“No. It’s great for … a lodge or something … but doesn’t have that elegant feel.”
“Hexagons were popular in bungalow bathrooms.” He drew her to a neighboring display, pointing out a small tile in shades of gray. She noticed he positioned his body between her and the glam tile. “What about this?”
“Oh, my goodness, no.”
“Not on the shower walls, or the bathroom floor, but on the floor of the shower. With white subway tile shower walls—like the tile we’re using in the kitchen—and the gray-blue painted walls. Glass framing on the shower.”
Shelby stood silent a moment, annoyed that Scott interrupted her original vision, replacing it with one that … “Just might work.”
“Clean, right? Uh, and I don’t mean to push you, but over there is a wide hexagon in white-and-gray marble that would look just fabulous.” Baring his teeth and rubbing his jaw, Scott tilted his head toward the ceiling. “I’ll pretend to let you see it first.”
She followed the direction she’d seen him look. “Mm, too light.”
“Not if we set it off with a thin, double border in dark gray or black, a common treatment in”—he faked a cough—“period bathrooms.”
Shelby stared at the man in amazement. “How do you know all this?”
“If you noticed from my resume you requested, I’ve done a few Edwardian and Craftsman flips. My stepdad was into preservation before starting his business. They live on Milledge Road.”
“They do?” Shelby’s eyes opened wide. Intersecting Walton Way, Milledge offered the entrance to the in-town country club. Augusta’s most established, historic homes clustered in the Walton and Milledge area, along with beautiful churches and prestigious private schools. The “junk man” must have come up in the world.
“Let’s just say I’ve been steeped in historic architecture.”
“Okay.” Shelby pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “I’d consider forgoing my tried and proven, modern mosaic treatment, except I don’t believe we budgeted in marble on the floor.”
“I like a woman who considers the budget.”
Shrugging, Shelby dismissed the moment of satisfaction Scott’s statement gave her. “I always consider the budget, though if you watched ‘Dodson’s Do-Overs,’ you’d never know it. They always made me appear to pick expensive stuff and Chet protest, then eventually give in. Of course, it had all been figured out in advance … by me.”
Scott had the grace not to point out that such an arrangement had forced her into yet another compromise of her true self. Instead, he observed, “The bathrooms are small, and we’ll offset the cost by using the cheaper subway tile with no mosaic on the shower walls.”
To show her reluctant agreement, Shelby rolled her eyes and held out her hand for a high five. The pleasure of working out an even better plan than she’d anticipated—and the approval in Scott’s grin—took her by surprise.
“Excuse me.” They turned to see a college-aged guy with heavy-framed glasses and gelled, dark hair. “I’m Max.” He pointed a faltering finger. “Are you … are you …”
“Shelby Dodson.” Scott supplied the answer when the clerk’s voice failed. He stuck out his hand. “And I’m Scott Matthews, Mrs. Dodson’s humble assistant for the renovation of a bungalow over on Heard Avenue.”
Max shook Scott’s hand but directed his eyes and words to Shelby. “Pleased to meet you. How can I help? Will I be on TV?”
“Sorry, Max, no cameras this go-round,” Scott said.
Smiling, Shelby couldn’t help but respond to the man’s obvious admiration. He clasped the hand she extended longer than necessary between two thick, damp palms. “I’m afraid Scott is right, although who knows what the future may hold. But I do have a very large work order to fill.”
Once he got himself together, Max proved quite helpful. The morning fled as they selected marble and granite and visited the stone yard outside to inspect veneer pallets for covering the porch and chimney stucco. The paint swatches Shelby had brought along kept them focused, while Scott continued the game of guessing what Shelby would prefer before she made every selection. Four out of five times, he was right.
Walking to the truck, Scott pointed a finger in her direction. “Hamburger or sub? Let’s see, sub, because a hamburger would be too greasy.”
Shelby laughed and nodded. “I’d take a sub, but I do occasionally enjoy an old-fashioned burger too.”
“I know a great place on the way to the builder’s supply.”
Shelby couldn’t believe how comfortable she felt eating in front of Scott, maybe because they took the order to-go, rather than facing each other across a table. When she and Chet first met, she couldn’t drink a milkshake in his presence, much less eat with her hands. She finished her Italian sub as Scott loaded the doors onto the back and secured them with bungee cord. Well, of course she felt comfortable. Theirs was nothing more than a friendly, temporary business partnership. No comparison to dating, even though it felt familiar, and rather affirming, being out with a man.
Her eye fell on Scott’s sandwich, still wrapped on the dash, mostly uneaten.
Well, he had to drive, right?
When Scott returned to the cab, Shelby asked, “Can we paint the door as soon as we get there?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He flashed her a grin. “You can paint the door.”
“Oh goody.” Shelby clasped her hands under her chin in delight, earning a disbelieving glance.
“This is strange. You’re noticeably excited.”
“Because the color is going to be so cool.”
Scott laughed. Warmed by his approving glance, Shelby devoted herself to finishing her chips and Coke. When they turned on Gordon Highway, he spoke again. “I need to get started on the island. Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind in terms of design?”
Shelby patted her lips with her napkin, then fished in her purse for lipstick. “Okay. Picture this.” She waved the tube in her hand. “I’m going to find three tall, gray padded chairs. They’ll pull under on the dining room side, so I want leg room offered by columns. Smaller columns for balance on the other side, but no major overhang. We’ll need pull-out cabinets on the width of the island and shallow shelving for storage on the ends. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.”
After checking her teeth—which earned her an even more skeptical look than her enthusiasm over the front door color—Shelby got out her phone. “Let me see if I can find a picture.”
“No need. You got some paper?”
“Yes.” She located a small, jeweled notebook and removed a sheet.
When Scott pulled into the driveway on Heard, he put the truck in park, reached for a pencil from his glove compartment, and bore down on a code book. As he sketched the island, she watched his deft movements in amazement. “Raised panels here, where the stools go, Craftsman-style. A little arch over the shelving like this? Is that close?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Shelby blinked. “That’s … better than I imagined. Where did you learn to draw like that?”
He made a deprecating face and turned the ignition off. “Been doing it my whole life.”
“You’re really talented.”
Thinking of what Scott said earlier about his experience with renovating vintage houses, Shelby’s eyes narrowed as the seed of an idea dropped into her mind. Maybe Scott lacked Chet’s charisma, but his skills and passion could satisfy a niche market. Anything vintage was hot right now. If she pitched a new angle for her flipping show and the producers recognized potential, she’d never have to worry again about what Julian Etier was up to. “You could make something of that, you know.”
“Thanks. But Shelby, do you not realize that I make—”
Caught up in her idea, Shelby forged ahead despite Scott’s effort to speak. “Numbers on our show always shot up when we renovated a historic house. Have you ever thought of capitalizing on that interest?”
Before Scott could answer, the rev of a powerful engine sto
le their attention. A yellow Chevy corvette whipped around the corner and into the driveway, nosing alarmingly close to Scott’s bumper.
Beneath the ball cap, his eyebrows descended. “What the blazes?”
“Oh.” Looking in her side mirror, Shelby laughed. “It’s Tasha.”
“Who?” Scott croaked as three-inch, black heels touched the pavement. With the slam of a door, Tasha strode toward them on her long, bare legs.
“My real estate friend, the one who always worked on the show. She’s the agent who advised me about Georgia disclosure laws.”
“I see.”
They got out of the truck and walked back to meet Tasha. Shelby had barely introduced Scott when, after giving him a cursory glance, Tasha slapped a newspaper against Shelby’s slacks. “Glad you’re here. You’re going to want to read this.”
Shelby unfolded the newspaper. “The Augusta Star?”
Scott spoke into a fake cough. “Fire-starter.”
“It does amount to little more than a local tabloid.” Shelby raised her brows as she scanned over-sized pictures with sensational captions. “What’s in here that’s so important?”
“Even if that’s true, people read it voraciously.” Tasha opened to the local section and stabbed a headline with her finger. “‘Infamous Barnes Bungalow Dodson’s New Project.’”
Shelby gasped at a photo of the property they now stood on, taken after the trees had been cleared with the dumpster sitting in front. “Oh no.”
She read aloud. “‘With the demise of Home Network house flipper Chet Dodson, known for his zany antics, daring ideas, and stunning renovation skills, viewers expected an end to the popular series Dodson hosted with his wife, Shelby, “Dodson’s Do-Overs.” Now, sources confirm that Shelby’s going it solo, albeit sans cameras, on a Heard Avenue property.
“Long-time locals may recall the dark history of the 1920s bungalow, now owned by a retired couple. In 1976, Sharon Barnes disappeared from her home, leaving behind all her belongings including her purse, keys, and a young son. Investigations by local police considered all possible scenarios, including accident, abandonment, and kidnapping. However, due to the couple’s history of arguments, authorities suspected the husband, Charles Barnes, of foul play. Police found no evidence against him. The Barnes bungalow history, and not just the death of “Do-Overs” star Chet Dodson, may explain why cameras are not rolling on Heard Avenue.’”
Shelby flapped the paper down and speared Scott with wide eyes. “This is the work of Julian Etier.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Who else would have the knowledge and the motivation to get this scrap trash printed?”
“Wait, you told Julian Etier about this renovation?” Tasha wanted to know.
Shelby nibbled her lip. “Not exactly. We were kind of checking out his shop when he, uh, came upon us. He asked if I was working. What was I supposed to do, lie?” And, of course, she’d had to buy a candle. Three of them. And hope the posh older man hadn’t heard her little espionage exchange with Scott, although his amused smile told her otherwise.
“Uh, yes. In this case, I’d say it would be advisable.” Tasha fixed a hand on her slender hip, wrapped in a belted, knit dress.
“She didn’t tell him where, or for whom.” Scott stepped forward as he spoke up.
Tasha brushed that off with a disgusted look. Obviously, that was no trouble to find out.”
“I’m just saying, innocent until proven guilty. It could have been one of the neighbors.”
“Well, regardless, we’re in a fix now,” Shelby said. “The other day you talked me into not telling the Wentworths what I learned at the library, Scott. You said just to let it blow over. Yep, it’s really blown over!”
Tasha touched Shelby’s arm. “You know we have a lawyer on staff at our firm. I’ll contact the seller, set up a meeting. I’m sure I can pin him to the wall.” The bold-faced, black-and-white claims of the newspaper left Shelby feeling vulnerable, exposed. She could already imagine the text messages flying and social media posts popping up even as they stood there debating. “Maybe it would be good to speak with them.”
“No.” Scott’s firm response made both women jump. “Not without permission from Lester and Ruby.”
Tasha frowned at him as if he was a random bum interjecting unwanted opinions.
Tilting her head, Shelby appealed to Scott’s desire for a positive outcome. “But consider if a simple conversation with Charles’ son reveals there’s nothing to these suspicions, it will give everyone peace of mind. Don’t you think this article will stir up the Barnes family too?”
“I think if you go poking and threatening on the tails of it, it will only make things worse. And I think you’re not going to discover some magic answer the police failed to find forty years ago. Sometimes, if you ignore things, they go away.”
Tasha typed something on her phone. “This is not going away.”
Scott ignored her and pled with Shelby. “All I’m asking is that we discuss it with our clients.”
“Of course.” This day-wrecking conversation needed to end. She smiled at Tasha. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention. I’ll be in touch.”
“Fine. But don’t be surprised if reporters and psychics start popping out of the bushes with cameras and energy sensors.”
“Please.” Scott rolled his eyes.
Shelby gave him a disbelieving stare. She’d never seen him so sarcastic with anyone.
She pressed the newspaper back into Tasha’s hand. “Take this awful rag with you. The thing that makes me most mad is how this article, if you can call it that, sours the memory of Chet and the work we did together.”
“I know, honey. I hated to show it to you, but you had to know.”
The frown that flitted across Scott’s face offset the comfort of Tasha’s gentle squeeze to Shelby’s arm. She couldn’t let this latest sign of Scott’s displeasure go unchallenged. “What?”
“Nothing. I just … think this stands to hurt the Barnes family more than you, or even the Wentworths.” Almost apologetic, Scott’s voice trailed off.
The fact that he thought her selfish for wanting to maintain the good reputation she and Chet had established stung.
As he turned to lower the tailgate of his truck and loosen his bungee cord, Tasha shook her head. She winked at Shelby. “I got you, girl. Call me. Better yet, I’m going to Rudolpho’s at the marina Friday night. You should come. There’s a snazzy lawyer I want to introduce you to.”
Chapter Twelve
Scott didn’t like to make the sort of phone call he had to make to Lester on Friday. Further investigation had revealed the house needed more extensive rewiring than anticipated. The work meant greater cost and delay.
He apologized for the third time, although Lester took the news with his usual aplomb. “I’m sorry, man. The good news is, Hector’s a pro, and your house’s block-n-beam foundation does help us out with the re-plumbing and re-wiring both.”
“Okay, but are we still on track for our Thanksgiving finish date?”
“Yes. I always budget an extra margin of both time and money because something always goes wrong.” Scott surveyed the front yard from the bungalow’s front step. Might as well bring out the jackhammer and reserve the bob cat. They could salvage lost time by breaking up the driveway during the electric repairs.
“Well, I trust you to keep us on course. I’m itching to get in the kitchen again. You got any free time this weekend?”
“Uh …” Scott thought of the dining room table he’d planned to start making tomorrow, but his client’s emotional satisfaction took precedence. “I might.”
“Good. Come out tomorrow while Ruby’s at garden club. What should we make?”
Scott could practically hear the sandpaper sound of the older man rubbing his hands together.
Seeking a more comfortable position, he removed his tool belt and shifted his tired body. “Whatever you want to.”
�
��Well, how’s your girl?”
“My girl?”
“Little Miss Shelby!”
“Oh. Lester, something tells me she’d take exception to being called that.”
“Not so good, huh?”
“We’re working great together.” Scott extended a cramping leg as he hastened to reassure his client. “But I told you earlier this week how she wanted to sit down with David Barnes about the article in the newspaper. She wasn’t too happy when I told her y’all agreed with me that we shouldn’t pursue a meeting.”
“Mm, I’m sorry about that, but be patient with her. I think she’s got our best interests at heart.”
“I think she’s got her best interests at heart. She’s way too worried about what everyone thinks and listens too much to that femme fatale real estate agent of hers.” Scott stopped, rubbed his jaw. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about that.”
Lester fell silent a moment before replying in a firm tone. “Scott, you’re our contractor, but I’d like to believe you’re more too. Ruby and I have taken a real interest in both you and Shelby. I hope you can think of us as friends, not just clients.”
“I do. I just—don’t want to see Shelby trying to fill her husband’s absence with the wrong things. Even though she said she didn’t come by the house today because she thought she was coming down with a cold, she’s going to this fancy dinner with Tasha, the real estate agent, tonight.”
“At which there will be eligible men?”
Scott sighed. “It’s not like it’s my concern.”
“It’s clear from the frustration in your voice that you like Shelby. A cold, hmm? And a cold front coming in tonight with rain too. I know what we’re making. Be here at ten.”
After the double beep, Scott found himself staring at the “call ended” screen.
Scott told himself as he drove to Lester’s the next morning that he’d maintain professionalism, not talk about his dratted attraction to Shelby, and simply provide the hands to make what Lester’s couldn’t. This was a God thing.
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