by Lisa Norato
Love In A Victorian
by
LISA NORATO
Published by Lisa Norato
Cover Design by Dar Albert
LOVE IN A VICTORIAN
Copyright © 2017 Lisa Norato
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, such as electronic, photocopy or recording, without the written permission of the author, Lisa Norato.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
In loving memory of my maternal grandmother,
“Nanny” Victoria Macaruso Vannelli.
Under five feet tall, Nanny had the heart of a giant. She loved the Lord and her family and passed her faith onto her children and grandchildren. She had an amazing, creative talent for cooking and sewing and ran her own business making luxurious, custom draperies. Everyone who entered her kitchen felt special with one taste of her Italian dishes. She could cure a headache with water, oil and a special prayer. She mastered the art of hugging, wrapping you in unconditional love without the need for words.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One
Richard Damien contemplated the eyesore of a Victorian from his BMW, until a kid in a tattered ball cap appeared in the front window and jolted him from his memories.
Whoa, that could have been him about a quarter century ago.
Now he was on the outside looking in, practically a stranger to the house he’d called home as a child. Was it foolish to believe he could restore it to the home he’d once loved? Those days were long gone, along with his gran, and life had changed him. Maybe each successive move since and all his traveling had turned him into a wanderer, unable to put down roots.
When he looked again, the kid was gone. What would a kid be doing inside his house anyway? His realtor had hooked him up with a Rhode Island restoration and preservation contractor who hadn’t come cheap, and frankly, Rick had hoped to find the cottage live-in ready by now.
It certainly didn’t seem so from where he sat.
With its raspberry exterior, peeling olive trim and several replaced shingles covered in primer, his new home looked like a garish pink and white dollhouse. Not the sort of dwelling anyone would expect of a bachelor city lawyer.
He slammed the door of his luxury sedan and headed up the front walk. The lawn was littered with sheet rock, a ladder, sawhorses, and a greasy toolbox. Splashes of fall color clung to the overgrown hedges and flower beds, as dried leaves drifted down from the centuries-old elms surrounding his property. A white contractor’s van advertising “J. Kearly Restoration” sat in the crushed-stone driveway leading down from an unpainted, newly constructed, detached garage, built to resemble a carriage house.
He climbed the front steps to a porch sheltered by a gabled portico. Before reaching the etched glass door with sidelight, a small gray cat dashed across his path then paused at the other end of the porch to turn and stare at Rick with olive green eyes. A moment of déjà vu overtook him and Rick watched the cat scurry off, staring long after it had disappeared into the shrubbery.
Sentimentality gripped him, but he shook it off and opened the front door. Jon Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home” blared from a radio. The song made him smile until he passed through the foyer and found three construction workers sitting cross-legged on the front parlor floor, each nodding to the beat and stuffing their faces with mega-sized subs.
From the state of things, there was still plenty of interior work left to be done and no one seemed to be doing it.
Rick flashed them a disapproving glare and demanded, “Jamie Kearly?”
One of the crew lowered the volume a single decibel and shouted, “Jamie’s back in the sitting room,” before once again chomping into his monster sandwich. Thick, red, Italian sauce oozed out the other end and plopped onto the hardwood floor.
Rick watched it all with disgust, then turned and strode to the back of the house, passing a downstairs bedroom, dining room, kitchen, and laundry into the sitting room. He was disappointed the restorations weren’t further along, his ire rising, when he spotted the kid he’d seen earlier in the window. The brim of the baseball cap concealed his face.
Rick watched the kid shine a bright flashlight into the fireplace hearth. He wore a carpenter’s belt, probably checking for burnout or crumbling brick. No wonder the construction wasn’t complete — if this was any indication of how J. Kearly Restoration ran their business — where the only one of their crew to actually be working was a teenager.
“Hey, I’m looking for Jamie Kearly,” he barked.
No response.
Who was this kid to ignore him — the homeowner and the one paying the bills?
Rick charged forward, and in his haste, something in his gut tried to alert him to the feminine fit of those stone-washed jeans, the slight curves beneath the long-sleeved waffle knit shirt, a dark ponytail sticking out from behind the baseball cap. But Rick was feeling too hot-headed to consciously take note. He tapped the kid on the shoulder — a bit too forcefully — and when his finger met surprisingly tender flesh, it struck him. This was no boy.
The ratty, old cap brim snapped up to reveal an angelic face with large brown eyes. As their gazes locked, the brown eyes rounded in surprise then moved downward, taking in his appearance — the custom-made suit, silk tie, Italian leather shoes. Hers was a delicate face with an ivory complexion, a small proud chin and a lush lower lip he couldn’t resist admiring.
Quickly, she stood and pulled out the ear buds connected to her cell phone.
“Sorry.” He gestured to the phone. “I didn’t realize you couldn’t hear me. I’m Richard Damien. I’m looking for Jamie Kearly.”
“That’s me.” She swiped her palms on the back of her jeans and offered him a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Damien. I thought you were still overseas.”
“I was able to return earlier than expected.” Rick stared at the small, delicate hand, confused. Definitely not the hand of your typical construction foreman. He must’ve heard her incorrectly. “No … you misunderstand. I’m looking for Jamie Kearly. The company owner and job foreman on this project.”
She had twinkling brown eyes and a sweet smile that didn’t waiver. “I’m the job foreman. Jamie Kearly, that’s me.” She kept her hand in position, waiting for him to accept her greeting.
He scowled at the hand. “No offense, but the Jamie Kearly I have been doing business with is a man.”
She nodded. “You’re referring to my dad, Jameson Kearly. You’re not the first to confuse us. You’d think he would have waited for a son to name a child after himself, but that’s my dad. His grandfather, Grampy Jameson Kearly, started a tradition that first borns be named after their father and carry on the family’s carpentry skills. My dad’s no chauvinist and didn’t want to break tradition. Celtic pride.”
The smile disappeared and she stared him down with those big brown eyes in al
l seriousness. “He is the company president and the person you originally entered into business with, but early into the project he sprained his ankle and asked me to take over for him as foreman. I was under the impression he had notified you of the change and was keeping you informed of my progress.”
Rick rubbed his temple. “I obviously haven’t been reading your father’s emails carefully. I’ve been busy with work.”
Now that she’d mentioned it, Rick vaguely remembered something about a father and daughter construction team, but he’d been distracted these past six weeks by contract negotiations in London, Hong Kong, Milan, and Florence. He was corporate counsel to Rochford Industries, a multi-industry company headquartered in Providence with facilities in twenty-five countries. Rochford served a global customer base with the production of everything from aircraft and military equipment to professional-grade tools and test instruments. Between long work days, time differences, and jet lag, not to mention handling the sale of his condo, any emails regarding the house had been read in haste, because he’d trusted his realtor to keep matters under control. He’d purchased the Victorian on a whim and it had happened at an especially busy time.
He gave Jamie an assessing, narrow stare. “Have you graduated high school yet? How old are you?” The question spouted rudely from his lips before he could check himself. But then again, it was habit. As an attorney, he was used to asking questions and getting the answers he sought. Besides, he was curious. Very curious.
“If you must know, I’m twenty-eight.”
Twenty-eight. A grown woman, and yet he couldn’t separate her in his mind from the kid in the window. Maybe if she took off that dusty, tattered cap. The logo proclaimed her to be a New England football fan. Rick’s loyalties lay with the Giants.
He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that this slip of a girl was responsible for restoring an old house into the one place he could finally call home. Even in her thick-soled work boots, he had to surpass Jamie by nearly a foot in height.
She rested her hands on her tool belt. “Mr. Damien, I hope the fact I’m a woman won’t diminish your confidence in my abilities. I understand it’s your desire to restore the home to its original Victorian splendor, and I can assure you, my father wouldn’t have begged me to take over this project for him if he didn’t believe I was the best person for the job.”
Rick gave her an incredulous frown. “He begged you?”
She let her gaze wander around the room, ignoring his question and looking like a kid strolling into a carnival for the first time. “Old houses like this Victorian are my area of expertise. Historic preservation is my passion. My dad says I was born with an old house soul. For me, working on vintage architecture isn’t work at all. It’s more like a privilege.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to pay you?” he joked.
She didn’t smile but maintained a pleasant, professional expression, all the while pinning him with her brown-eyed stare. It made him feel foolish. As was her intent, he suspected.
Rick leveled his shoulders beneath his suit jacket. “Well, Ms. Forewoman, to be honest, I had expected I would be able to move in today. Instead, I arrive and find the construction crew sitting around, listening to Jon Bon Jovi.”
“They’re having lunch. I was just about to stop for something to eat myself. Everyone breaks for lunch.”
“Not everyone.”
She smiled as if he were being childish. “The house is habitable, Mr. Damien. It’s lead free. We’ve replaced the lead-encrusted windows with new, energy efficient ones that satisfy the Historic District Commission’s guidelines. There’s heat, electricity, plumbing, locks on the doors — but are you sure you’ll be comfortable moving in so soon? You have no appliances or furniture.”
“I’ve brought a bed,” he said and dropped a large sack containing a queen-sized air mattress at her feet. “And I don’t eat at home much.”
Her expression remained neutral. She didn’t react. She didn’t rattle, and he didn’t like that. He respected it — but he didn’t like it, especially since he was accustomed to having people grow uncomfortable at his displeasure.
The closing had gone through on his furnished condo, and he hadn’t wanted to risk delays that might lose him an extremely profitable asking price. He’d been living in hotels for the past six weeks, and he’d had more than his fill of them. It was either sleep here or at the office.
“It’s your house, Mr. Damien. You’re free to do as you wish,” she said.
She was cool, all right, Rick thought. She didn’t roll her eyes or attempt to pull a hammer from her tool belt to clock him over the head. No, she was much too good at handling people to allow a patronizing tone to slip into her voice.
“When the crew has finished their lunch,” she said, “I’ll have them start cleaning up. From this point forward, we’ll do our best to keep disruption at a minimum. You’ll have to allow time for the painters to do their work, but first we need to go over Victorian color schemes. You can do as you like with the inside of your house, but any exterior paint colors must be approved by the Historic District Commission. And I need to know your plans for the kitchen. I have several ideas, if you’re looking for suggestions. You’ll want the hardwoods refinished, of course, but other than that, much of the remaining work — moldings, ceiling medallions, and the restoration of the stained glass window — can be handled by my master carpenter and myself. I examined the fireplace. It appears to be in solid condition, but this brick surround is not original to the house. I’ve arranged for a professional inspection.”
Rick glanced at the red brick fireplace with its boring, plain mantel and remembered it as it once had been.
“I was hoping you’d be interested in installing a period mantelpiece,” she was saying. “The Victorian mantelpiece was considered to be the single most interior element to set the tone of the entire house. And this fireplace really is the sitting room’s focal point. Personally, I feel this could be the coziest room in the entire house.”
It had been cozy, once upon a time. “I agree,” he said. “I’d like you to restore it to its original design.”
And with that, Rick supposed he’d just given her his blessing to continue working on his house.
Her expression turned puzzled. “Original?” She chewed her full, lower lip, thoughtful.
He nodded. Finally, he’d managed to ruffle her.
“Well, that might be a challenge,” she said. “I could do some research at the historical society, but unless I can find an old photo of this room, you might have to settle for something period appropriate. It’s a shame, because with old houses like these, new buyers don’t often realize they are not so much homeowners but caretakers of a piece of history. Owning a historical house requires a duty to maintain the home properly so future generations can enjoy them.”
She didn’t think he understood that? He was literally one of those future generations. No one knew the soul of this house better than he. His gaze wandered off the veranda to the wide backyard and the tall elms shading it, to one large tree in particular, remembering back to when an old tire had hung there, dangling by a rope from a thick branch, the perfect place for a boy to swing on a lazy autumn day. He was growing uncomfortable with this conversation and didn’t want her to catch him in a vulnerable moment of nostalgia.
Rick gave himself a mental shake. “Don’t bother with the historical society. I have photos.”
She stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. You’d have thought he’d offered to buy her a new pair of designer shoes. But then, judging from the looks of her, Jamie Kearly didn’t shop outside of an L.L. Bean catalog. So if clothes and shoes didn’t excite her, then what did? he wondered. Other than crumbling old houses.
“I grew up in this house,” he explained.
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, that explains why you have photos.” She looked outside to the spacious yard. “What a great place to spend your childhood. You must have attended Elm’s El
ementary. I’m speaking to the first grade class in a few weeks for career day.”
Rick recalled first grade with fondness. The school was close enough for him to walk with Gran each day. “My grandmother worked in the cafeteria kitchen. She was the sweetest woman. A peach.”
Jamie gave him an understanding nod. “You were happy here. One of the reasons people like to live in old houses is to have a connection with the past. So, did your grandmother live in the neighborhood, too?”
Rick realized he’d been smiling at the childhood memory and abruptly stopped. He didn’t want her psychoanalyzing him.
“She lived here. This was her house and I lived with her. My grandmother raised me.” Why had he told her that? It wasn’t any of her business.
“Oh.” Surprise washed over her heart-shaped face. She clearly struggled with what to say but was evidently too well-bred to ask the obvious question. “So, the house was sold out of the family, and now you’ve purchased it back,” she said carefully.
“Exactly.” He would drive by the house on occasion, whenever he brought flowers to Gran’s grave in St. Ann’s Cemetery. Then one day, a few months ago, there’d been a For Sale sign in the yard. Beneath it hung a second sign that started his heart to racing — Sale Pending. Rick didn’t think twice, didn’t talk it over with anyone. He’d no time to spare. Right then, he’d called the realtor and made an offer far exceeding that of the pending buyer. He had wanted to make certain there wouldn’t be a counteroffer.
“Years ago, after my grandmother passed, my mother decided she didn’t want the house and sold it,” he explained. “I snapped it up as soon as I learned it was on the market.”
“You snapped it up, all right.”
“Excuse me?”
She shook her head in dismissal. “The previous owner didn’t appreciate what a treasure trove he had in this house. It’s filled with priceless gems. The original doorknobs are still intact. Quality old-fashioned hardware is expensive. The lockset and knob on the bedroom doors would cost over a hundred dollars apiece if you had to replace them. Add in the value of the hinges and the door itself and you’d be paying about four hundred dollars per door. And I can’t even begin to estimate how much the stained glass window on the upstairs landing is worth.”