The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  “Nope,” I tell him. “I’m writing down things to buy while I still have a discount at my old job.”

  He shakes his head. “I should have known.” Then he asks, “Did you see the cracks in the kitchen floor?”

  “It looks like cracked tile to me. I doubt it’s a structural issue.” I hope it’s not anyway. I don’t know the first thing about inspecting a house for safety, but Beau is seriously starting to piss me off.

  “There’s a broken window over here.” I follow him into the breakfast nook to check it out. Sure enough, one of the bay windows is cracked. “Those are old, so they’ll have to be special ordered. That won’t be cheap,” he warns.

  “Beau,” I demand, “make your list quietly. I don’t want to hear one more negative thing out of you. Do you understand? Besides, you’re making a commission. Be happy.”

  He tilts his head to the side as he shrugs his shoulders. “I understand what you’re saying, but right now, I’m doing my job. I suppose I could withdraw your offer, and you could find yourself another realtor if you’d like.”

  I want to shake him until his teeth rattle. I’m sure he’d be happy to have me back out as it would buy him enough time to torch the place so there wasn’t a house here for me to purchase. I decide to ignore him and go off on my own.

  The floors are dark wood and some of them look like they could stand to be sanded down and re-stained. Although, upon closer inspection, I could probably lay down some area rugs and put that off for a year or two until some of the other more obvious work is done.

  The ornamental plaster mouldings on the ceilings are works of art. My dad is going to go nuts for them. One of the many things that I love about this house is the fact that there are two staircases. The grand staircase in the entry is the one I’m sure the homeowners used. But there’s another staircase off the kitchen that’s much less impressive. It was probably the one the servants used. Although the passage is so narrow, I don’t know how they ever managed to carry up and down trays of food and the like. I love them anyway.

  I hear Beau’s phone ring somewhere in the house. I’m currently heading up the family stairway to the third floor, which is really no more than a large attic. Happily, it’s finished and even has an antique sewing machine that’s still here. I’m going to have to ask Beau if it comes with the house.

  There’s a large wall of built-in closets that juts out off to the side of the room, fashioning a space that allows for a separate work area next to the sewing machine. I’m pretty sure the closets were put here to camouflage the secret room. I walk around them and notice there are doors on both sides. Most people would probably never suspect there was missing space, especially if the closets were full.

  I walk inside one of the doors to try to find a hidden panel that would let me into the hiding place, but one doesn’t seem to exist. I push and pull on clothing rods, bang on shelves, but nothing happens.

  I don’t know how long I’m up here, but it must be a good while. I finally walk over to inspect the sewing machine and see that it was made at the old factory here in town. What a cool find. I really hope I can talk the current owners into leaving it. I don’t sew, but it looks like it belongs here.

  I peek out one of the attic windows to scrutinize the view from so high up and spot Beau. He’s standing next to Shelby, of all people. I wonder when she got here. I can’t see their faces; from my angle, I mostly see the tops of their heads. They’re standing very close together and I suddenly feel like I’m spying on a scene I’m not meant to witness. Which of course means I keep looking, I just scoot off to the side so if they look up they won’t see me.

  Beau brushes the hair off Shelby’s face, and she takes his hand and gently kisses it before rubbing it against her cheek. Damn. So much for everyone saying they aren’t a real couple. Moments later, they’re in each other’s arms hugging like they haven’t seen each other in years. My heart falls into the gnawing pit that’s developed in my stomach.

  As much as I wish I’d never witnessed this, it’s a good thing I did. Beau Frothingham is not for me. I need to push any thoughts of a romance with him out of my head for good. While I’m not pleased by this, I find it doesn’t deter my desire for this house one bit.

  Chapter 29

  Beau’s mom is standing in my soon-to-be kitchen talking to her son when I finally come back downstairs. Man, this house is becoming Grand Central Station. Lee beams at me like she’s got halogen headlights behind her eyes. “Lexi, I came as soon as I heard they accepted the offer. I can’t believe you’re really buying our old family home. I’m so excited I can barely stand it!”

  I return her smile and ask, “How come your family never bought the house back?” I know Beau said they all had their own places, but I still can’t imagine they’ve never considered it.

  Lee shrugs her shoulders. “None of us grew up visiting here or anything, so I guess we never connected with it enough. Beau and Emmie’s grandmother Selia would have been a different story. She would have moved her family here in a heartbeat if it had gone on the market. She was something of the family historian.”

  Selfishly, I’m glad that didn’t happen. While I feel strongly that a property like this should have stayed in the Frothingham family, I feel even stronger that I’m the one who gets to call it home.

  Lee asks, “Would you mind if I looked around for a bit?”

  “Not at all,” I tell her. “I’d love to get your ideas on what restorations you think I should tackle first.”

  “Honey, I’m nothing if not full of ideas,” she declares enthusiastically.

  Beau says, “It sounds like y’all might be here for a while.” He hands me the keys and says, “Drop them off at my office when you’re through.” Sounds like he’s changed his tune about me being here alone before I’m the official owner.

  When I reach for the keychain, he doesn’t release it right away, instead, he takes my hand in his. He looks into my eyes in a way that I can only describe as smoldering, and my insides respond in kind. Then, he gently squeezes my fingers. What in the heck was that all about?

  I make a grab for the keys and slide my hand out of his, posthaste. My heartbeat has increased like a war drum marching into battle. It so loud it’s reverberating in my ears.

  Lee calls after her son, “Don’t forget dinner tonight.” Beau waves in response. Then she says to me, “We hope you and your daddy can join us, as well. Our house at six.”

  “I’d love to come,” I say, “but I don’t know about Dad. I’ll ask him as soon as I have a chance.” I wonder if Shelby will be there too, and briefly rethink my acceptance. Of course, Shelby being there is probably better than her not being there. It’ll be a solid reminder that Beau is off the market.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t have to let me know ahead of time. Just make sure you let your daddy know that we’d love it if he could come.”

  I promise I will, and we start to look through the house together. In the living room, I ask, “Do you have any antique stores in town that might carry some furnishings and decorative pieces that would fit in this house?”

  “Do we!” Lee declares enthusiastically. “Gracie and I will take you shopping as soon as you say the word.” Then she says, “Beau says you’re thinking of opening a bed and breakfast.”

  “That’s right,” I tell her. “I can’t imagine there are any employment opportunities for my skillset outside of a big city, but an inn would definitely pay for itself. I plan on advertising on all the big property rental sites.”

  “Not to poop on your parade, honey, but how many people do you think would want to come to Creek Water? Don’t get me wrong, I think everyone should come for a visit, but I’m not sure they’d agree.”

  “Given that this house was one of the first in the state to be part of the Underground Railroad, I’m sure I’ll get a lot of interest. If I can get enough period furniture, I’d like to open it up to schools, organizations, and anyone else who’s interested in the Civil War.” Ju
st because the town didn’t jump on the idea of a museum, doesn’t mean that I can’t do tours and share the information from that time. I’m not sure if that part of my business venture will be a moneymaker, but there are some things that simply need to be shared out of historical significance. This house is one of them.

  Lee shakes her fists in the air like she’s waving around pompoms and cheering the home team on to victory. “Let’s get in touch with the historical society and see about getting this house on the National Registry. I bet you could apply for a restoration grant. Even if you don’t get it, you’ll still get some nice tax breaks.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I tell her. Thoughts start running through my head like an old-fashioned ticker tape at the stock market. I need to hurry up and tell Regina about everything. She’s only going to be angrier if she thinks I’ve been planning this for a long time and didn’t bring her into the loop sooner, especially in light of her feeling so abandoned by Bertie.

  Lee pulls out her phone and gets busy looking something up while I try to envision this room as the grand parlor it surely was when the house was first built. Images of Victorian settees and Directoire-style armchairs fill my brain, along with intricately carved side-tables and marble-topped center tables displaying exquisite flower arrangements. Gilded mirrors and old portraits need to be everywhere between the cupid lighting fixtures adorning nearly every room. Grand floral draperies with velvet swags and valances would be the perfect touch on the windows and might even hide some of the detail work that I can’t get to right away.

  The first things I need to concern myself with are structural issues. Once those are taken care of, I’ll be able to put my resources toward decorative fixes, if there’s anything left. I realize my thirty-two thousand dollars might not go very far, especially if I want to decorate with period pieces.

  Lee breaks into my thoughts by shouting, “I’ve got it.”

  “What do you have?” I ask.

  “Oh, just a little thing called the Harriet Beecher Stowe Underground Railroad Grant.”

  “Which is?” I prompt.

  “It’s a fund that offers to match dollar for dollar investment with the homeowner to restore and maintain homes that were used to hide slaves in pursuit of freedom.” She continues, “It says here”—she points to her phone—“that there are no restrictions on the house needing to be a public building, although homes that are open to the public at least two days a month, will be more likely to receive the grant.”

  I make a grab for Lee’s phone and she hands it right over. I announce, “I have thirty-two thousand dollars. If I can get this, I’d have over sixty thousand to work with. Holy crap, Lee, this is exciting!”

  “I know it. We have a couple of friends on the city council. Let me talk to them and see about getting some more information on the house, so we can make your application as compelling as possible.”

  Sixty-five thousand dollars would fix the electric, plumbing, furnace, and still (hopefully) leave a bit to put toward paint and the like. Of course, I have no real idea what those things cost. My only knowledge on the subject comes from home improvement shows, which is a pretty recent thing in my world.

  I can hardly wait to see what other services might be available. I briefly try to imagine what it would be like to raise a family here, and for the first time, a small flicker of doubt creeps in. Living in a small town in southern Missouri will definitely decrease my odds of finding a husband. Although, to be fair, my record hasn’t been that stellar while living on an island with seven million other people, so there’s no sense in getting maudlin about it.

  I try to table my concerns and go back to feeling unbridled enthusiasm. After all, if I could find and afford this house so easily, maybe the universe has a man lined up, too. Too bad it won’t be Beau Frothingham.

  Chapter 30

  Lee and I spend two hours at the house together, and we only leave because she needs to go to the store to pick up a few things for dinner tonight.

  When I get back to the factory, I check in with Emmie and tell her about my afternoon. She squeals, hitting a pitch previously reserved for kindergartners being sprayed by a firehose after eating their body weight in cotton candy. “You know this was all meant to be, don’t you?”

  I never told my friend about the fortune-teller from my childhood, so I’m curious how she decided this was serendipitous. “How do you figure?”

  “Look at the chain of events leading up to it. If Silver Spoons hadn’t been in trouble, they would have never tried to move you to Atlanta. That happening at the same time your apartment goes condo …” she lets the thought hang in the air for a moment. “What are the chances you’d be homeless and out of work at the same time?”

  With a look of horror on my face, I answer, “I guess when you put it like that.” It’s true though. Both of those life altering events happened right after Emmie moved home—and she swore she’d never live in Creek Water again. Then I come visit and happen to run into the house of my dreams—the one I never realized I’d been dreaming about. I mean, of all the places I saw myself living someday, they were all in New York City and none of them looked like a three-story Victorian mansion.

  I tell her, “I’ll see you at your aunt’s house for dinner tonight. I need to run upstairs and check on Bertie.” On my way to the second floor, I stop to pick up a couple of muffins at the coffee shop to tide us over. I figure now that I don’t live in New York City anymore, I need to find a place as good as Sarabeth’s Kitchen for my muffin fix. I’d best get researching that.

  I stop on the second floor and return the keys to the receptionist of Frothingham Realty. I beat it out of there. My nervous system cannot handle seeing Emmie’s cousin right now. It needs a break to prepare for dinner tonight. Luckily, the whole family will be there, so I don’t have to be alone with him. I only have to watch him with Shelby. Good times.

  I can tell my dad’s awake even before I open the door to his loft. He’s blasting Roberta Flack. “First Time Ever I Saw His Face” fills the air like the hauntingly tender ballad that it is. I walk in, and as expected, Bertie is performing his opening ballet that he likes to execute when he starts a new series.

  He’s wearing cargo pants and nothing else. He has a paintbrush in his mouth as though it’s a rose, and he is doing the tango. There’s another in his right hand and he’s swaying side to side. He’ll graduate to the Jethro Tull album Songs from the Wood when he starts painting and then move on to the Grateful Dead once he’s about a quarter of the way through. For as unpredictable as Bertie can be, his musical routine is one that hasn’t altered in years.

  Standing in front of a giant canvas that’s propped up against the wall, he stares at it like he’s gazing at the completed picture. He’s so caught up in whatever is going on in his head he doesn’t even know I’m here yet.

  I drop my bag of muffins on the counter and take a bite of the pumpkin one. While I like it, it’s not quite as good as Sarabeth’s. However, the blueberry muffin is probably the most delicious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth and I eat the whole thing while considering running downstairs for another.

  “Killing Me Softly with His Song” comes on next. Bertie closes his eyes and starts running his hands across the blank canvas. How I turned out as normal as I am is anyone’s guess.

  Once this song ends, my dad spins around and finally notices me. “Lexi!” he exclaims. His eyes are full of feverish excitement. “I’m starting to feel the painting. It’s really going to happen.”

  “Do you know what it’s going to be yet?” I ask even though I never think my dad’s paintings look anything like their titles. For instance, the one he calls, Moonlight Over the Hudson, looks more like something I’d call Punk Rock Mayhem, but that’s the beauty of art. It’s subjective.

  Before he answers, I tell him, “We’ve been invited to dinner at Emmie’s aunt and uncle’s house tonight. You know, Beau’s parents?”

  I fully expect him to tell me th
ere’s no way he can leave at such a critical time in his process, but he surprises me by saying, “I should shower then. When do we need to be there?”

  “Six.” Not only is he coming, but he’s showering first? “I thought you’d need to stay here and visualize or something.”

  “I normally would, but Missouri feels different. It’s going to be a very unique process creating here. Also, now that you’re going to be living here, I really ought to meet your friends, don’t you think?”

  Um, okay. I ask, “Have you tried calling Mom yet?”

  “Fourteen times,” he says. “But that was before I turned on Roberta. I’ll try her again when I get out of the shower.”

  While my dad gets ready, I pick up my phone and call Regina. Maybe I can soften her up a little, although I’m not holding my breath. Her voicemail comes on, and she’s changed her message to: This is Regina. I may or may not be on my way to Europe or Japan or the moon. If I get a chance, I’ll call you back. If I’m currently mad at you, don’t hold your breath. Beep.

  I say, “Hi, Mom. I hope you have a safe flight wherever you’re going. I wanted to remind you that there’s no reason to be mad at me. I have some very exciting news that I’d like to share with you, but I’m not going to keep calling only to have you ignore me. So please, call me back soon.” I don’t add, “Quit being such a baby,” but I’m certainly tempted to.

  Chapter 31

  My dad comes out of the bathroom looking quite respectable. He’s showered, shaved, and has on a nice pair of slacks and a sweater. “You look very handsome.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “Well,” I try to defend my previous tone, “that’s not something I’ve ever said to you while you’re in the midst of a creative surge. You normally look a little homeless.”