What the Heart Wants

by Cynthia Reese

  She tipped her head back and stared at the porch ceiling...which Kyle had noticed just minutes earlier was peeling. “I hadn’t planned on the expense of painting all the rooms, you know. This is really eating into my funds. And the outside... If I don’t do something with the exterior of this old place, dry rot will set up. It can’t wait much longer.”

  Again, Kyle tried to distract her from the tough challenge that posed. “So what color are you going to paint the kitchen?” he asked.

  She slid a squint-eyed glance his way. “I’m sure you have a historically accurate suggestion.”

  Kyle chuckled. “As a matter of fact...”

  “I knew it.”

  “Well, it was something Gran said in one of her stories tonight. She said the kitchen was buttercup yellow, remember?”

  “That, according to her, was my great-grandmother’s favorite color.”

  “It was actually a very popular color in the twenties and thirties...and that kitchen is early 1930s from the look of it, not too much older than mine. I am just blown away by how it’s still intact.”

  “Yeah, well, if it was good enough for Ambrose,” Allison muttered. She stretched out her feet on the table and groaned.

  “You’d rip it all out, wouldn’t you? Put in new cabinets and granite countertops and a smooth top electric range and a chandelier, something straight out of a big-box DIY store’s dream kitchen catalog.”

  She sat up and twisted in the love seat to face him. Her eyes seemed full of uncertainty. “I don’t know. Maybe. But is that such a sin? I mean, after all, Ambrose used the latest technology and design when he built this house in the first place. It was shockingly modern for its time.”

  “But it was new. Sure, if you’re building a house from the ground up, go modern if you want. But it’s going to look dated really quickly, whereas your grandmother’s kitchen...”

  “Just looks sad.” Allison propped an elbow on the back of the seat, then dropped her chin on her forearm.

  “No. Tired, maybe. I’ll grant you that. Still, the new subway tiles look great.”

  “Do you know, Jerry worked for nearly two hours to match the new grout to the old stained grout? You can’t even tell what’s new about it.” Allison shook her head in amazement. “In the time he took with that, he could have put a coat of primer on at least one downstairs room.”

  “Sure, but now it doesn’t look patched. And those marble countertops may be yellowed, but they’re worth a fortune.”

  “I realize that. I really wouldn’t gut it, you know. I don’t think, anyway. At least the cabinets are okay, really. The drawers stick, but I kinda think I’d miss it if they didn’t. Still, Gran could use a new fridge—that’s not original, so you’d let me get by with replacing that, right?”

  “You could get those decorative doors and do a built-in, and it would—”

  “No. Absolutely not. You can’t have ice and water through the door with the decorative doors. And I like my ice and water through the door.”

  “You don’t have it now.”

  Allison sat upright and folded her arms across her chest. “But I did, and I know what I miss.”

  “Okay. But at least get stainless steel, all right? It tends to blend in better than the other finishes.”

  “Wow.” She blew a raspberry and waggled her eyebrows. “Next you’ll be telling me it’s okay to ditch the stove.”

  “No! That’s a Chambers! And it works fine. How many quarts of tomatoes did we can on that thing?”

  “Let’s see...with the extra bushel the guy brought later, we wound up with sixty-seven. Of which Gran says you get a third.”

  “Can I just come here and eat them? They’ll taste better cooked on a Chambers stove,” Kyle quipped.

  She made a move to swat him, missed and fell against him. For a moment, Kyle’s breath went out in a whoosh as he felt her weight against him. When she made a sudden move backward, he held her gently in place.

  “Hey. Where are you off to?” The huskiness in his voice surprised him.

  “I—I dunno.”

  The crickets and frogs ramped up to a crescendo as he debated the wisdom of what he was about to do.

  “How many couples do you think sat on this porch, maybe even in this very seat, just like we’re doing now?” he whispered, tracing her cheek with his finger. He liked the way her lips were quivering with a half smile, that the pulse jumped at the base of her throat.

  “Hmm. That’s over a century and a quarter. Got to be a lot.”

  “I wonder if they felt like me.”

  Now it was her fingers on his skin, sliding along his arms to his shoulders to lightly hold him. “And how exactly do you feel?”

  He closed his eyes to concentrate on his answer. Talking about feelings was never easy for him. He could describe events and people and complicated political theories, but feelings? He needed to get this right.

  “Happy. Yeah. And...like I’m in the calmest place on earth.” He opened his eyes again.

  She stared at him, then looked away. In an instant, he felt the connection between them break and all his earlier doubts and misgivings begin to flood in.

  He didn’t want to think about all that, not the variance, not the house. In the darkness, he could pretend the Victorian was perfectly painted, that the rattan in their seats didn’t need recaning, that Allison fully “got” his yen for historical accuracy.

  So, impulsively, he craned his neck to meet her eyes, muttered, “I’m probably going to get slapped for this,” and kissed her.

  And she kissed him back.

  And then she didn’t. In one frenetic move, she was up on her feet, her arms clasped protectively around herself.

  “It’s late. I need to go check on Gran.” Allison bit her lip and rushed on. “Thanks for everything. I really appreciate your help today...and on that variance, too. I need to get a move on, you know.”

  With that, she left him on the front porch. The door thudded softly behind her, the lock clicked with a loud squeak and the crickets started up again.

  But at least she hadn’t slapped him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ALLISON STARED UP at a ceiling brown with age as she lay in the huge antique bed. The morning sun streamed in the bedroom’s windows and at least gave the dingy ceiling a charming touch of sepia.

  Ha. There was nothing charming about this house.

  No, that wasn’t true. She loved this place, but it required so much dedication and sacrifice. And she was afraid that she didn’t love it quite enough.

  That’s why she had jerked back from Kyle last night. That, and the way he’d hesitated again before he’d kissed her. Because if he had doubts and she had doubts, well, maybe it was best not to push things.

  And of course she had doubts. It wasn’t simply about Kyle’s unbending need for historic accuracy. It was that, deep down, she knew she’d never have that same need. Even last night, as they’d sat there, they hadn’t talked about life and goals and dreams. They’d talked about refrigerators and paint.

  What happened when the house was done and they no longer had anything like that to talk about? And done to her specifications, not to Kyle’s? Because she had a feeling he could tinker with Belle Paix forever.

  Belle Paix. Now he was rubbing off on her, and she was even calling the house by its fancy French name.

  She threw off the covers and was about to bounce out of bed with a loud thump when she remembered Gran across the hall.

  Gran hadn’t stirred. Maybe she was still asleep? They’d kept her up awfully late.

  Tiptoeing across the hall, Allison peeked into her room. There her grandmother lay, serenely curled up in a ball, her breath moving through her tiny body in that huge old bed that was even bigger and chunkier than Allison’s. Cleo raised he
r head from her place at Gran’s feet and blinked. Leave it to Gran to have the one ninja guard cat in the world.

  Satisfied that she was sleeping okay for now, Allison slipped back across the hall and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. She’d fix Gran a good breakfast, if that cranky old Chambers stove would cooperate, and maybe take her out for a late lunch before she had to get her back to the facility.

  Downstairs, Allison reviewed with satisfaction the rows of jars full of tomatoes and green beans on the shelves. It looked as though they had all sealed, and later today she could move part of them to the pantry and the rest to the daylight basement downstairs. At least she could mark one item off her to-do list.

  But behind those rows of jars, the kitchen, with its patchwork of new plaster repairs against the tired old painted plaster, stood ready to remind her that loads of work still needed to be done.

  And fast, if she wanted to bring Gran home to at least a finished interior.

  Sliding a finger across the battered finish of one of the metal cabinets, Allison wondered if they would need sanding before she painted them. The proper thing to do would be take them out and have a cabinetmaker spray on the finish. That way, it would be a smooth and professional job, just like new. She’d bet Kyle or Jerry could tell her the name of someone who could restore the cabinets to their original state.

  Arrgh. Now she was really thinking like Kyle. No. No more depending on him, because Gran was right. If you gave a mouse a cookie...

  Allison slammed the cabinet door with more force than she’d intended, and it clanged shut.

  No. She’d just paint them with a roller. After all, that’s how Gran had done them for years. Quicker, cheaper and easier. Done, done and done.

  The wall phone rang, startling her. As she crossed over to grab it, Allison instinctively glanced up at the ceiling to check for sounds of Gran. Sure enough, as she spoke a hello into the mouthpiece, she heard stirrings from upstairs.

  “It’s Kyle. I was just thinking that maybe you needed help with Gran?”

  Allison clenched her teeth. She so wanted to tell him that she could manage at least one thing without him bailing her out. But pragmatism ruled.

  “That would be great. I think I hear her moving around upstairs.”

  “I’ll be over in a few minutes then.” And he hung up, not really saying goodbye. Was his tone a touch cool? Definitely there was a standoffish awkwardness there.

  But hey, she had been the one to leave him on the porch the night before. Allison shook her head to clear it and crossed to the bottom of the back stairs.

  “Gran?” she called. “Do you need help?”

  She heard her reply but didn’t quite get it. So she tramped up the steps, to find her putting the finishing touches on her hair.

  “Gran! You’ve already had a bath? You could have called and I would have helped—”

  “Don’t need any help. I do just fine by myself. It was nice to be back in my old tub. There’s something lacking in those plastic tub surrounds. Never feels substantial under your feet.” Gran used a powder puff to give a final dusting to her face. “There. I am presentable to the world again, as presentable as eighty-nine years will allow me.”

  “Okay...well, Kyle is coming to help you back downstairs.”

  “That’s a fine young man, Allison. A very fine young man.”

  Allison began making Gran’s bed, and in the process disturbed Cleo. “Don’t start.”

  “Start what?” Gran had turned on the vanity stool and taken up her walking stick.

  “You know very well what I mean.” Allison fluffed up a pillow sham and began to toss the multitude of Gran’s pillows back on the smoothed coverlet.

  “I just observed that he was a fine young man. You don’t agree?”

  “Certainly I agree. But I can sense a bit of matchmaking happening, Gran, and I don’t have time for that.”

  “It’s not like I’m drawing up a marriage contract,” she mused. “But since you brought up the topic, then, yes, I will say you could do far worse than Kyle Mitchell.”

  “We are complete opposites, and you know it,” Allison told her. “He wants things to be picture perfect, and I just want them to work.”

  “You seem to have managed to work with him this far.”

  “Because I’m an idiot and I let him and Jerry talk me into things that I know waste time and money.”

  “Somehow I doubt that, Allison. I know you. You research things to death in your drive to make the best decision. Tell me you haven’t tried to find a less expensive or better alternative to any of the choices you’ve made here.”

  Allison exhaled and frowned. “You know me too well.”

  “I know the dark circles under your eyes mean that you’re working too hard and spending too much time on the computer, too little time sleeping.”

  “I...Gran—” What could Allison say? If she told her about the red-alert status of her finances, that her own money was just about gone, it would only worry her grandmother. And she wasn’t about to hit Gran up for more money for this old house. “You win. I’ll spend less time surfing the web and more time getting my z’s. I’m going to start on breakfast, okay? Do you mind waiting up here until Kyle gets here?”

  “Not at all. Kyle is usually very punctual.”

  Downstairs, Allison and the Chambers stove had come to an understanding by the time Kyle rang the back doorbell. She had the bacon sizzling and the pancakes cooking as she let him in.

  “Gran’s ready upstairs. Just let me take out the bacon and finish the last of the pancakes,” she said.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Kyle said, “but you’re right about the chair lift. It will give Gran a lot of freedom to enjoy the house.”

  Allison nearly dropped the strips of bacon she was taking up. Wherever Kyle had ditched the standoffish guy on the phone, she was glad of it. She liked having the old Kyle back. “Oh! Yeah. I just wish they’d been able to get in here and have it done before this weekend.” She set the plate of bacon on the counter and turned her attention to the last two pancakes on the griddle.

  “So all you’ve really got left inside to do is the painting?”

  “Ha! Really? All? Do you know how big these rooms are? And all the ceilings need doing first—ten-feet-high ceilings.”

  “I do a mean paint stroke,” Kyle told her. “And I have a spare extension roller.”

  “I’m surprised. I figured you were a brush guy all the way—if they didn’t have it in 1929, then you wouldn’t deign to use it.”

  “I can be pragmatic.” He leaned over and filched a piece of bacon. “Yum. See? I told you a Chambers stove cooked better than its modern cousin. Don’t you think?”

  “I think we’d better get Gran downstairs before either you eat all her bacon or her pancakes get cold.” Allison used a lid from a saucepan to cover up the bacon, and reached overhead to the pot rack for a colander, which she turned over the pancakes.

  “Neat trick,” he said. “Keeps the heat in but lets the moisture out.”

  “Wow. You sure are affable today. Let me guess—you’re just flattering me, aren’t you?” she asked.

  She’d been teasing, but did a double take as Kyle’s face paled. His mouth tightened, then eased into a forced smile. “Flattering you?”

  “The bit about Gran’s chair lift, and the bacon...” She trailed off. She stared at him, wondering if she was hypersensitive because of the night before. Yeah, she probably was, but to ask him point-blank about it—would just be that much more awkward. “Wait, I get it,” she tacked on in a forced jovial tone. “You’re hoping to get breakfast, aren’t you? From my Chambers stove?”

  Kyle seemed relieved that she’d let him off the hook. He chuckled. “Got me in one. Somehow a granola bar doesn’t come close to pancakes and bacon. L
et’s go get Gran, and after that, maybe I can find my paint roller and help you out with some of those ceilings.”

  * * *

  KYLE HOISTED THE six-foot extension pole over his shoulder and toted it to his pickup. There. He had his favorite trim brush, his best scraper and the extension pole. No more dawdling. He needed to head back over to Belle Paix.

  But man...what if this didn’t work?

  He slammed the tailgate shut and leaned against the back of the truck. Fishing out his phone, he punched in a number. “Herbert? This is Kyle Mitchell.”

  His fellow member of the historic preservation committee replied, “Thought you might be calling after that email I sent you.”

  “Yeah. I figured your take on the Belle Paix variance request would be like mine.”

  “You knew it when you sent it to me, Kyle. Quite frankly, I’m surprised at you. You usually wouldn’t even waste my time with something this far off from the ordinances.”

  “I know. But listen, Herbert, Mrs. Lillian is in a tight spot. She’s our oldest resident, and she’s on a fixed income. I’ve gone over the idea of loans and tax credits, and she’s right...neither option really fits her needs or gives her any benefits.”

  Herbert cleared his throat, and Kyle could picture him squinting in concentration on the other end of the line. “I agree. It’s a bad thing. A terrible thing. But we’ve worked too hard—you have worked too hard—and Lombard has come too far. You know that.”

  Kyle rubbed his eyes. “She’s an old lady, Herbert. Surely we’ve got to have a little flexibility in those ordinances.”

  Herbert cleared his throat again. “Seems to me, Kyle, that you aren’t as concerned with Mrs. Lillian as you are with Mrs. Lillian’s granddaughter. I mean, I’ve never known you to have trouble saying no to anybody else. There was that young couple who bought that arts and crafts bungalow, and you were as tough on them as you were me. And I’m glad you were, for my part, because you really pushed me to make my house a showplace. This neighborhood is what it is because you didn’t let your emotions get in the way. People are depending on you, Kyle. Not just property owners, but the folks who depend on the tourist trade. You know what you’ve always said. People don’t come to visit an almost-restored old house, they—”