At Wild Rose Cottage. Callie Endicott
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It wasn’t that she believed Trent or his men would pocket stuff, but after he’d tried so hard to buy the house, it was strange that he’d suddenly decided to be there every day.
Of course, she would have to leave part of the time. There was no way she could stay in the house for the weeks it would take to finish everything. She’d go stark-raving stir-crazy if she tried, but construction workers started early—she could do stuff for the Emporium in the late afternoon and evenings, and work there on the weekends.
“Emily?” Trent said from behind her. “Can we do a walk-through?”
“Sure.”
Accompanied by periodic crashing sounds from the kitchen, she followed him into each room and described her ideas of what she wanted done. Upstairs, she hesitated.
“I think there should be a master bedroom suite up here,” she explained, “only I haven’t decided which two rooms should be combined into one. Your guy who did the estimate said it wouldn’t affect the cost, so I could take time to decide.”
She showed him the two sets of rooms she’d considered converting into a master suite. The ones in the back had a view of rolling, tree-studded countryside, but she got a weird feeling in that part of the house and the sensation intensified as she noticed the hard-faced way Trent studied the space. It didn’t help when an especially loud crash came from downstairs, making her jump. He didn’t seem to notice, so presumably there was nothing to worry about, though it had sounded as if half the building had collapsed.
“Are you leaning one way or the other?” he asked in a tight voice.
“No... I’ve even considered doing both since it would still leave three bedrooms on the second floor. I know that would have to be another contract,” she added hastily, “or an addendum to the first.”
His nod was short. “Yes.”
The last part of the house was the attic. The latch always jammed and Emily was about to explain, when Trent pulled down and then to the left, and the knob turned easily. How odd. But he was probably used to old fixtures.
“I thought this would make a terrific craft or sitting room,” Emily explained. “Or a play area for kids.”
“You’re planning a family?” he asked, his eyebrow arching.
“Not at the moment. Right now I expect to use it as an office. Attics are usually too dark to be living space, but this one is huge and has lots of windows, so someone must have hoped to finish it someday.”
Trent glanced around. “I take it the former owner didn’t bother to clear anything out of here.”
“Nope, but I’ve always thought it would be fun to poke around an attic filled with years of forgotten stuff.”
“You won’t feel that way for long. I’m sure it’s all worthless junk.”
Emily made a face at the back of his head. Trent Hawkins was obviously a pessimist, while she preferred looking at the bright side of things.
The tour over, they descended to the bottom level.
“Thank you,” Trent told her formally. “Since I’m foreman for the crew doing the reconstruction, it helps to have an overview.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and she peeked in to take pictures, wanting to make a scrapbook showing the whole process. Mike was using a crowbar to pull cabinets off the walls while Trent sledgehammered them into pieces. If it had been the original shelves and cabinetry, Emily might have considered restoring them, but at some point they’d been replaced by cheap alternatives.
The stack of debris grew. Trent grabbed an armload and Emily backed out of his way as he carried it toward the front door. She saw him walk it into the Dumpster.
That gave her an idea...there was something she could do instead of standing around watching. Grabbing as much as she could hold, Emily headed for the Dumpster. On his way back inside, Trent reached for what she was carrying.
“We’ll take care of this,” he said, his tone bordering on curt.
She stepped past him. “Oh, I don’t mind.”
“It’s best if our rhythm isn’t disrupted.”
Why was the guy so grim? For Pete’s sake, he could give the Three Bears lessons in grumpiness. Perhaps he realized how he’d sounded, because he gave her one of his smiles that wasn’t really a smile.
“We’re prepared for this kind of work,” he told her in a milder tone, “with boots and clothes that won’t catch on anything, and even if it does, the damage won’t matter. By the way, until we’re done, you’ll probably want to wear shoes in the renovation areas.”
Yikes. Emily had forgotten her bare feet. It just felt so nice not to worry about dressing like the owner of a fashionable clothing boutique. At this moment her suits, hosiery and high heels were languishing in storage. Life in Schuyler was so much more casual and comfortable.
“Whatever you say,” she said with false sweetness, not appreciating the way he dismissed her. She dropped the cabinet doors she’d been carrying.
Swiveling, she marched back into the house, but made sure to nod cheerfully at Vince since there was no point in taking her ire out on anyone else. He was examining the fireplace.
“Can any of it be salvaged?” she asked.
The carved mantelpiece was beautiful, but parts were crumbling.
“I’m not sure,” Vince told her. “There’s significant dry rot, probably from a leak at some point.”
Emily laughed. “That always seems like a contradiction in terms, water causing dry rot. But I sure hope something can be done. I’ve had visions of lining the mantel with pine boughs at Christmas, stockings hanging down. A fireplace is the heart of a room.”
“I suppose so,” he agreed.
She went to her bedroom to find her sandals. Much as she hated admitting that Trent was right, shoes were a good idea.
And maybe she should wear pants or something more practical than a flowing skirt, which she found more comfortable than most clothes. For a while she needed to keep in mind she was living in a construction zone.
* * *
TRYING TO GET into a better position for leverage, Mike positioned his strong leg and yanked at a stubborn section of the kitchen shelving. Pain shot through his left knee, a reminder of everything he’d lost at what turned out to be his final game.
Though he’d told reporters he didn’t recall much of the accident, it wasn’t true. He remembered every excruciating minute. Most of all, he remembered that there hadn’t been any need to make a sensational leap into the stands to catch a foul ball. It was late in the game and they’d been winning by a wide margin, but he’d done it to impress the redhead sitting three rows back.
When had looking good become more important than playing the game the way it should be played?
“I’ll get the other side,” Trent said, inserting his crowbar at the opposite end of the shelf. With a shriek of nails twisting out of the wall, the unit came toppling down.
Mike ground his teeth. When he’d started to work for Big Sky the previous summer, he had mouthed off whenever someone offered a hand. He didn’t need anyone’s help or pity. Then Trent had overheard and gotten pissed, saying he expected his employees to back each other up and Mike had better just deal with it.
He’d nearly yelled back and quit. After all, he didn’t need to work. He had his teacher’s salary and a large chunk of the money from his pro-ball days was still in the bank, but he’d go bonkers without having something hard and physical to do over the summer months...something real that wasn’t just make-work. Teaching summer school was out; it was tough enough being around hopeful youngsters nine months of the year.
So he hadn’t