by T. K. Leigh
“Mommy making you breakfast?” I ask as I prepare a cup of coffee.
She beams a toothy grin, displaying where a bottom tooth is missing. “Are you going to eat with us?”
Julia turns, leaning her short, petite body against the counter. She wears her typical uniform of a tank top and yoga pants, her blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun. “Uncle Wes has to go play golf with Pappy today.”
When my niece frowns, I’m on the brink of telling her I’ll skip it to spend the day with her instead. That’s the effect this little girl has on me. I’m unequivocally wrapped tightly around her little finger. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
While Julia and Imogene live in Charleston, whenever her husband, Nick, is traveling for work, she tries to come to Atlanta to check on the Buckhead location of her bakery. It’s not always possible during the school year, but now that it’s summer, Julia hopes to spend as much time as possible here in Atlanta.
Some men my age would hate the idea of sharing his home with his sister and six-year-old niece, but I love having them here. Makes this house a home, which is why I’ve insisted they stay here instead of the apartment above the bakery.
“It’s okay, sweet pea. We’ll see Uncle Wes after.” Julia places a plate of pancakes, which are covered in strawberries, chocolate drizzle, and powdered sugar, in front of Imogene. The sight makes my stomach growl. Then she skirts around the oversized island and walks toward me, lowering her voice.
“So, how did yesterday go?”
“Yesterday?” I furrow my brow as I finish preparing my coffee in my travel mug, thinking back to the unexpected events of the previous day and the woman whose eyes found me in my dreams all night.
“Yeah. The auction.”
“Oh, right. The auction.” I shake my head. I’d all but forgotten about it in the aftermath of meeting Londyn.
“Yeah. The auction. How did it go?” She bounces on her feet, green eyes alight. “Did you get the house?”
Observing my sister’s anticipation, I draw it out, like I did when we were kids and I had something important to tell her. I heave a dejected sigh as I bring my coffee to my mouth. Then a wide grin crawls across my lips. “I did.”
She flings her arms around me. “Oh, my god! Did you really?”
I laugh, setting my mug on the counter. “Jules, you’re making me spill my coffee.”
“Sorry.” She pulls back. “But seriously, you got it?”
“I did. The old Rosebud house is back in the family. Where it belongs.”
She covers her mouth, struggling to reel in her emotions at the news.
It was pure dumb luck that I was perusing the real estate auction listings earlier in the week and saw an aerial shot of a familiar house — our grandparents’ old summer home. After they passed, it had gone into foreclosure when the estate didn’t pay the hefty second mortgage my grandparents had taken out on it later in life. I still struggle to understand how my mother could have allowed that to happen when she was married to a man worth a small fortune who could have easily paid off any debt still owed on the house. But they didn’t, allowing the historic farmhouse that had been in my mother’s family for generations to be sold to the highest bidder.
Yesterday, that highest bidder was me.
“Mama, why are you sad?” Imogene asks around a mouthful of pancakes.
“I’m not, baby. I’m happy. Uncle Wes just got our meemaw and gampy’s old house back.”
I narrow my gaze on her. “It’s in rough shape, Jules. I think the previous owners hoped to restore it, but realized they’d gotten in over their heads when they saw how much work it needed. It will pretty much need a complete overhaul. After the auction, Nash and I went down there.”
“What did he say?”
I shrug. “The same. That it needs a lot of work, but it’s not a lost cause. He said between his expertise and finding a designer who’s familiar with historical renovations, we’ll be able to restore the house to its former glory, with a few modern touches like air conditioning and updated electrical.”
Julia pushes out a laugh. “What? You mean every time I plug in the stand mixer in the kitchen, it won’t blow a fuse?”
I smile at the memory. “Precisely. Nash gave me some business cards of designers he’s worked with who he thinks would be great for this project.”
“There isn’t anyone at your firm who can do it? You run an architecture firm, for crying out loud.”
“We build. We don’t renovate. Trust me. A historic home is a different ballgame. It’s best we hire someone who understands this.”
“What do you need me to do? I want to help while I’m here. Want me to reach out to some of these designers for you?”
“Sure. There are a bunch of business cards on the desk in my office if you want to check some of them out.”
“Can do.”
It’s no surprise she wants a say in who we hire to work on our grandparents’ old house. Despite Julia being adopted, because my mother needed something else to brag about to all her society friends, my sister formed an incredible bond with Meemaw and Gampy. For all intents and purposes, they raised her. Not my parents.
I suppose the same could be said of me, too.
“Thanks, Jules.” Spying the time on the stove, I exhale deeply. “Well, I’m off to play golf.” I feign enthusiasm over the prospect.
While I don’t mind the sport, I have no desire to play in this tournament. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice. It’s something my father started years ago as a way to flaunt his wealth in front of clients and friends. According to him, in order to make money, you need to act like you have money. And now that I’ve taken over the day-to-day running of the firm, I can’t skip out on the annual display of wealth and privilege.
“I’ll never understand why men like playing a game where they whack balls across grass,” Julia retorts.
“It’s more a game of focus than whacking balls, but I see your point.”
“And an excuse to see who has the biggest balls. Or at least bank account.”
I shrug. “It is what it is.”
“I suppose.” Julia reaches up, messing up my hair so it’s no longer slicked back and perfect. That’s the good thing about her staying with me. She keeps me grounded. She doesn’t let the people I have no choice but to associate with influence me.
Leaning down, I kiss her forehead, then walk to Imogene, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you, sweet pea. You be good for your mama, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then I turn, steeling myself to spend the next several hours surrounded by people who think happiness is measured in terms of stock portfolios and love is a sign of weakness.
Chapter Four
Londyn
Large expanses of green abutting picturesque blue skies surround me as I navigate down sparsely populated, narrow country roads. In Atlanta, everything is so compact. Even in the more upscale sections of town, land is at a premium. You’re lucky if you have more than a quarter acre of land.
Out here, it seems like there are miles between houses, everything about this area in stark contrast to the frenzied atmosphere of the city. It’s hard to imagine that less than sixty miles from these dusty country roads is a busy metropolitan area. It feels like a different world out here. Like I’m not even in the same universe as the one I left an hour ago.
Glancing down at my phone, I check to see if there’s cell reception. As expected, it’s spotty, which I imagine is why the woman on the phone insisted I write down the directions instead of simply relying on my GPS.
As I navigate along pasture-lined roads, I feel more and more out of my comfort zone, especially when Confederate flags seem to outnumber American flags. When I think of Atlanta, I don’t consider it as being in the South, although it is. It’s a melting pot of different backgrounds, cultures, and ethnicities. I forget that’s sometimes not the case in the more rural areas. I just pray the woman I’m about to meet is nonjudg
mental. Otherwise, I have a feeling this meeting will be over before it has a chance to begin. And I really want this to work out.
When a tiny brick building comes into view, First Baptist Church visible on the faded sign, I press the brake as I squint for the next landmark the woman told me to look for. After another couple hundred yards, the gated archway with Rosebud Acres etched overhead appears.
Slowing to no faster than a crawl, I navigate my SUV down the dirt path, the uneven road bouncing me as I drive under heavy moss trees, everything in a state of overgrown neglect.
I have no idea what to expect when I arrive at this property. The woman didn’t give me too many details, other than the home being over a hundred years old and in dire need of a complete renovation. She said she wanted to hear my ideas first. It’s a pleasant change of pace from my old firm, where we didn’t have much independence in that regard. Not like this.
After driving another half-mile, I round a bend and stare in awe at the scene that greets me. A white two-story, cottage-style home sits past a circular drive, a welcoming porch beckoning visitors to stop by and relax for a refreshing glass of lemonade. It’s seen some better days, the paint faded and the wood chipping in places. It just needs some love.
Goosebumps form on my arms and nape as I step out of my car, practically able to smell the history of the property in the musky, humid air. While I do have a master’s in interior design, my bachelor’s is actually in art history. I’ve always dreamed of merging the two. If all goes well, I’ll be able to do just that here.
The wood groans under me as I ascend the steps leading to the wide front porch, the exterior dirty and window screens off their tracks. I glance up at the porch beams, the wood rotted and missing in places. At least the stained-glass window over the front door seems to be in decent shape, albeit a bit grimy. Nothing I can’t fix and bring back to life.
I’m about to knock on the rickety front door when it swings open, a petite blonde greeting me with an excited smile.
“Are you Londyn?” she asks, somewhat breathless.
“I am. Julia?” I squint, something about her oddly familiar, but I can’t place where I know her. And I don’t remember meeting a Julia before.
She extends her hand and we shake. “That’s me. So nice to meet you.”
Her accent is smooth and refined. It’s reminiscent of the intonation in Weston’s voice — easy and relaxed.
Over the past week, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him, despite trying. The way my skin heated from his touch. The way my heart leapt out of my chest. The way his eyes raked over me in a way that made me feel he could see straight into my soul. The more thoughts of him invaded my subconscious, the more I convinced myself my reaction was simply the result of his heroic efforts in saving my life, the traumatic event causing me to act completely out of character. Convinced myself that if I were to ever see him again, it wouldn’t be all fireworks and electricity. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn I’d imagined his muscular appearance. He’s probably short, balding, and overweight.
“Thanks for making the trip out here,” Julia continues.
“It wasn’t too bad. Only took me a little more than an hour.” I glance around the property. “Although based on how secluded everything is, you’d think it was hundreds of miles from civilization, not just an hour from one of the busiest airports in the world.”
“Certainly not in Kansas anymore, are we?”
“Certainly not.”
“Come on.” She steps to the side, extending her arm into the house. “I’ll give you the tour and you can share your thoughts.”
“Thank you.”
As I cross the foyer, I drink in everything, feeling like I’ve stepped back to a simpler time. The entryway boasts high ceilings, the hallway a straight shot to the back door.
“They used to call this a dog-trot,” I offer, taking in the arched doorway between the formal entryway and the hallway, something you don’t see a lot of in modern construction. These days, everyone wants an open floor plan, whereas decades ago, each room was separate and served a different purpose. “In the days before air conditioning, a lot of older homes had them as a way of increasing airflow through the lower level.” I grab my phone out of my purse and snap a few photos.
“Well, that’s one of the modernizations I hope to add. Proper heating and air conditioning.”
“There’s no AC?”
She shakes her head. “There’s not much of anything in this house.” She affectionately runs her hand along the wallpaper with a faded fleur-de-lis pattern. “Except for memories.”
“This was your grandparents’ house, correct?” I ask as we turn into the room to the left of the foyer, the arched doorway the same as the rest of the house. Natural light shines in from the bay window, dust particles dancing.
“It was. Well, it was their lake house, as they called it. Not their primary residence, but the older they got, the more they preferred the pace of life out here than in the city. Growing up, my brother and I spent our summers here. There are stables out back where Meemaw and Gampy taught us to ride. There’s also a lake where we would swim, go canoeing, swing off a rope we attached to a branch of a nearby tree right into the water.”
“Sounds incredible,” I offer with a smile, walking farther into what I imagine was once the living room, coming to a stop when my eyes fall on a fireplace in the corner. “Is this the original?” I trace my fingers along the ornate detailing on the front of it.
“It is. There’s one in every room.”
“What year was this built?”
“I believe 1854. My great-great-great-great-grandfather or something built it. From what Meemaw and Gampy told us, he was a doctor. During the Civil War, this place was used as a hospital for both the Union and Confederate troops.” She walks a slow circle, drinking in the history contained within these four walls. “As legend has it, he performed amputations in this very room and threw the arms and legs out that window for later collection.” She nods in the general vicinity.
“Wow. So this has been in your family over 150 years?” I tilt my head back, marveling at the ornate ceiling, the paint peeling in sections.
Her expression falls. “After Gampy and Meemaw passed, it was foreclosed on when no one continued paying the second mortgage they’d taken out later in life. Luckily for us, whoever bought it at auction didn’t realize how much work this place needed, so they abandoned the project. It sat vacant for years. Until just a week ago when it returned to the rightful owners.” A smile lights up her face as she soaks in her surroundings, almost in disbelief. “Come on. I’ll show you what used to be the dining room.” She gestures to a set of double doors and slides them open.
“Holy crap,” I breathe, trying to hide my excitement. “Double pocket doors?” I run my hand along the frame. “You don’t see these much anymore.”
“They’re original, too. It’s amazing what a little WD-40 can do.”
“They started constructing houses with these around the time this was built,” I offer, hoping to impress her with my knowledge of history of design.
I’ll do whatever I need in order to get this job. I’ve only seen one room and am already in love. I have no idea how this woman found me, but that doesn’t matter. All that does is the feeling inside me that this is kismet, fate, destiny. I can’t explain it. Almost like that same electricity I experienced the first time I peered into Weston’s eyes. But it’s more than that. Like this is the day I take that first step toward achieving what I’ve always wanted but never had the guts to pursue — my own historic restoration and design business.
“My brother and I used to mess around with them when we were younger. Meemaw loved cooking. I would sit with her for hours, trying to learn everything I could. When it was time to eat, I’d open these doors and announce to my brother and Gampy that ‘Dinner was served’,” she mimics in a proper British accent as she leads me into the formal dining room.
A chandeli
er hangs from the high ceiling, and I can almost picture the dinner parties that were held within these walls. There’s a fireplace here, as well. This one with a more formal design than the one in the living room. Whereas some designers would probably want to tear down the wall between the living and dining rooms, I refuse to do that here. It’s more important to maintain the original integrity of the house. And tearing down the wall would mean destroying the pocket doors, and I firmly believe there’s a special place in hell for people who would commit such a travesty without cause.
“What’s through here?” I gesture toward a small door on the far side of the room.
“Butler’s pantry.” Julia reaches for what I suspect to be the original knob and opens the door. “Of course, when we were kids, we called it Meemaw’s pantry.”
“I like that.” I smile, following her into a small room with a window overlooking the side of the property, shelves filling the walls on either side. As with every other room, it needs some love. But unlike the others, a huge section of the wall between the pantry and kitchen is missing. “What happened here?”
“Previous owners were probably hoping to open up the kitchen.”
“Idiots,” I mumble, unable to stop myself.
She nods. “I agree wholeheartedly.”
“I’d like to fix the wall. I understand why they did it. These days, it seems every interior designer is all about knocking down every wall possible, but I don’t want to do that here. It’ll destroy this place’s character. I’d like to keep this Meemaw’s pantry. Find a vintage desk for below the window. Put some photos of Meemaw on it.”
“I love that idea.” A gleam in her eyes, she reaches for my hand and squeezes. “Better yet, Meemaw would like it.”
“Good.”
“Come on. There’s still lots more to see.” She walks out of the pantry, continuing her tour.
As she leads me through the rest of the house, I listen to her reminisce about her childhood here and offer the occasional suggestion about how to bring this place back to life, constantly snapping photos so I don’t forget a single detail.