Building a Perfect Match. Arlene James
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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 interest 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.”