His Marriage Bonus. Cathy Thacker Gillen
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I do, but I can’t afford the upkeep, taxes and insurance on two multimillion-dollar properties.”
Mitch joined her at the sill and easily raised the pane she had been unable to budge. “Surely you’ve got some money coming from a trust fund,” he argued, as fresh spring air, redolent with the heady fragrance of flowers, poured into the room.
Lauren went to the next window and unlatched it. “It’s all tied up in Heyward Shipping Company stock,” she said as Mitch helped her lift that one, too. “I own forty-nine percent of the company, but I’m forbidden from selling a penny of it until I’m fifty. Or become an acting partner in the company, along with my father.”
“That seems harsh,” Mitch commiserated, as another draft of fresh air poured into the room. He and his siblings all had trusts from which they could draw forth on a yearly basis, regardless of what career they chose for themselves. And though they all preferred to support themselves with their own efforts, the money was still there for whatever they chose to use it for, even if it was nothing more than a financial safety net.
“It is harsh,” Lauren concluded with a beleaguered sigh. “But then that’s my father. He wants what he wants and he doesn’t care what kind of machinations he has to go through to get it.”
“And what he wants is you to be an active participant in the family company.” Mitch understood that. His father had wanted the same thing from his children. Only Mitch had been interested in working alongside Tom, however. His younger brother, Gabe, had gone into medicine. His older brother, Chase, had started a magazine for men. And his baby sister, Amy, had started her own redecorating business.
“Right,” Lauren said as she inspected the elaborate, composition-decorated brass and marble mantel. “But I have no interest in the shipping business.”
That could be disastrous for the company she was inheriting. Especially given the rapid changes that were now happening in the centuries-old business. But figuring Lauren wouldn’t be interested in the impact the Internet was having on the industry, any more than his father currently seemed to be, Mitch let the subject go. “How’d you get involved in real estate anyway?” Mitch asked as Lauren continued to inspect the intricate frieze carvings around the doors and windows.
“I like houses.” Lauren ran her fingertips across the painted white paneling on the walls, disturbing a surprisingly thick layer of dust. “Love seeing what’s inside them. And helping find the perfect owner for each house.”
Mitch grinned as Lauren blew the dust off her hand. “Instead of the perfect house for each owner.”
Lauren pivoted toward him, her eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and pique. “And your distinction is…?” she prodded.
Mitch shrugged, and seeing no reason not to be forthright, said, “I get the feeling you care more about the homes than the people who buy them.” There was a very real tenderness about her as she looked over the house and determined what it would need in the way of time and attention. It was as if she felt the people could fend for themselves—these lovely old houses couldn’t—their very existence rested on continued loving care. Which, sad to say, some home owners and investors obviously were not motivated to give.
Lauren released a short, amused breath. “That’s a very shrewd observation,” she volleyed right back, holding his eyes. “And I’d probably be offended if it weren’t so true.”
Knowing she wasn’t alone in her feelings of reverence for the historic district, but a little surprised she would be so candid about her emotions, nevertheless, Mitch asked, “Why do you feel that way?”
Lauren led the way back out into the hall, back past the library and the spacious and once-elegant formal dining room, to the kitchen. “Think about it,” she said as she walked into a room with uneven floors, no appliances whatsoever and only the most rudimentary of metal sinks. She peered into the pantry, which housed several outdated cans of sardines, a bag of rotting onions and two empty mousetraps.
Holding her nose, Lauren plucked up the mesh bag and carried the seeping mess to the metal garbage can sitting just outside the back door. She dumped it inside, then went back to the sink to wash her hands. “Charleston was founded in 1670 and it’s the oldest city between Virginia and Florida. The homes in the historic district have been here for several hundred years. They’ve weathered hurricanes and wars and all sorts of other calamities, and yet they are still standing, strong and proud. Homes like this are worth preserving.”
“I agree with you there.” Mitch opened a window, letting much-needed fresh air into the stuffy room, while Lauren knelt down to inspect the massive brick fireplace. “The historic section of Charleston is one of the most beautiful and memorable residential areas I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been in some of the finest homes up and down the East Coast. You didn’t grow up here, though.” Seeing she was about done, Mitch offered Lauren a hand up.
“No.” Lauren smoothed her trim coral skirt over her hips. “My father wanted to live in the country. So we lived out at the family estate in Summerville, where he still resides on weekends.”
Mitch knew the place—some forty-five minutes away. Payton Heyward’s estate was a magnificent property, renowned for its beauty and historical significance. “But you have a double here in the city.”
Lauren led the way down the hall to a series of small rooms that had once functioned as servants’ quarters. “You’ve been doing your homework.” She studied him with a mixture of suspicion and respect.
Mitch shrugged, turned and stepped back against the wall to let her pass in the very narrow hall. “You received a Carolopolis Award for the revitalization of that home when you were done with it. Everyone knew about it.” The historic town home, which was exactly two rooms across, upstairs and down, had been photographed and featured in the Charleston newspaper.
“What’s so special about this house,” Mitch continued, as Lauren smiled and led the way up the back staircase, “except for its size?”
Lauren slanted him a glance over her shoulder, her soft golden-brown hair brushing lightly against her pretty face. “It bothers me, the way it’s been neglected. The family could have cared less about it,” she continued as Mitch reached the second floor and began following her through a series of bedrooms, baths and sitting rooms, all seeming in equally bad condition. “They opened it to the public sporadically to raise enough money to keep on paying the taxes, but they didn’t bother to take care of it in the process.” Lauren paused to consider the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the massive upstairs library. “There’s water damage all over the place, from leaks in both the plumbing and the roof. The floors, as you can see, need to be repaired and refinished. The kitchen is completely inadequate. And the whole house probably needs to be rewired from top to bottom.”
“And yet,” Mitch said as they headed on down the hall to the music slash ballroom, “you’re willing to take it on.”
Lauren turned to him with a smile as she walked through the spacious party room. “I could make several million selling it when I am finished.”
Mitch had the feeling if she ever finished fixing it up and restoring it to its former glory, she would have so much invested in it, she wouldn’t want to sell it. “Or you could turn it into a museum,” he said.
“Or a bed-and-breakfast.” Lauren opened the lid and fingered the chipped ivory keys on a badly neglected baby grand piano.
“Are you thinking about that?” Mitch grinned as her noodling picked up speed and the familiar melody line of “Heart and Soul” filled the room.
He took over the bass and joined her in an impromptu duet of his childhood favorite. “I can’t really see myself as an innkeeper,” she admitted, making a face, as they continued to play on the hideously out-of-tune instrument. “I don’t particularly like cleaning up after people. Tidying up after strangers is even worse. But you’re right, I could make it a museum.”
Mitch studied her as the song wound down to an end and they stepped