Love in a Victorian

by Lisa Norato

  Rick supposed that stuff might be considered important, but he hadn’t bought the house for its historical treasures. He’d bought it for the memories and the feeling of homecoming that seemed to embrace him inside these walls.

  “An 1887 Stick style Victorian,” she continued, “is one of the more simple architectural styles of the late nineteenth century. This house has the classic features — cross-gabled roofs, a porch lining the front of the house and narrow, double-hung sash windows. The finial and imbrication are more typical to Queen Annes, but I think they give this cottage its unique character. I had hoped to buy a Victorian like this for myself.”

  At her sigh, Rick raised a questioning brow.

  “Heads up, Jamie,” called a deep voice from the doorway. “Your mom’s here with your lunch. She’s passing out pignoli cookies to the guys.”

  Rick turned toward the speaker — a rugged man with close-cropped graying hair. The buttons of his navy chamois shirt strained over his barrel chest. He was one of the construction crew who had been eating subs in the front room.

  “Sean, meet the Victorian’s owner, Richard Damien. Mr. Damien, this is my master carpenter, Sean Clarke.”

  The carpenter stepped inside and extended a beefy hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Damien.”

  “Rick.”

  “Are you an animal lover, Rick?” He gripped Rick’s hand firmly with an unwavering stare, holding on to it a moment longer than was natural, as though willing Rick to say yes. Rick thought he saw a twinkle in Sean’s eye, but before he could respond to the strange question, a dark-haired woman sauntered in. She carried a Styrofoam takeout container, a white bakery bag, and two bottles of water.

  She was beautiful. Curvaceous, with long, wavy, dark auburn hair and a seductive attractiveness. A gorgeous Italian beauty in her mid-fifties, with sultry eyes and exotic features. As she passed, Sean stuffed his hand into the bakery bag and pulled out a cookie.

  To his embarrassment Rick felt, and heard, his own stomach growl. He’d come directly from the airport and hadn’t eaten since early that morning.

  Jamie stepped forward to accept the other items from her. “Ma, you didn’t have to make the trip yourself. I was going to send Dylan back to the restaurant. He’s the one who forgot my order.” Testing the weight of the Styrofoam container, she said, “This feels too heavy for a salad. And why do I smell garlic and basil?”

  “Because it’s not a salad. What kind of meal is salad for someone who works as hard as you? It’s meatball and cheese. Your grandpapa made them fresh this morning.”

  “But I asked for a salad with fat-free vinaigrette,” Jamie protested.

  “Fat free.” Her mother made a gagging face.

  “This is your mother?” Rick asked, letting them know he didn’t appreciate being ignored. He was beginning to get the impression Jamie was so interested in lunch she had forgotten him.

  The gorgeous Italian mama held out the bakery bag to him, and Rick was introduced to Stella Kearly. So, the Kearly family had gathered for lunch under his roof, everyone in attendance except the one man Rick had expected to find — Jameson Kearly, the contractor he’d hired to work on his Victorian.

  “Welcome to Elm’s Corner,” Mama Kearly said. “Benvenuto, you will enjoy it here. It’s a very pleasant neighborhood.” She watched him eat the plain, yet surprisingly tasty cookie. “You enjoy Italian food, Mr. Damien.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Rick,” he offered between chews.

  She smiled. “And you must call me Stella. I own Bellucci’s Ristorante on Elm Street with my father. My papa, Santo Bellucci, is head chef.”

  “His calamari won the Rhode Island tasting contest three years in a row,” Jamie interjected.

  Rick loved calamari.

  “You must visit us,” Stella said. “My father will make something special just for you. Unless you prefer the more upscale Providence restaurants on Federal Hill.”

  “I appreciate good food regardless of where it’s prepared.”

  “Then you’ve got to try this.” Jamie lifted the lid of the takeout container and a spicy, delicious aroma filled the air. She handed him half of a meatball and cheese sub along with a napkin.

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t take your lunch,” he protested half-heartedly, his mouth already watering at the combined aromas of garlic, basil, and tomato emanating from the rich, red sauce.

  “We insist,” Stella said. “My papa is famous for his meatballs. Go on, mangia. Nella mia casa, nessuno va affamato.”

  “And I thought this was my house,” Rick quipped. In Italian, she had said, In my house, no one goes hungry.

  Her eyes twinkled in surprise and she laughed, a rich, throaty laugh. “You speak Italian, Rick?”

  “Parlo un po’ l’italiano,” he said, explaining he spoke a little of the language. “I travel to quite a few different countries in my work. In fact, I just returned from business in Florence and Milan. I flew in from Malpensa Airport and came directly here after I got off the plane.”

  “Long way for a meatball sub,” Sean added dryly.

  Why was the carpenter still hanging around? Rick got the impression he was waiting like the rest of them for his reaction to the sandwich.

  “You must be hungry then,” Jamie said. She shoved the sub at him and Stella gestured with her hands, mangia!

  Rick figured it would be an insult to the family if he didn’t at least taste it. He examined the half sub — it had to be at least six inches long — trying to figure out how he was going to wrap his mouth around it without oozing sauce all over his custom-made suit. And if he did take a bite, he’d be in deep. Breaking bread with the Kearlys, accepting their food, would sort of be like sealing the deal, his unspoken consent for giving Jamie control over restoring his home. This wisp of a girl, restore his home?

  His empty stomach made the decision for him. “Okay,” he agreed, sinking his teeth into what turned out to be the best meatball sub he’d ever tasted. And that was saying a lot in a state like Rhode Island, where excellent Italian cuisine could be found in every city and town. The bread was crusty on the outside, soft and warm inside, the meatballs tender and well-seasoned, the provolone perfectly melted, with the added surprise of smoky, roasted peppers.

  “This is amazing,” he said, swallowing. “Very garlicky and spicy with spinach and cheese. I’ve never been served meatballs made with spinach. And the peppers in the sandwich … delicious.”

  About to go in for a second bite, Rick stilled when his eye caught movement along the floor. The gray cat he’d seen on the porch was doing a slow prowl around the room as if it owned the place.

  “There’s a cat in here,” he said dazedly. How had it gotten inside and past the crew? Had it followed Stella through the front door? Growing up, his gran had had a cat. In fact, it had looked eerily similar to this one. Which was weird.

  “Oh, that’s Boo Boo,” Jamie explained.

  “You have a problem with cats, Rick?” Sean asked.

  “No. I don’t have a problem with cats. I just didn’t expect to find one in my house. Is it yours?”

  Jamie answered. “No, Mr. Damien, she doesn’t belong to Sean. She’s your cat.”

  “Mine?! What?”

  Sean the carpenter ducked his head to hide a grin and fled the room. Stella excused herself and followed him out.

  Rick handed the sandwich back to Jamie and crumbled the napkin, waiting for her to clue him in on the joke. Because this had to be a joke.

  Moving into his gran’s Victorian this morning was turning out to be nothing like the happy homecoming he had expected.

  Chapter Two

  “I’ve never seen that cat until a few minutes ago when I almost stumbled over it on the porch. What makes you think it belongs to me?”

  From the moment Richard Damien arrived, Jamie had been resisting the urge to give him the evil eye, what her mother’s side of the family called the maloyka.

  You’d think, since they were going to be wo
rking together, he’d request she address him by his first name, as he had with Sean and her mother. He could at least be polite. The jerk had even refused to shake her hand!

  He should be giving her praise instead of attitude, barging in demanding to know why the house wasn’t move-in ready. Had he even bothered to check out the period garage her crew had built? Her father had worked hard to gain the approval of Rhode Island’s Historic District Commission for its construction. The door was insulated steel with mahogany cladding and overlays to look like real wood. Jamie had added decorative handles and spear strap hinges to the door. She’d installed Victorian hanging lanterns on either side. The garage was beautiful. How could he have missed it? And what about the vintage front door she’d hauled down from the attic and restored to its original glory before reinstalling it?

  If only Dad hadn’t sprained his ankle. He’d be the one here now dealing with “Mr. Damien.”

  A lock of his medium brown hair had tumbled onto his brow. Jamie figured him for mid-thirties. He was handsome, she’d give him that. It seemed to be his one virtue. Then again, maybe it wasn’t much of a virtue at all. He was annoyingly attractive with striking blue eyes and a slightly off-center nose that added a touch of ruggedness to his refined features. In a tailored charcoal suit, worn with a power tie of turquoise and gold silk against a blindingly white dress shirt, he presented an image of influence and money. A stainless steel and gold Longines watch gleamed on his wrist. She couldn’t imagine anyone more out of place in this sweet, pink cottage.

  So, what did a swanky lawyer want with a historically registered Victorian in a small suburb of picket fences, backyard treehouses, old-fashioned clotheslines, and milk boxes on the stoop? To think, she’d nearly closed on this Victorian herself, until said swanky lawyer stole the sale with an out-of-reach offer on the very same day she was set to sign a purchase and sale.

  Jamie had grown tired of waiting for the traditional path of love and marriage to start claiming her life, despite some family resistance. Italians didn’t like letting go of their young to independent living, unless forced to surrender them through marriage. But who knew if her Prince Charming would ever come along?

  Since she was a child, Jamie couldn’t wait to have a home of her own. This Victorian was going to be her personal version of happily ever after.

  Homeownership may not have worked out for her this time around, but she wouldn’t let Mr. Damien’s bad manners or her own disappointment turn her bitter or interfere with her work. Her dad was counting on her. Together they had built a reputation for excellence, and this Victorian deserved nothing less. She’d never let a house suffer because she didn’t get along with its owner.

  And to be fair, Mr. Damien did have a family connection and seemed genuinely concerned with preserving the Victorian’s historical integrity, whatever the cost. As much as it stung, she had no choice but to transform the dream house she’d desired for herself into his perfect home.

  She only hoped that somewhere beneath all that attitude and flash lay a compassionate heart, because there was no way she was going to let Mr. Damien evict Boo Boo.

  “You purchased the cat with the house,” she explained. “The seller left her behind for the new owner like he did his old dishwasher and ratty shower curtain. Nice, huh?”

  He surprised her by looking genuinely appalled. “What? No! That’s awful.”

  With a silent, ladylike air, Boo Boo stepped between the drop cloths and over scattered tools towards Jamie’s makeshift worktable and the aroma of meatball sub. She was a small, shorthaired gray, and in the weeks Jamie had been caring for her, she found Boo Boo to have a tranquil personality.

  The cat seated herself before Mr. Damien, and with a swish of her tail, greeted him. The disapproving crease between his brows disappeared, and Jamie saw something tender overcome his expression.

  “You mean this cat has been living here the month and a half I’ve been away?”

  “One of my crew, Kevin, found her hiding behind the rotted lattice panels of the porch, and we’ve been feeding her ever since.” Jamie picked out a small piece of meatball from the sub’s oozing marina and fed it to Boo Boo. “You couldn’t expect I’d remove her. I have no more authority to do that than I have to dispose of the washing machine. She falls under the category of ‘remaining personal property.’ And according to any standard purchase and sales agreement, remaining personal property is not required to be specified in writing. Boo Boo is as much your responsibility as the refrigerator, stove, or any window dressings the seller left behind.”

  The crease in his brow reappeared. “Yes, thank you. I am familiar with the law. And I can recognize when it’s being stretched. How is it you know so much about Boo Boo? Why not assume she was a stray cat?”

  “People talk. They get curious when a historical restoration contractor shows up in their neighborhood, and they wander over to chat.” This was not entirely untrue. “Old homes and their past lives are my business, and I like to find out everything I can about the history of a house I’m working on.” That was absolutely true. “For instance, I knew before you came along there was a sale pending on this Victorian.” A fact Jamie had experienced firsthand.

  “Sounds more like gossip than history to me. I was aware of an outstanding offer, but nothing was ever mentioned about a cat.”

  “Well, as it turns out, this potential buyer had agreed to adopt Boo Boo, but then you came along, on the day before the P&S was to be signed — talk about last minute — and put in an unreachable offer. And even though the house was sold to you, the owner left Boo Boo anyway.”

  Mr. Damien’s expression remained stern and thoughtful. “If that’s true, he can’t get away with abandoning an animal. I’ll get on the phone to him first chance and take care of it.”

  “That won’t help Boo Boo,” Jamie argued. “He’s moved out of state and even if he agreed ‘to take care of it,’ he’d only dump her in a shelter.”

  Mr. Damien was beginning to look a little stressed, so Jamie handed him one of the water bottles.

  “I don’t suppose you would be interested in taking her?” he asked, twisting off the cap. “Or what about one of those gossipy neighbors you spoke with?”

  “I would gladly take her,” Jamie said, “but every time I try to, she freaks. This sweet kitty mutates into a savage ball of fur that refuses to go anywhere near a carrier. Her attachment is to this house. It carries the scent of home to her, and she can sense when someone wants to take her away. Boo Boo doesn’t want to live anywhere but in this Victorian.”

  Jamie flashed him a grin. “Seems like you two have something in common.”

  “We have more in common than you know.”

  He paused for a deep drink of water, then said, “My grandmother had a gray shorthair who could have been Boo Boo’s twin. The same petite size, those same olive green eyes. We called her Serena, because her temperament was so serene. When I got home from school, she’d watch television with me and then at night she’d sleep in my bed.” His expression turned wistfully reflective. “I loved that cat.”

  Jamie’s heart warmed at those words. She never expected him to open up like this. He might be rude and even a little egotistical, but she was pretty confident Mr. Damien was responsible and would make a loving cat parent.

  “You lived in this house with a cat as a boy, and on the day you return, all these years later, there’s another shorthaired gray here to welcome you? That has to be a sign.”

  “A sign of what?”

  As much as she hated to admit it, Jamie spoke her next words for Boo Boo’s sake. “A sign that you’re meant to live here together. A cat will liven up this empty shell of a house, and she’ll be great company.”

  Boo Boo rubbed against Mr. Damien’s pants leg and he scooped her up. Thankfully she was the same color as his suit. Less chance of him noticing cat hairs.

  “Cats are hardly any trouble,” Jamie said, thinking she almost had him convinced. “They practicall
y take care of themselves. She has a litter box and scratch post in the mud room and a window shelf in the front living room. Won’t you give her a chance? That’s all I’m asking.”

  He still didn’t look convinced, even though he was cuddling and stroking the animal.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t have a cat named Boo Boo.”

  Jamie longed to roll her eyes. “Are you worried about your image? Because you do realize you live in a pink cottage?”

  He glanced into her eyes with a reluctant smile.

  “If for no other reason, let Boo Boo stay in honor of your grandmother’s memory,” she entreated.

  She hadn’t played fair with that one, and he saw right through her. His mouth tightened. He obviously had loved his grandmother dearly, but was that enough reason to compel him to buy her house all these years later? Jamie knew hardly anything about Richard Damien and suddenly she wished she did.

  He shoved the cat away from himself and into her arms. “All right, she can stay. At least until we can work out a better arrangement. You do recall I travel for work and that I’ve spent the last six weeks abroad?”

  “I know, and I understand. But for now, this is good. Boo Boo thanks you.”

  He gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. “I came straight from the airport and haven’t eaten yet, so I’m going to grab a quick bite and head into the office.”

  He darted a glance at her sub and Jamie saw the longing in his eyes.

  “Here, take mine.” Jamie lowered Boo Boo to the floor. She closed the lid on the takeout container and handed it to him along with a stack of napkins. “I can get all the free lunches I want.” It was the least she could do after he’d agreed to let Boo Boo stay.