Harte's Desire

by Cambria Smyth

  "I've been searching high and low for you, Mr. D.! What the heck are you doing in here?" she asked.

  "Recovering."

  "From what, may I ask?" Edwina regarded Chris thoughtfully. He wasn't his usual all-business, get-it-done-immediately self.

  "Seems like Miss Reed thinks I should restore this monstrosity and use it as the conference center."

  "Why Mr. D., what a wonderful idea!"

  "Like hell it is," Chris snarled, standing to lean against one of the balusters. It rattled loosely and almost broke free of the handrail. Chris jumped back as though bitten by a snake.

  "See what I mean, Edwina? This place would be a money pit. Everything in it needs some sort of attention," he scoffed.

  "Well, you've got lots of money to spend on this project. You told me so yourself," Edwina calmly reminded him.

  "It would take millions and even then you don't know what problems lurk behind these old walls. All kinds of things are safely hidden until re-wiring or re-plumbing brings them to light."

  "You've got a point there, boss. Kind of like Pandora's box, eh?"

  Chris snorted. "Speaking of Pandora's box, that's exactly what that carton of stuff was you found in the attic."

  "Those old photos and drawings?"

  "Precisely. That's what Miss Reed used to launch her offensive. She's convinced a gem lies amid this rubble." Chris twisted his face in disgust.

  His grimace wasn't lost on Edwina. She knew the man as well as she knew her own children.

  "It would be a bit out of character for you to restore it," she conceded.

  "A bit? I hate old buildings!"

  "But Elizabeth seems very knowledgeable about them," Edwina countered. "She's spent a lot of time studying Harte's Desire. Perhaps you should consider her suggestion."

  "No way, Edwina. I'm not about to gamble on either my bottom line or my reputation because of her hair-brained scheme."

  Edwina sighed, well aware that once Chris made a decision, he always stuck to it. And he almost always made the right decision. That's why he was so successful.

  "I was hoping the two of you might find each other attractive," she ventured, knowing full well she was entering forbidden territory.

  "She is attractive," Chris admitted, "but..."

  "But what? Too clever and capable to suit you? She's come up with a great idea and you're ready to discard it?"

  "You still haven't given up your plan to marry me off, have you?"

  "With an attitude like yours, I'll go to my grave with you a die-hard bachelor."

  "You are persistent, Edwina. But let's change the subject, shall we?" Chris said, anxious to steer the conversation away from Libby.

  "Whatever you say, boss." Edwina shrugged her shoulders with resignation. "I came to tell you the email from London finally showed up in your in-box."

  "Great. I'll be back in a minute to read it."

  Edwina excused herself and made a hasty retreat, leaving Chris standing against the stairs.

  Having resolved all issues to his satisfaction, Chris smiled triumphantly while indulging in the memory of Libby's performance.

  Watching Libby give her presentation had been exhilarating, he mused. She had skillfully presented every rational argument for his consideration. With carefully chosen words and an appeal to his emotions, he'd found himself almost believing in the rosy portrait she painted of the building’s restoration. Libby was certainly in rare form today, he mused.

  No wonder he'd lost the fight over the Bank & Trust building and those other two historic atrocities she managed to wrest from his control. She was a sharp debater and a dangerous opponent. Chris had never grasped the true depth of her feelings for Harte's Desire until she cornered him this afternoon.

  Thankfully he was able to calmly weigh the pluses and minuses before deciding her plan was not feasible for a variety of reasons. His unbending resolve and level-headed thinking were serving him well, he congratulated himself inwardly.

  If only she wasn't so damned beautiful all fired up about her plan to save Harte's Desire, Chris thought. She was undeniably radiant, animated in an almost sensual way. Impassioned and caring. Would a woman ever look at him the way she looked at Harte's Desire? Would a woman ever defend him with such conviction, ever love him despite the flaws he wore much as Harte's Desire did its peeling paint and crumbling plaster?

  Heaven help the man Libby Reed might fall in love with, Chris thought. He'll never know what hit him.

  Unbidden, the memory of her stretched out on his bed made Chris stifle a groan. She was probably as passionate in bed as she was fighting for something she believed in. Chris's pants grew uncomfortably tight at the thought and he muttered a low oath of frustration at the lack of control he had over his bodily response to her. It would be another sleepless night and not because of the coffee he drank at lunchtime.

  Was she ever going to tell him of their shared history, he wondered? Of Libby Chatham transformed into Elizabeth Reed? Such deception and lies. But now that he knew her, he could understand her motives. Still, it rankled him she wasn't being totally honest with him. Maybe she still felt that she had something to lose, or perhaps nothing to gain.

  Edwina had kept him informed of her daily activities. "Just so you know" she would say. Earlier today, Edwina told him that Libby was ready to write the report and that her work in and around Harte's Desire was finished.

  He might not see Libby again, Chris realized with a start. She might have her secretary deliver the report and she might not attend the fundraiser despite her long hours of preparation for the event.

  He would miss seeing her, he admitted. But he needed to concentrate fully on his project here, and having her around was definitely not conducive to concentration.

  Chris brushed the dirt and dust from his trousers. Yes, Libby's presence certainly livened things up around this usually quiet place.

  Maybe today--now--was the time to confront her with the truth she so staunchly guarded. Honestly, he acknowledged silently, he no longer cared for revenge. He’d been hiding behind the truth as much as she, and if she wasn’t going to confess—and soon—he would.

  But, she'd be back. She loved Harte's Desire and she would be back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Libby flexed her hands, easing the stiffness wrought by long hours of non-stop typing at the computer. Stifling a yawn, she stretched her arms slowly overhead, sighing as the tension in her aching shoulders eased. A glance out the window confirmed it was another beautiful June day, warm and sunny, with a trace of humidity carrying the promise of imminent summer.

  Libby longed to be outdoors. Puttering in the garden. Sunning at the beach. Anywhere but in her office, diligently writing the report on Harte's Desire.

  It was due in one week, next Friday, and if she had to spend the entire weekend working on it, Mr. Christopher Darnell would have his precious report on time, as promised.

  Libby rubbed her tired eyes, then re-read the section she'd just written. She decided her description of the Rose Room accurately reflected not only its current appearance, but Amanda Harte's intentions to make a very personal interior decorating statement.

  Her hands poised on the keyboard, she mentally organized her thoughts for the next section. While writing the report, Libby safely tucked away any and all thoughts of Chris, expelling him from mind so she could fully concentrate on the task at hand. Several times she had wanted to go back to Harte's Desire, to check a detail or confirm an earlier observation. With the exception of one time, she managed to convince herself it wasn't necessary to return. Then she'd gotten as far as the front gate before turning around and sending Connie over instead.

  She dearly missed roaming around the big mansion, exploring its many rooms filled with exquisite antiques. Although neglected, the rose garden was in full bloom and she missed checking the daily progress of each new blossom as she had done while working there. Libby stared pensively out the window at her own small flower garden, lost
in thought.

  If she were honest, she even missed seeing Chris. Somehow life was more exciting around him, more challenging when he was part of her everyday experience. Even though they were polar opposites when it came to historic buildings, it had been thrilling to be where he worked and lived. And although he was hell-bent on tearing down Harte's Desire, she missed their verbal sparring, the look of banked desire in his eyes, and the sweet electricity that flowed, unbidden but undeniably, between them.

  Libby shrugged off the disturbing memories and forced herself to start the next piece of the report. The statement of significance, as it was called, was the most important part. In it Libby would have to defend the importance of Harte's Desire, not only in terms of its magnificent architecture, but as it related to the contributions of Chester Harte as a regionally prominent businessman and Amanda as an amateur landscape architect and horticulturist.

  Libby loved writing this section because it was the body and soul of any thorough study of a historic building. It was also the most difficult section to write because it demanded an intimate knowledge of history, architecture, and cultural themes. She'd gotten half-way through the first sentence when Connie Garrett appeared in her doorway.

  "Sister Mary Clare is on the phone, Lib. She wants to know if you're attending the special awards dinner at the Orphanage tomorrow night?"

  Connie eyed her boss politely, waiting for a reply. Connie knew when Libby was in the throes of writing, her job as administrative assistant meant interrupting with only the most important messages or phone calls.

  "Oh dear, I've been so busy with this, I forgot all about it." Libby waved to the papers strewn over the desk and photos of Harte's Desire tacked to the walls. "I promised her a month ago I'd come. Would you please thank her for reminding me and assure her I will be there?" Libby said, rubbing her tired eyes. "And find out what time, too, please?"

  Connie chuckled inwardly at Libby's forgetfulness. Usually sharp as a tack, Libby had been distant and pre-occupied these past few weeks. Easily flustered and distracted, too. All the signs of a woman in love, Connie determined, knowing now was not the time to probe. After the report, but only then. She headed back to the phone.

  The Orphanage, Libby thought. How could she have forgotten? She scrutinized the bulletin board hanging in front of her desk, then removed some of the photos pinned to it until the invitation was discovered under the 8 x 10 of the gazebo.

  Libby looked over the engraved card announcing the awards dinner honoring the St. Bernadette's Orphanage Man of the Year. Libby wondered again how her promise to attend had slipped through her memory like water through a sieve. Idly twirling a lock of curly hair, she reflected on how the Orphanage and Sister Mary Clare had become near and dear to her.

  About a year ago, Sister Mary Clare had called asking for Libby's help again. The Orphanage, located in center city Philadelphia, was applying for a state-funded grant to undertake a major restoration and make much-needed repairs to their building. While living in Philadelphia, Libby had gotten it listed in the National Register of Historic Places. A Richardsonian Romanesque building, it was one of the first designed by a famous New York architect who later gained international acclaim for his public commissions that included prisons, city halls, and churches. It was the only orphanage he designed, yet it was lauded in its day for bright, airy corridors, generously-sized dormitory quarters, and innovative play areas, even one on a rooftop.

  Sister Mary Clare, unaware that Libby had moved, finally located her in Borden's Landing. The good Sister explained they needed help completing the lengthy and complex grant application and that one of the Orphanage's benefactors had agreed to underwrite the cost of its preparation. Would Libby be interested?

  Because of the building's significance and her desire to help anyone wanting to restore a historic one, Libby leapt at the opportunity to assist the group of Catholic nuns overseeing the Orphanage.

  The Sisters had been a delight to work with. They clearly cherished their historic building but felt frustrated in their attempts to maintain it by the diminished coffers of a diocese overburdened by the ownership of many old structures. Working among the children who lived there cemented Libby's growing desire to have children of her own. Rick's stubborn refusal to have any had been another major point of disagreement between them and was, ultimately, a contributing factor in their divorce.

  Libby completed the grant application with the active support of Sister Mary Clare and the other nuns who volunteered to help research the building's history. Thankfully, the application was successful and the Sisters received a million dollar grant for their project. A condition of the grant, however, required the Orphanage to raise a dollar for every dollar granted. Sister Mary Clare was overjoyed and felt as though her prayers were answered when the grant was matched, dollar for dollar, by the same benefactor who paid for Libby's services.

  Tucking the invitation into her purse, Libby decided the dinner would be a welcome respite from the intensity of writing the report. And she would get to see, first hand, how restoration of the Orphanage was proceeding. Yes, it would be nice to get dressed up and spend Saturday night in the big city. She needed a break, and didn't want to spend another night at home, alone, as she had been doing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Late Saturday afternoon, Libby stood in her bedroom looking with dismay at the clothes strewn over the antique, carved oak bed. She couldn't decide what to wear to the dinner that night. Nothing looked right. The pink dress was too short, the navy too long. Pants were out of the question. It was a somewhat formal affair and she felt like wearing a dress with high heels and fancy jewelry.

  She walked over to the closet and again rummaged through its contents. Tucked in the back, hidden behind an old bathrobe, was a luscious red silk dress she'd completely forgotten about. She'd only worn it once, to a friend's wedding two summers ago, but she'd received dozens of compliments on it.

  Quickly snatching it out of the closet, Libby gathered up the red shoes she'd bought to match, a lace-trimmed slip, bra, and stockings. Ten minutes later, she stood in front of the full length mirror, assessing her appearance and finding herself pleased with the image reflected there. Her golden hair fell in gentle curls past her shoulders. For drama, she'd pulled a small section of hair from each side to the back, catching it in a red satin bow behind her head.

  The dress draped her petite frame in silky perfection, subtly emphasizing her luscious curves without being gaudy or too revealing. Her mother's pearl necklace and earrings added just the right touch of elegance and sophistication. Dabbing her favorite perfume on her wrist and behind her ears, Libby gave herself one last look in the mirror and smiled.

  Maybe she'd meet the man of her dreams tonight, she mused. No, she'd already met him in Christopher Darnell. But he was off limits because of the charade she was forced to play and his determination to bulldoze Harte’s Desire.

  The drive south down the interstate went quickly, and as Libby crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge, she gazed with excitement at the tall city shimmering to her left. Philadelphia's towering buildings, crowded waterfront, and bustling streets filled with historic buildings never failed to stir her. As much as she enjoyed going into New York City, Libby loved Philadelphia more, finding its smaller scale more appealing and more intimate. Navigating the traffic-filled avenues with ease, she found the orphanage and parked in a nearby surface lot. Admiring looks from the parking attendant assured Libby she'd chosen the right outfit for the occasion.

  The early evening air was sultry and filled with the clashing smells of acrid exhaust fumes mixed with the tantalizing aroma of soft pretzels emanating from the vendor's cart on the street corner.

  Libby approached the orphanage then stopped, staring in amazement at its transformation. The building's handsome red brick and off-white sandstone exterior had been cleaned since her last visit and it fairly shone, now that the grimy layers of dirt and pollution had been washed away. Libby had cautione
d the Sisters against sandblasting because the harsh process removed the naturally hard, protective coating from the masonry, causing irreversible damage to the soft surfaces underneath. Obviously, Libby noted, they used the low-pressure water spray cleaning she recommended, and the results were breathtaking. She hoped the Sisters were taking photos to document the dramatic change in appearance.

  Libby walked up the steps and opened the massive oak doors which had been gently hand- sanded then refinished, and now gleamed under several new coats of varnish. The entrance vestibule and connecting hall were still undergoing restoration. A metal scaffold running from floor to ceiling obscured one wall, while heavy canvas drop-cloths protected the charcoal gray and white tile floor from damage.

  Libby gently ran her fingertips along the hall's scagliola walls which were being lovingly repaired. Scagliola was created through an age-old process of blending colored plasters, which when dried, were highly polished to simulate marble. Restoring scagliola was virtually a lost art, but Libby managed to locate an eighty-year old Italian in New York City who, with his son, specialized in its repair. Paint pots, scalpels, and brushes were stacked against one corner in testimony of the artisans' presence.

  One of the Sisters directed Libby down the hall to the spacious dining room which, Libby recalled, also served as a gymnasium and auditorium, depending on the occasion.

  The tall-ceilinged room was filled with a few dozen large tables, festively decorated with colorful tablecloths and bouquets of fresh flowers. A dance floor was located at the far end of the room where a small group of musicians was setting up their instruments and sheet music. Multi-colored streamers hung from the walls, illuminated by sparkling flashes of light coming from a slowly rotating mirror ball suspended from the above.

  Libby was pleased to see such a large turnout and she scanned the crowd of celebrants looking for Sister Mary Clare. Easily finding the six-foot tall woman clad head to toe in black and white, Libby made her way through the throng to the corner where the Sister was talking animatedly with a crowd of supporters.