lightening up the overall look. He watched as she dabbed and brushed with confidence. “Have you done this … technique before?”
A corner of her mouth quirked. “Nope. But I’ve watched every episode of Fixer Upper ever aired and about a hundred how-to videos.”
He laughed. “God bless YouTube. I’ve watched my share trying to finish my house.”
She stopped, paintbrush aloft, and turned to him. “How’s that coming along?”
“Slow. Very slow.” He held out a short stack of Panera boxes, not wanting to reveal that his after-hours work here at the cottages was partly why progress on his own house had come to a screeching halt. “Can you take a break and eat something?”
“Mmm, definitely. But first … I need to stretch.” She groaned as she rose from her haunches. “I forgot what hard work this is. Chip and Joanna make it look way too easy.”
“Yes, but look at the results.” His gaze swept the space. “What a difference.”
“It’s looking really good, isn’t it? I can’t wait to start bringing in furniture.” She held up a hand in warning before hollering at her sisters in the next room. “Lunch is here!”
A paint-splattered Joanna and Britt appeared in the arched doorway to the kitchen.
Joanna’s gaze fell on the half-finished fireplace. “Wow! That’s looking really good, sis. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Thanks.” Phylicia brushed her hands off on her jeans. “And hey, can you two come to Mom and Dad’s house tomorrow and help sort through furniture?”
They both nodded, eagerly took the boxes Quinn offered, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
“I haven’t seen the house since it was listed.” Quinn unwrapped his sandwich. “Do you know if your dad has had any bites?”
Phylicia frowned. “One showing. And no offer.”
“Don’t worry. It’s still early. Is your dad coming for the open house?” It looked as if she was the one carrying the burden of the deal.
Shrugging, she took her wrapped panini from the box. “I don’t know. I … haven’t talked to him.” She dropped the sandwich, still in its wrapper, back in the box. “Let me go wash my hands and get us something to drink.”
Quinn wanted to throttle Turner Chandler for placing this extra burden on his daughters. They were already reeling from too many difficult changes and the stress of a purchase they hadn’t really sought. Quinn felt somewhat responsible, since he’d let Turner “bully” him into influencing the sisters, though he still thought they’d made a wise decision.
He hadn’t spoken to Turner since his boss had called to inform Quinn that the money from Myra’s inheritance had been deposited into their daughters’ accounts. And Turner had been in a big hurry to get off the phone. Quinn had barely had time to congratulate him on his engagement. In fact, thinking back on it, Quinn couldn’t remember having a decent conversation with his boss since he’d left for Florida. Quite the contrary. He had recurring fantasies about calling the man and letting him have it. Maybe he still would, especially now that the property had been safely transferred to the daughters’ ownership. It probably wasn’t any of his business, but he’d come to love these women like sisters.
The thought scarcely took shape before honesty blew it to smithereens.
He glanced over at Phylicia who was attempting to fix her ponytail in the dim mirror over the mantel. His gaze swept her silhouette, wanting to linger longer but resisting the temptation. Even dressed in ratty jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, she drew a man’s eye. And no way did this man see Phylicia Chandler as a sister.
Far from it. And it was getting worse every hour he spent with her.
Phee gave up on making her hair look decent and wadded it into a messy knot on top of her head. If she’d been certain that Quinn was “the paint guy,” she would not have rolled out of bed at the last minute and showed up with no makeup and unwashed hair. But she didn’t want to be too obvious either. The thought stopped her short.
What did she care how she looked for Quinn Mitchell? She’d caught herself having similar thoughts far too often recently.
She glanced up at the bouquet of wilting roses on the mantel. Britt’s flowers. Dad had sent all three of them roses for Valentine’s Day, and Britt had been so thrilled she’d toted the vase out to the property with her. Not that getting flowers from Dad was surprising.
Phee couldn’t remember a Valentine’s Day they hadn’t received roses from him, even when they were still living at home. Pink ones for the girls and yellow for Mom. After she started working at Langhorne Blooms, Dad continued to order from there, but Mary was sworn to secrecy.
Still, Phee hadn’t expected roses from Dad this year. Not when he’d made himself so distant. And not when he had someone new to buy flowers for now. At least he hadn’t forgotten his daughters. They’d each gone home from the closing meeting to find a delivery attempt had been made, and later that evening, roses were delivered to each of them at their respective addresses. They’d texted each other photos, comparing notes. He’d signed the card the same to each of them: Love, Dad. That was all. She wondered what he’d written on Karleen’s card.
Phee had been almost relieved—and then felt guilty at her relief—when her roses wilted the fourth day. She’d thrown them in the Dumpster outside her apartment building before leaving this morning. Mary would have insisted on replacing the flowers if she’d known they hadn’t lasted a week, but Phee wasn’t about to tell her. Besides, she hadn’t exactly taken good care of her bouquet. As if that might prove something to Dad.
Shaking off the unsettling thoughts, she picked up the sandwich box Quinn had left for her on the mantel and turned toward the kitchen.
He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s close to fifty degrees out there already. You want to get some fresh air and try out the front porch?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Hang on a sec …” She crossed to the kitchen doorway and called to her sisters. “We’re going to eat on the front porch. Want to join us?”
From her perch at the top of a low ladder, Britt pointed at two empty Panera boxes on the kitchen counter. “Thanks, but we already ate.”
“Besides, we’re about to whip this baby out.” Joanna towered above both of them, standing on a countertop, touching up painted cupboards that reached all the way to the ten-foot ceilings.
“It’s looking great in here.” Phee felt bad she hadn’t commented before. “I can’t believe how much we’ve gotten done in a few hours.”
“Many hands make light work.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Phee tried to keep her voice light, but it was Mom’s favorite quote, and Britt sounded just like her.
Britt beamed at the compliment.
Phee quickly changed the subject. “Okay. We’re taking a quick break, then I’ll be back to help you finish up.”
Quinn was still waiting by the front door, sandwich in hand. He followed her outside, then leaned against the porch railing with the sun at his back. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Feels like spring.”
She hopped up to sit on the railing a few feet from him. “I wish it was. There’s so much I want to do out here.” She looked up at the cobweb-strewn ceiling. “Paint this ceiling, for one. Blue.”
“Haint blue? Like all good Southern porches?”
“Haint?”
“That’s what the color is called—haint blue. I think it means ghost.”
“Huh-uh. There will be no talk of ghosts in this house.” Shaking her head, she leaned to peer
into the house through the open front door. “Especially not in earshot of Britt.”
“Why? Is she afraid of ghosts?”
“Not ghosts. At least I don’t think so. But”—she rolled her eyes—“as the whole town now knows, she’s chicken to stay alone. Even in town at Mom and Dad’s. And if she hears even a hint about ghosts—or bats or mice, for that matter—we’ll never get her to stay out here.”
He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and “zipped” his lips. “Then you did not hear that thing about ghosts from me.”
“Let’s just call it aqua, shall we?”
“Huh?”
“The color for the porch ceilings.”
“Ah. Aqua it is. Aqua all the way.” He took a man-sized bite of his sandwich. “And gray for the floor?”
She rubbed her toe across the peeling paint underfoot. It had originally been a traditional soft gray color. “We’ll have to scrape it first.”
“That won’t take long. So, when do you want to start painting out here?”
“Let’s finish the inside first. Will you be around next Saturday?”
“I’ll be around any night this week—if you want.”
“Really? That’d be great.” She took a long swig from her water bottle. “The three of us will probably come out here every night. Except I don’t think Jo can come tomorrow night.”
“With three or four of us, we can probably knock out a bedroom a night. We’d be ready to paint that porch by Saturday … top to bottom.”
“Wow. We could be moving in by next week.” It almost didn’t seem possible.
“You really could.”
“Yes, but this was the easy one.” She frowned. “The other two cottages aren’t going to be done in a week.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Or a month, for that matter.”
“True.” He grinned at her and took a step closer, smoothing a thumb over her cheek.
His hands were warm and his touch surprisingly soft, but she grabbed the rail and reared back, startled.
“Sorry.” He pulled his hand away and took a step back, looking embarrassed. “You had a spot … of paint … on your cheek.” He touched his own cheek in the same spot.
She rubbed at the place he’d touched, feeling her face warm. What was wrong with her? It had been a totally innocent gesture. It wasn’t as if he was putting the moves on her or something. “Did I get it?”
“Almost.”
She jumped down from the railing, desperate to escape. “I … need a mirror.”
She sought refuge in the house and hurried back to the bathroom. The room was dark and the mirror dingy, but the door afforded her some privacy to calm down. She was acting like an adolescent. Quinn must think she was a total fruitcake.
She washed the remaining paint off her cheek, redid her messy bun, and took a deep breath before opening the bathroom door.
When she entered the living room again, Quinn was already back at work, pulling tape up from the woodwork.
“Is it dry?” She tried to affect a nonchalant tone.
“Dry enough.” He kept working, not turning to face her. “I wouldn’t touch it or hang anything until morning, but we can pull up the tape and clean up the mess. See what it’s going to look like before it gets too dark.”
She helped him wad up the tape and fold the drop cloths. When they were finished, she quickly vacuumed up the dust, then put the vacuum away in the tiny hall closet. She stood in the hallway and looked through to the living room and what little of the dining room she could see into. “Big improvement.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Jo? Britt? Come in here.”
Her sisters appeared in the doorway.
“Looks awesome,” Britt said.
“Huge improvement,” Joanna agreed. “Give us twenty minutes and we’ll reveal the kitchen.”
“Can’t wait.”
Quinn motioned to her. “Help me carry this stuff out to the porch, and then I have something I want to show you.”
Her curiosity won over her nervousness at being so close to him.
Chapter 13
Quinn tossed the bag of trash he’d gathered into the back of his SUV and surreptitiously checked his reflection in the rear windshield, making sure he didn’t have paint on his own face.
He wished he could rewind the clock by an hour and undo his hasty actions. He shouldn’t have touched her. It was too forward. She’d put distance between them more than once. Maybe he just needed to take a hint. And in truth, he hadn’t meant his action to be so intimate. The problem was, he’d touched her so often in his imagination, in his dreams, that it felt like the most natural thing in the world to reach up and brush his palm across the softness of her cheek.
But if they were going to be working together here for any length of time, he needed to cool it with her. She obviously wasn’t interested.
“You wanted to show me something?”
He hadn’t heard her approach and turned to face her, immediately feeling guilty at his ruse. He did want to share something with her, but it had really just been an excuse to apologize—out of her sisters’ hearing.
“Yeah. Follow me.” He started up the hill into the wooded area behind the main cottage.
After a minute, he realized he didn’t hear her behind him. He turned to see her standing at the bottom of the hill. “You coming?”
“Where are we going?” Suspicion tinged her tone.
He truly was an idiot. Poor girl probably thought he was dragging her into the woods to accost her. “Sorry. I should have explained.” He went halfway down the hill, careful to leave some distance between them.
“Explained?”
“What I wanted to show you. When the inspector was here, we walked a ways into the woods. Found something kind of cool up here. It needs some work, but I think you guys will use it.”
“What is it?” Still suspicious.
So much for surprising her. “There’s a stairway built into the hill.”
“A stairway? Leading to what?”
“It’s hard to tell. It looks like maybe they had campfires up there. There’s kind of a clearing at the top.”
“That sounds cool. Jo and Britt will want to see this. Hang on …” She turned and started down the hill.
“Hey, Phylicia … Wait a sec.”
She turned back, looking up at him.
He came as close as he dared, wanting to put her at ease. “I wanted to talk to you—in private—first. If you don’t mind.”
She narrowed her eyes. “About what?”
“I’m sorry about … well, back there.” He motioned toward the porch. “I didn’t mean to … make you uncomfortable. With the paint.” He swiped at his own cheek again.
“Oh. No problem.” She pawed at a stick with the toe of her paint-splattered tennis shoe. “Is … that it?”
He shrugged. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just … saw the paint and didn’t think. I tend to have that problem.”
“Not thinking?” The hint of a grin came, then disappeared just as quickly. “It’s no big deal. Really.”
She sounded sincere, and relief washed over him. He’d dodged a bullet and he was grateful. “Okay. Thanks. Just wanted to make sure.”
“Can I get my sisters now?”
“Sure. The stairway is just at the top of that rise. You can almost see it from here if you know what you’re looking for.”
She shaded her eyes and squinted in the direction he was pointing, but shook her head. “Be right back.” She jogged down to the cottage and disappeared inside.
A few minutes later she was back with Joanna and Britt in tow.
“What’d you find? A secret stairway?” Britt looked intrigued.
“I don’t know about the secret part, but yes, there are steps up there.” Quinn nodded toward the hill before them.
“Are you sure they’re on our property?” Joanna had learned to look at everything from a
legal angle first.
“According to the inspector, they are. The clearing beyond—what I was telling you about, Phylicia—is right at the boundary line. Come on, I’ll show you.”
They trudged after him, the sisters chattering until the stairway came into view.
“Hey, that’s cool.” Britt scooted ahead of her sisters.
They followed him up the wide board-stairway. The wood had been painted a dark brown at one point, presumably to blend in with the wooded hillside, but the paint was mostly worn off and the wood weathered to gray. Even though a few of the steps were starting to rot out, they felt sturdy, built tight into the side of the hill as they were.
“Look how wide they are.” The suspicion was gone from Phylicia’s tone now, replaced by awe. She gave a couple of bounces on the first step. “They seem like they’re in pretty good shape.”
“The steps are. The clearing they lead to is pretty overgrown. I’m talking might-take-a-Bush-Hog overgrown. But I think it could be a really neat place. Potential.” He quickened his pace and beat them to the top, then held out a hand, smiling. “Ta-dah!”
Their reaction did not disappoint.
“This is incredible!” Joanna lifted her head, scanning the natural canopy of leafless branches.
“Just think what it’ll be like this summer. I bet when all the trees are leafed out, it’s twenty degrees cooler up here than out in the sun.”
Britt giggled like a little girl and went to sit on one of two low log benches someone had erected at one edge of the space. “This is amazing! Like our own little amphitheater. We could have concerts up here.”
“Well, you’d be a little limited. Keep in mind there’s no electricity up here.” Quinn hated to burst their bubble, but somebody had to be realistic.
“Weddings …” Joanna strode to the end of the clearing opposite the staircase. “You guys, we could do weddings up here. Think what a grand entrance a bride could make coming up those steps after the guests are already seated.” She paced off imaginary seating and an aisle, muttering to herself. “Do you know how much wedding venues make these days?”
Reason to Breathe Page 10
