by Jordyn White
I turn up the path to the first cottage and a soft burst of wind tugs my long, dark hair past my face. I tuck it behind my ear, and smile. God, I love these little cottages. I love this stretch of beach, sheltered by the tall bluff behind it and kissed by the ocean in front.
Yes my plans could get dragged through the papers and stomped all over until it’s tossed back at me like so much garbage, but I’m in this now. There’s no going back. And in spite of my fears, there’s also this persistent fluttering of excitement. I walk through the front door, determined to be my parents’ daughter.
I meet Rod in the kitchen and we spend some time chatting and waiting for the guy from Renaissance Restoration to arrive so we can walk the cottages together. Fortunately, Rod had no trouble bringing him on board and was able to set things up pretty quickly.
We’re at the kitchen’s little bar, which is a dated pale yellow Formica laminate. In front of me is a manila folder containing some specs and other documents, and my fresh Moleskine notebook, which will be a dedicated notebook for this project.
Rod opens his metal clipboard. “Here’s Brett’s card, in case you ever need to contact him directly.” The historical contractor is technically under Rod’s umbrella—in fact, it’s the first I’ve even heard his name—but since he’s a contractor, too, it makes sense I might need to communicate with him myself from time to time.
I scan the card Rod just handed me:
Renaissance Restoration
Bringing the Past into the Present
Brett Carmichael
Owner and Licensed Historical Contractor
A chill drops through me.
“Wait.” In addition to the name catching my attention, the card looks vaguely familiar. “Carmichael?” I ask urgently, digging through an inner pocket in my purse. “Any relation to Marcia Carmichael?”
“I think he’s her son. Why?”
“Her s—” I pull out half a torn card—the one Marcia Carmichael so arrogantly handed me last week. It matches the card in front of me.
I throw my hands up. “Great, Rod. Why don’t you hire the son of the devil while you’re at it?”
“Better than a son of a bitch,” I hear behind me. I spin around to see a man coming into the kitchen. He’s an inch or two over six foot, has thick brown hair that’s just long enough to suggest some natural curl, and has nicely tanned skin. He’s wearing the casual slacks and collared shirt so typical of contractors, but wears it better than most, being broad-shouldered as he is. He comes forward, clipboard in one hand, and as he draws near, I’m struck by his dark blue eyes, which are rimmed with light blue.
“Brett Carmichael.” He extends his hand.
Well, shit.
He’s wearing an amused grin, clearly pleased he’s caught me off guard. Geez, just like his damned mother.
I take his hand and offer him a firm, curt handshake. “Elizabeth Rivers.”
“I know who you are.” It’s all I can do not to scowl at him. Still grinning, he nods his head in greeting to Rod and sets his clipboard on the counter.
Rod glances between us uneasily, but I say, “Rod, may I speak with you for a moment? Please excuse us.”
Blood pounding, I lead him out the front door and off the porch. Glancing behind us to make sure Brett freaking Carmichael hasn’t followed us out, I say, calmly as I can manage (which isn’t as calmly as I’d like), “Why on earth would you hire him?”
Rod looks genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Haven’t you been reading the newspapers?” He gives me a blank look, so I continue. “The whole hoo-hah over the conservation land?”
“Oh sure.” He nods. “I heard some about that.”
“Well, Marcia Carmichael was behind that whole thing.”
“Oh dear. I didn’t realize that. I heard people were slandering you kids in the paper and I didn’t care for that so I didn’t read much. I know your family too well. I didn’t want to read that nonsense. Sorry. I didn’t know he’d be a problem.”
His loyalty softens me, but I’m still a little shook up, wondering what on earth I’m going to do now. I sigh. “No. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You didn’t know.”
“He’s considered the best in the area.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.”
“Do you want me to find someone else?”
I exhale. I can just imagine what Marcia Carmichael would do with that turn of events. But is her son going to insist—as his mother would—that we treat this like a historical renovation? Because, while I’d like to preserve the character of these cottages, I want to modernize and update them as well. I’d like a blend between past and present, not just one or the other. “He’s aware of my vision for these cottages, isn’t he?”
“Yes. We discussed it.”
“And he’s not going to try to roadblock it?”
Rod shakes his head. “I don’t see why he would. He’s worked on some projects that are on the Register, but he’s done plenty of projects like this one. He’s got a nice, clean style, Elizabeth. I think you’ll like his work. Here.”
He pulls out his phone and brings up the website for Renaissance Restoration. We lean in together and go through the online portfolio. It does calm me down some. He really has done nice work, and I do like his style. If it weren’t for the connection to his mother, I’d probably be excited to have him on board.
However, even if Rod didn’t know about my connection to Marcia Carmichael, I’m sure her son knows who I am and all about his mother’s history with the resort. I have to wonder what his motivations are for taking this job.
“Let me talk to him,” I say.
We go back inside to find the kitchen vacant, but follow some soft banging to the upper floor. Brett Carmichael’s in the master bedroom, if a room that’s only a foot longer in each direction than the others can be called a master. He’s knocking on the wall, looking for studs, apparently. Other than his height, he doesn’t bear much resemblance to his cursed mother. In fact, he’d be rather easy on the eyes if I didn’t know who he was.
Since I do know, however, I have only one priority. I want to know what Marcia Carmichael’s son will think about the renovations I have in mind. They’re surely what she would consider drastic changes to a historical property.
“At least some of these walls are likely to come down.” There’s just the slightest hint of an attitude in my voice, I admit that. But I really don’t know if I trust this man being here. Better to figure out his motives sooner rather than later. “I’d like to make two or three bigger rooms up here, instead of four small ones, and update the bathroom too. What do you think about that idea?”
I say it like it’s a challenge, and it is.
He appraises me. I hold my ground. “Well,” he gestures toward the wall he was just examining. “The studs aren’t to code. They’re not spaced properly. If you leave the walls where they are, you can let that lie because it gets grandfathered in. But if you start moving things around like that, you’ll have to replace some studs to get everything up to code.”
Rod nods in agreement.
“That’s going to cost more money,” Brett says.
“That’s not a problem.”
“No, I thought not.”
That sounds like a challenge too, but I don’t respond.
“It’d be nice, though, if we can keep this window frame,” he continues. “It’s a good-sized opening, so it lets in plenty of light, and the frame is in good shape. It just needs refinishing.”
The frame does have a nice, substantial feel to it, and lends some of the historical character to this particular room. “There’s a crack.” I gesture to the upper corner.
He nods, running his hand along the side and examining the whole thing. “This isn’t a standard size window, so we’d have to get custom glass to fit this old frame. But,” he looks at me, “if money’s no object—” yet another challenge in his voice, “—it would be a great way to preserve th
e historical integrity of the room.”
“Mr. Carmichael—”
“Brett.”
“You should know, I fully expect my contractors to do their jobs while staying on budget.”
We have plenty in the budget for these cottages, and will pitch in more for good enough reason, but I get the feeling he’s challenging me about money somehow, and it’s irritating.
“I’m more than willing to work within your budget.” He gives me an amused grin.
For a moment neither of us speaks as we just look at one another. Honestly, I’d love to tell him to go jump off the bluff. But since he’s clearly qualified and, so far, seems to want to be here, I couldn’t do it without it being obvious his mother is the reason. “Mr. Carmichael—”
“Brett.”
“Is this job going to represent a conflict of interest for you?”
“Why would it?”
“Your mother and I have been on opposite sides of the fence before. I want to know if that’s a problem.”
“Not really.”
“All plans discussed here will be considered confidential.”
He cocks his head at me. “No running home to mommy. Got it.”
I narrow my eyes slightly, but he only widens his grin, which irritates me even more. “Let me lay out my vision for these cottages, Mr. Carmichael.”
“Brett. Please.”
I exhale. “Brett. One of the things I love about these cottages is their historical character. I have every intention of preserving as much of that as I can, but I also intend to elevate the standard of these cottages to the level people have come to expect from the resort. Our guests come from every walk of life, but no matter who they are, we give them top-level luxury. People come to the resort to forget. They come to play. They come to remember what it’s like to slow down and breathe.”
My heart is beating faster than normal, like it usually does when I let my passions get away from me. I continue on anyway.
“At the resort, we operate under the belief that those moments in life actually matter. In order for us to deliver such unforgettable moments, we pay attention to the smallest detail. I’ll be frank. I don’t think your mother would approve of my plans for these buildings. I want to respect the history of these buildings as much as I can, but my first loyalty is to the people who will be staying here. That’s going to mean some pretty significant changes. If that’s not something you can get on board with, then maybe this isn’t the job for you.”
“I see.” He glances at Rod, who’s been looking between us uncomfortably. “Well, I assure you, Miss Rivers—may I call you Elizabeth?”
I hesitate just for a moment, then give the slightest inclination of my head. He presses on.
“I am not my mother. I have my own ideas about the treatment of older buildings. If these had been inhabited by, say, the founders of Swan Pointe, or the general of a famous battle, or the first Chinese immigrants of central California, I would have different thoughts about what should be done to preserve the history of these structures. But they’ve been used for just the sort of escape you’re talking about for many decades now. I think your vision fits just fine with what these cottages are meant to be. I took this job,” he nods toward Rod, “because I think it’s a fantastic project and I’d love to work on it. I understand it needs to fit in with the resort’s brand, and I think I can help you do that, while highlighting the best historically significant elements these buildings provide. Projects like this work best when there’s a seamless blend between past and present. I want people to step inside these cottages and feel they’ve been given the best of both worlds.”
“Well said,” Rod says, glancing at me.
I’ve softened a bit at Brett Carmichael’s little speech, I have to admit. Aside from being slightly reassured that he’s actually here for the right reasons, I felt his own passion coming through. There’s something captivating about another person’s passions, even if that person is Brett freaking Carmichael.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he says, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Too late. He’s already causing me trouble.
“No, I don’t have a problem with your plans,” he adds. “But if you have a problem with me, and would rather I leave, I can certainly do that.” And there’s that damn grin again.
“I don’t have a problem with you,” I say, still with an edge in my voice.
“Well then, I’m looking forward to being part of the team.”
Well, shit.
Chapter 3
Brett
Elizabeth Rivers is everything I imagined her to be. Stubborn, intriguing, arrogant, beautiful.
My sister would disagree. She secretly thinks the Rivers family walks on water. As for me, working for Elizabeth Rivers was the one downside to taking this job. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to work on the Cottages. They’re practically a Swan Pointe institution. And regardless of what I think of the Rivers family, I have to admit, they know what they’re doing. I have no doubt the entire project will be carried out to the highest standard, so it should be rewarding to be part of it in that respect.
After our walkthrough, I returned to my truck to make a few quick notes before heading to my office downtown. I have the windows rolled down, so the cab is filled with the refreshing scent of sea air and the soothing sound of the ocean’s waves. I’m parked near cottage one, the row of old buildings stretching away from me in a slight semi-circle, following the gentle curve of the bluff and the beach.
They’re going to look a hell of a lot different by the time we’re though with them, that’s for sure. But I meant what I said. I have no issues with Ms. Rivers’ plan for these cottages. In fact, I think she’s going to give them the chance at a much longer life in this community than they would’ve otherwise had. I was impressed by her passion and, frankly, a little surprised. I didn’t expect that from her.
When I first took this job, I figured I’d be working more directly with the contractor than her, and considered that a plus. Now that I’ve met her, it’s clear she’s going to be more than just the checkbook. That’s all right. I think I can handle her.
As for my mother, well, I’ll be the first to admit she can be a pill at times. I can’t blame Elizabeth Rivers for having some hesitation about me, being her son and the two of them so recently having a run-in over the conservation property. It’s no fun being on Mom’s shit list. (Having once been an ornery teenaged boy living in her house, I should know.) I’ve been too overwhelmed with my own problems over the past year to pay much attention to what my mom’s been up to, but I do know this. She’s a bulldog in her field, and most the time, that’s a good thing. I’m proud of the work she does, actually. Never more so than when she stands up to the big guys and wins. My love for history comes from my mother, no question.
That said, I haven’t always agreed with her opinions of other people or the perceived moral imperative of the battles she fights. Sometimes I think she gets a little high on her own power and goes overboard. I never did agree with her when she was battling the city over that old apartment building downtown, and wasn’t all that upset when she lost the fight, though I’d never say that to her. I’m more moderate, just as I explained to Elizabeth Rivers. I’m less of the firecracker my mom is and more cool-tempered, like my dad.
Regardless, like I said, over the past year or so I haven’t paid as much attention to my mom’s professional activities as I usually do, including the go-round with the Rivers Paradise Resort and its young heiress. I’ve been too consumed by the long, drawn-out custody battle with my ex. It’s been a nightmare of legal red tape, child protective service visits, motions, and hearings. It’s all I can do to deal with that, take care of little Max when I have him, and do my work.
Actually, my work has saved my sanity on a pretty regular basis. I love what I do, and when I have the right project (like what I think these cottages will be), I’m able to slip into that work zone and forget
about my troubles for a while. On the days Max is with his mother I still worry. There’s no making that go away. But work has the magic ability to take that worry down to a dull gnawing instead of the sharp panic it sometimes turns into.
I finish my notes, toss my clipboard onto the seat next to me, and start the truck. My phone rings and I look at the caller ID. It’s Mom. Hands still on the keys, the truck’s engine humming, I hesitate. She and I typically talk several times a week, but it’s been several days. Four? Five?
Yes, five.
She called two days ago and left a message indicating she wanted to talk about the upcoming hearing at family court. As if I didn’t know. It’s the exact same thing she wanted to discuss when we talked five days ago. I realize she’s only worried about little Max, like we all are, but she’s been fixating on the hearing, repeatedly reviewing every little detail, and it’s making me crazy. I’m just trying to keep it together over here.
That’s why I never called her back, and why I’m hesitating right now. Still, it’s not really my standard MO to ignore my mother for days on end, so I turn off the truck, take a deep breath, and answer the call.
“Ah,” she says by way of greeting, “you are alive.”
“Ha ha.”
“Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just been busy.”
“Did you forward your lawyer that article I sent you?”
I suppress a groan, which she’d be able to hear, and roll my eyes instead. She can’t hear that.
“Mom, I’m sure he knows all that already. He’s the one who told me about the likelihood she’d contest the test results in the first place, remember?”
“Well, it can’t hurt. You have to be your own advocate, Brett.”
I sigh silently and lean my elbow on the truck door, firmly rubbing my forehead with my fingers. “Yes, I know. But he’s got it covered. He’s doing a good job, Mom. We just have to wait and see what happens. Besides, let’s take it a step at a time. We have to get the judge to order the test first.”