What the Heart Wants

by Cynthia Reese

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “I understand that the historic district is an important part of Lombard’s economy, but it rests to a large degree on the backs of the people who own these homes. What if they can’t afford to keep them up?”

  “So you’re asking the city for the funds to paint the house?” another council member asked, obviously confused.

  “No, no...I’m asking...I’m just asking for permission to paint the house without having to use five different colors. Without having to match the idea of what the historic society thinks is best for the house. It might be pretty, but it’s not pretty to my pocketbook.”

  This got a laugh from the spectators and the council alike. The mayor gave a light tap of her gavel and stared around at the council members. “Are there any further questions for Ms. Bell? No? Well, then. Thank you, Ms. Bell. We appreciate you bringing this to our attention. Now...” She referred to some paperwork in front of her and then looked up again.

  “Dr. Mitchell? I understand you are representing the historic preservation committee?”

  Allison shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, he was the chairman and practically ran the historic society. But still, it was a sucker punch. She’d expected Herbert to be the one blasting away at her.

  Now Kyle was glancing over at her, but somehow she couldn’t manage a thumbs-up for him.

  Gwen hissed in her ear, “Wow. Are you two...are you guys seeing each other? How did I miss that? What an angle! So how long—”

  Allison leveled a drop-dead stare at the reporter and was surprised that it shut her up immediately. But perhaps Gwen’s sudden silence had been due to Kyle introducing himself and beginning his speech.

  At first it sounded like a rehash of everything Allison had already heard: the economic impact of the historic district, the unjustness of giving one home owner a break, the possibility of setting a precedent and opening the city and the historic society up to a lawsuit.

  But when he started on the importance of historical accuracy, he surprised her.

  “I know—” he smiled at Allison again “—I know that some people think that the historic preservation committee is all about external appearances, and that such a focus is purely superficial. But if you’ll allow me to share with you a brief PowerPoint presentation, you can see the difference yourself.”

  He waited for the mayor to nod and for the city manager to hand him a remote control. Then a screen came down and Kyle’s slides flickered to life on it. Allison felt unprepared and amateurish in comparison to Kyle’s very slick, professional presentation.

  He’s a college professor. What did you expect?

  Kyle started off with before-and-after photos of the neighborhood. Allison hadn’t really remembered how dingy and run-down the houses had looked before the ordinances had been put in place. Some of them had been far worse than Gran’s was now. All the “after” photos showed beautifully restored homes that currently graced the historic district.

  He came to a recent photo of Belle Paix, impressive despite its peeling paint and shabby condition. For a long moment, Kyle said nothing, just stared at the picture. “This is what Belle Paix looks like now.”

  He clicked the remote and the next slide came up. It was an old sepia-toned photograph he’d dug up from somewhere. “As you can see, Ms. Bell is correct in stating that the paint scheme for this beautiful old Second Empire would be more complicated than your average home. This is what it looked like when it was about ten years old, in 1898. You can see the various shades that were used—five including the main color, even though this is a black-and-white newspaper print.”

  He clicked the remote once more. The Belle Paix of the present came to life again. Allison wanted to shrink down in her seat at having the old house revealed in all its tatty tiredness. It isn’t my fault, she thought grimly. She was trying.

  “Now.” Kyle swiveled back to face the council members, who were staring at him with an intent focus. “The question before you is simple. Does it matter how this house is painted? Wouldn’t anything be better than what we have now? Well...yes. And no.”

  The next slide filled the screen, a doctored version of the house with a simple base color of pale yellow. “I’ve taken the liberty of using photo-editing software to show you what the place would look like. This is the house with a monochromatic paint scheme.”

  It was improved, but even Allison had to admit it looked nothing like the 1908 photo.

  “Oh, you say, a home owner would use at least one trim color. Okay. Let’s try one more.”

  The next slide showed what the house would look like with the trim in a dark hunter green.

  “Nice, right?” Kyle’s words held a steely edge. “Good enough, right? What difference would it make if we just let this one house slide?”

  The picture on the screen dissolved, to be replaced with another version.

  And even Allison gasped at the difference. Belle Paix...glowed. The various trims seemed to gel together, not in the tacky, atrociously bright way she had secretly feared, but with a genteel and polished air.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kyle said, “I give you the way Belle Paix’s first owner—Ambrose Shepherd, the man who designed her, dreamed her into existence, watched over every nail and screw and board and drop of paint—intended for the home to appear. And with that, I rest my case.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ALLISON KNEW THE council’s decision as soon as Kyle’s rendition of Belle Paix flashed up on the screen. Every single one of the members’ mouths formed surprised little O’s that didn’t soon go away.

  Sure, the council had debated the request, but it had been halfhearted, almost pro forma in nature. They’d referred to their notes, to the submitted letters of support both for her and for the ordinance.

  But it hadn’t really mattered.

  No, they’d seen Kyle’s beautiful picture, saw what a difference it would make to the historic district, and their minds were made up.

  Because in all honesty? Kyle’s picture had been beautiful. It hummed with the same authenticity that his own Sears kit home did. His artistic rendition could have been a color plate straight out of a book of Victorian house plans.

  It made her want to weep, because she could never, ever afford to transform Gran’s house into the showplace it should be. And what would happen if she did manage to get the blasted thing painted? In ten years’ time, the same paint scheme would require even more money.

  But the council didn’t seem to care about that. They just saw what a difference a restored Belle Paix would make to the historic district, and they wanted it as badly as Allison did.

  After all, it wasn’t their money they’d be spending.

  Lorenzo Adams summed up the council’s position after the unanimous vote had been made to uphold the current ordinances.

  “Ms. Bell, I am sorry for your grandmother’s situation. But we have to weigh her circumstances against all of the business owners and their families who depend on the historic district. And honestly? I can’t believe you have explored every option. Yes, the money may be hard to find. Yes, debt is never a good thing, and not even always possible to secure. But I wouldn’t vote to uphold these ordinances if I didn’t think that somewhere, somehow, a woman as determined and resourceful as you couldn’t come up with a solution to your grandmother’s dilemma.”

  Afterward Allison remained in her chair, the hubbub around her working into a furious uproar that mostly ignored her. Not even Gwen had stuck around. The reporter had dashed off to get quotes from historical society members and, twisting the knife even deeper, “Gotta see if Kyle Mitchell will give me a copy of that picture of your granny’s house. Didn’t it look fab?”

  What to do now? It was all well and good for Lorenzo Adams to compliment her by describing her as determined and resourceful, but it didn’
t solve her problem.

  Allison hadn’t shaken off the numbing shock of the council’s decision, hadn’t yet managed to stand and negotiate her way through the crowd to the door, when she felt the lightest tap on her arm.

  Kyle.

  He stretched out a hand to assist her to her feet. “Can we talk?” he asked.

  Anger rocketed her from her chair. She knocked aside his hand and snatched up her purse. “Somehow I don’t think you’d feel much like talking to me if the decision had gone against you, Kyle. So spare me the added misery of having to be a gracious loser. I’ve got to get a house painted to suit you, with no money and in the next sixty days. I don’t have time for pleasant civilities.”

  “Allison, I—”

  She didn’t let him finish. “In fact, you know what? I much prefer the past few days, when you didn’t talk to me at all.”

  The remark obviously stung. He jerked his head back as if he’d been slapped. For a moment, his lips compressed and the earlier warmth in his eyes cooled. Then, saying nothing else, he turned and walked off.

  As she watched him go, Allison hated how that momentary surge of pleasure at wounding him had faded into an all-encompassing heartsick loneliness.

  * * *

  KYLE’S SHOULDER SMARTED from all the backslapping he’d received from historical society members. Or maybe he was just numb from Allison’s words.

  “I much prefer the past few days, when you didn’t talk to me at all.” Her tone, her eyes, had held so much venom.

  He’d spent those precious few days ahead of the meeting desperately trying to swing a compromise, while at the same time preparing a defense to save the ordinances. And she hadn’t even missed him when he wasn’t around?

  No. She’d preferred it.

  Todd White, the city manager, chucked him on the arm, breaking into the tight circle the historical society members had formed around him.

  “Kyle, I have to say, you saved our bacon on this one. If you hadn’t given such a stellar presentation, we’d have been here all night, and those council members would have surely voted to repeal the ordinance.” He stretched out a hand, which Kyle took unthinkingly, resulting in his being pumped with enthusiastic energy. “Yes, sir, that PowerPoint speech was inspired. You really hit it out of the ballpark with the picture of what that old house would look like painted up properly.”

  “You got that right, buddy!” Herbert nodded his head vigorously in agreement with the city manager. “Kyle, you’ve earned a steak, boy! Woo-wee, but that was some kind of speechifying you did there. Saved our neighborhood, you did! How about it, folks? Y’all want to head out to celebrate with a steak?”

  Kyle’s eyes weren’t on Todd or Herbert or Eunice or any of the other members. His gaze slid past the reporter with her green hair, which shifted and mixed with another blue streak until it reminded Kyle of nothing so much as the exact shade of a bluebottle fly.

  His attention was wholly focused on Allison. She had edged through the crowd, her back hunched, her arms folded tightly as though she were trying to become invisible.

  Her face revealed none of the pinched anger that had spilled out just a few minutes earlier. In its place was pale misery, with eyes he could see even from this distance were shiny with unshed tears, defeat in the way her back was bowed.

  “Oh, I’ll be the one to buy Kyle a steak, I will,” Eunice was saying. “It would be my pleasure, now that we’ve put that Bell woman in her place. I am so pleased, Kyle, just ever so pleased! Why, to think I ever worried about...”

  Kyle didn’t listen to Eunice prattle on. Instead, he focused on a tall man in a dark suit who materialized out of the crowd and touched Allison on the elbow. She whirled around. The man began talking earnestly. After a minute or so, the misery in her expression began to lift.

  The dark-suited man gestured toward the door and began to lead Allison outside. She in turn was suddenly animated, smiling, her back straight and the defeated air magically gone.

  Kyle would have killed to have been that man in the dark suit, with his ability to make Allison smile again.

  “No, Eunice, I was going to pay for Kyle’s steak—” Herbert had reverted to his quarrelsome, competitive ways, arguing down Eunice about the privilege of who would treat him.

  “Herbert,” Kyle interrupted, more harshly than he’d intended. “No offense, but the last thing I feel like doing tonight is celebrating. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  GRAN’S WALKING STICK struck the floor with a hollow clack.

  “Now, that doesn’t sound like real wood.” She squinted down at the floor of the house they were viewing. “When I walk over it, it sounds like that time all those squirrels ran amok on the third floor. Remember that awful racket? And it doesn’t even look like real wood, either.”

  Allison drew in a deep, calming breath. “It’s not, Gran. It’s laminate. It’s a modern replacement of wood.”

  Gran frowned. “Yeah, I heard of that stuff. Buckles when it gets the slightest bit wet, and it’s slippery to boot. Gladys Horton fell and broke her hip because she slipped on some sugar she’d spilled. Nope, this is not for me. We can move on to the next one. No, I want good old-fashioned wood, thank you very much.” She turned and headed for the door.

  Allison closed her eyes and gripped the doorjamb. “Gran, you’ve barely looked at any of the houses we’ve seen today—”

  Her grandmother stopped, her back rigid. She carefully turned to face her. “Because they’re not quality, Allison. Not at all. They’ve all got these plastic floors—” she thwacked the laminate once more for good measure “—and plastic cabinets and that icky Berber carpet, and if I see one more wall painted—what did you call it? Contractor beige? I’m going to lose my appetite forever. I never did care for oatmeal.”

  “Gran...” Allison crossed the laminate floor, which to her chagrin did indeed put her in mind of that nest of noisy squirrels from her childhood. She wrapped an arm around Gran, noting how bony her shoulders were. “I know this is hard for you. But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t afford to paint the house. You can’t afford to paint the house. And we have someone who is willing to pay us top dollar for it. We’ll get you a nice, new home that’s just the right size—”

  “I don’t trust that Greg Draper,” Gran said. The corners of her mouth were tugged down, her face more drawn than Allison could ever remember. “We don’t need to sell Belle Paix to some man who wants to turn it into a boardinghouse!”

  “Gran...it’s not a boardinghouse. He’s an investor, and he wants to make it a bed-and-breakfast. A very nice hotel. He’ll paint it like it’s supposed to be painted, and it will look just like it did when it was new. He promises. And think—it will be filled with happy people—”

  “A boardinghouse.” Gran’s face wrinkled with contempt. “My mother didn’t resort to taking in boarders even in the midst of the Depression, after my father lost all our money, Allison. And I just can’t see us doing that now. Why, Davinia Shepherd would turn in her grave!”

  The Realtor, who’d been in the next room, rushed in, her own heels clacking on the floor. “Mrs. Thomas, if you’re not happy with this home, I’m sure you’ll like the next one better. It’s an older home, with, er, more character—”

  “Does it have thicker walls than this? Because I could hear every word of the conversation you were having on that cell phone—both ends of the conversation. These walls could be paper!” Gran spun around again. This time, the slick floor almost did her in—would have if Allison hadn’t been there to catch her.

  As Allison steadied her, she noticed a tear trailing down her powdered cheek.

  “Oh, Gran...”

  “I just want to go home, Allison. Home to the only place I’ve ever called home. I don’t want these newfangled houses with
their plastic floors. Why, my bed wouldn’t even fit in the living rooms, much less the bedrooms, of most of these houses. Are you going to make me sell my bed, too?”

  Allison wanted to weep. Confound Kyle Mitchell. He should be here, so he could explain to Gran why she can’t go home.

  “Let’s—let’s call it a day, Gran. You’re tired, and we’ve looked at a bunch of houses—”

  They hadn’t, not really, because Gran had refused to set foot in half the ones on their list. Allison had been coaxing her to look at homes for two weeks now, desperate to find one that would suit her.

  But Gran had made it nearly impossible. First of all, she didn’t want to live in a house that was too small. Then she didn’t want to live in a house too large. Then she’d declared that if she couldn’t go home to Belle Paix, she wanted to move away from Lombard altogether.

  So not only were they looking for a home that would suit Gran, they were also searching for a town that would suit her. It was quickly becoming clear that no town stacked up to Lombard, and no house stacked up to Belle Paix.

  Allison gently guided her grandmother, who was now making a vain attempt to hold back more tears, to her car. She settled her into the seat.

  Gran fumbled in her purse for a tissue. “I know it. I’m an unreasonable old woman. I should start using that pragmatism I tell everybody else to use. Tell that nice lady that maybe I can come back tomorrow and look at this house again and give it a fair shake, all right, Allison? I am sorry. I know—I know. It’s got to be done.”

  “It’s okay, Gran. We’ll find the house for us. I promise. I know this is hard.”

  She closed the door and turned to face the Realtor.

  “I’m sorry for wasting so much of your time today. Please don’t give up on us. I really do have to find her a home,” Allison said.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” the woman replied. “I thought for sure some of the houses I’d picked out would at least interest her. You must live in a fairly spectacular house now.”