Love in a Victorian

by Lisa Norato

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. I know where to shop, and I may even be able to get you a discount. I’ll take some measurements today, so we’ll know exactly what will fit and what we’re looking for. The basic shape of appliances hasn’t changed much over the decades. You’ll be fine with stainless steel appliances with clean lines. I can hide the dishwasher behind a cabinet panel. Some high end ranges offer nickel trimmed knobs for a period feel. We can also price a nickel plated hood for over the stove. Nickel trim was the style in the 1880s. Just let me know when you want to go.”

  “Does Saturday morning work with your schedule?”

  “Saturday morning works fine.” Really? What about a day off? When do I get to sleep in? Did I really make a date with him for Saturday morning? No, not a date. Not. A. Date.

  They stood sipping espresso, Rick in his robe, looking pleased with himself and staring contentedly into her face, not saying anything, not excusing himself to get dressed, just enjoying his brew. Jamie averted her gaze from those blue eyes. There was something too cozy about the scene that left her uncomfortably aware of him.

  Finally, to break the silence, she said, “Hey, nothing says ‘man cave’ like that humongous pool table you put in the bedroom.”

  “It’s great, right? Vintage 1904. I was thinking it might be fun to model the space after a late Victorian country house billiard room. Chandelier, maybe some bookcases. I’m going to need lots of nooks and crannies for my books. My stepfather and I used to play pool every chance we got before I went off to college. Then, whenever I came home on holiday, he’d always make sure we got in at least one afternoon of playing together.”

  He’d gone nostalgic. And now, in addition to battling the distraction of his obvious manliness, thanks Ma, Jamie now felt a twinge of tenderness towards him. Great.

  She wrapped her fingers around the little cup, soaking up its warmth, inhaling its robust aroma, while outside the rain pattered on the window panes.

  Rick took a deep bite of cruller, then washed it down with a sip of espresso.

  His hair had begun to dry and flopped forward. Jamie was struck with the disturbing urge to comb the rich brown strands back off his brow with her fingers.

  Her stomach twisted in hunger. She’d never be able to wait for Sean. She reached into the bag for the leftover broken donut and chewed the dry crumbs. “Today, I intend to go through the house and make note of any needed updates or repairs. We can discuss interior details and paint colors on Saturday. I think your neighbors would appreciate us painting the exterior of the house as soon as possible. It’s prepped and ready to go. Victorians were painted with a three-color scheme — a body color, trim color, and a third deep shade for things like window sashes. The deeper shade will give the impression of the windows receding and create the sense of a larger expanse of glass. That’s important in a Stick Victorian like yours, where most of the windows are narrow. I’ll leave you samples of historically accurate, approved colors. We’re required by the historical society to use only oil paint and apply it with a brush.”

  “When I was a kid living here, I never realized the commitment of time and money in owning a historical home.”

  “It is a responsibility. Are you getting cold feet?”

  “No, I did this. I bought the house and I’m here to stay.” He left his cup in the sink on his way out of the kitchen. “Oh, and I began sorting through some old photos last night and found a few with a clear view of the mantelpiece. I left them in the sitting room.”

  “Great. I’ll take a look.”

  When he reached the doorway he paused, then wheeled around as though he’d remembered something more. “I’m going to be on my own for dinner tonight. Do you think you could get me a takeout menu from Bellucci’s and leave it with the paint samples?”

  Jamie’s cell rang from the thigh pocket of her cargo pants. She swallowed back another bite of donut. “The restaurant is closed on Mondays,” she said as she reached for the phone to glance at the display.

  It was her mother. At 9:23 a.m., this would be the third time they’d spoken today. Before accepting the call, Jamie gestured for Rick to hold on a moment. “It’s my mom. We’re having a family thing at the restaurant this evening. I know there’ll be more than enough food to go around. Maybe she can put a dish together for you. If you’re interested… .”

  Jamie didn’t know why she felt responsible for making sure he had something for supper. He’d already eaten her breakfast.

  He smiled and gave her a grateful nod as Jamie took the call. Stella was calling to remind her about picking up her grandpapa’s shirts at the cleaners. It’d ruin his evening if he didn’t have a clean pressed shirt to change into. Santo Bellucci wore the same uniform day or night, for work or play — a white cotton shirt with black pants.

  Jamie promised not to forget and quickly explained Rick’s situation, along with her solution of filling a takeout container for him.

  Her mother scoffed at the idea, offering her own solution. “You must invite him to join us, cara. I would very much enjoy having him as a guest at my party. It would give me a chance to talk with him about his travels to Italia.”

  A chance to delve deeper into his personal life, you mean. Jamie had merely wanted to help Rick out with something to eat. This was not what she had in mind. And wait until Stella heard about their Saturday morning shopping trip. Her mother was going to read more into it than Jamie’s helping out a client. And here she thought she was going to be able to avoid him.

  The man had no idea how vulnerable he’d be at her mother’s table. Stella would wrap Rick around her little finger with her Italian charm and warm hospitality. He’d fall under her spell, unaware he was exposing himself to Stella’s scrutiny. Any defenses he had about his privacy would drop like a stone. She’d discover everything she wanted to know about Attorney Richard Damien and his personal life.

  But not if Jamie could help it.

  She turned her back on Rick to whisper into her cell. “That’s not a good idea, Ma. It’ll put him on the spot. He’s a busy guy, and after a long day at work, I’m sure he just wants to come home and relax. He was just telling me this morning that he’s still suffering from jet lag. He might say yes to be polite, but he won’t feel like hanging out with our family all night, especially when he doesn’t know anybody.”

  “Hey, if it’s going to be a problem… ,” came Rick’s voice from the kitchen’s entry.

  “Non esser sciocca,” her mother said, scolding Jamie for being silly. “Rick is not one to shy from social situations. And we are no strangers to him. He’s been collaborating with you and your father on the house. I’ve met him twice, and he has visited your grandpapa’s restaurant. Already, to me, he feels like an old friend. I’d like to invite him to my birthday party. Put him on the line.”

  “No. I know what you’re up to, Ma, and I won’t let you do this. Leave him alone. He’s off limits.”

  “You know what I’m up to, eh?” Jamie heard an edge of telltale guilt in Stella’s rich, throaty laugh. “What am I up to besides wanting a nice gentleman — an important client of my husband and a new member of the community — to enjoy an evening of good food and pleasant company? Is that so wrong? What sort of wife does not show respect to her husband’s business… ,” she droned on, mixing Italian with her English. She was quickly growing passionate and determined, and at this point, Jamie knew it would be fruitless to try to dissuade her. Stella had her heart set on Rick being at her party this evening, and that was that.

  Jamie held out the phone to him. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Me?” He raised his brows in question, but stepped forward and silently accepted the cell. A smile of genuine delight lit his handsome features as he lifted the display to his ear. “Buon giorno, Stella. Come stai oggi?”

  He listened intently while Jamie imagined her mother returning the greeting, telling him how she was doing and explaining the significance of the day. She knew the moment Stella announced it was her
birthday, because Rick’s voice raised an octave as she wished her, “Buon compleanno!” before quieting to listen some more. He nodded, saying, “Sì, sì,” which started him conversing in Italian so fluently that Jamie couldn’t keep up with the conversation, and yet she knew enough to understand that Rick had agreed to attend her mother’s birthday party.

  He switched off her phone and grinned with a twinkle in his eye. “Looks like I’ve been invited to dinner with your family.”

  Jamie nodded. “You don’t have to look so pleased with yourself,” she said as she accepted the return of her cell.

  “Oh, are you upset because I’ve been invited to your mother’s birthday party?”

  He enjoyed giving her a hard time. Jamie had to wonder if he had agreed to attend just to push her buttons. “You’re perfectly welcome, but a word of advice. Don’t show up in a suit. Our family gatherings are not formal affairs.”

  “And will you be wearing construction dust and work boots, as usual?”

  “I do not … oh, never mind!”

  He laughed as he strode barefoot from the room to go upstairs and dress.

  Jamie scooped Boo Boo off the floor. She looked down at the small gray shorthair and frowned. “Sure, you like him now. But after a few days with him, I bet you’ll want to go back to living under the porch.”

  “I can still hear you,” came the distant sound of Rick’s voice. “You told me that cat lived inside the house!”

  Jamie hurried to the sitting room at the back of the house carrying Boo Boo in her arms. Once there, she discovered an old leather wing chair of a soft nut brown, comfortably worn, wrinkled and broken in, the only piece of furniture in the barren room. An old tin lunchbox held a collection of photographs. Several lay spread out on the hardwood floor.

  She sunk into the seat with Boo Boo in her lap and examined the photos. They depicted the rear parlor as it had once been. A chair rail wrapped around the room, the walls covered in bright navy wallpaper bearing large pink flowers. A French Provincial, three-piece sectional sofa hugged one wall and curved around to face the mantelpiece. The sofa was upholstered in a patterned fabric of a slightly lighter shade of blue. Several pictures and framed photos, large and small, hung here and there against a backdrop of the vibrant wallpaper. The effect left Jamie with the sensation of repeatedly needing to blink her eyes.

  As was typical of Victorian times, the mantelpiece in the photo consisted of three parts. The center fire chamber, which was manufactured as a total unit made of cast iron and which they could easily purchase. Flanking the fire chamber was a tiled registered grate. Jamie would start tracking down vintage tiles to closely resemble the ones in the photos. The final piece was the oak surround. A master carpenter like Sean would have little trouble replicating the mantelpiece. Jamie suspected Rick would prefer a handmade duplicate rather than a premade piece that merely resembled the original. This particular surround included a mirror. In Victorian times, mantelpiece mirrors were not for primping but to reflect light back into the room.

  The longer she studied the photos, the more her attention strayed from the interior design details to the individuals occupying the room. She especially couldn’t tear her gaze from a roguishly handsome teen with a cowlick curling up over his forehead. But who were the others and what was their relationship to Rick? Surely, the tall, stately woman, often at his side, had to be his grandmother. Which of the others was his mother, his father? Did he have siblings or were the other young people in the photos his friends? What had life been like for a young Richard Damien? He seemed content, but why had he been living with his grandmother and not his parents?

  Jamie admitted she was curious. This evening was taking on a new perspective for her. Maybe an unexpected guest at her mother’s birthday dinner would prove for an interesting evening after all.

  Chapter Six

  After work, Rick changed into sweats and sneakers and went for a run. He’d missed his usual trip to the gym because he had slept in late.

  He couldn’t remember a night so restful since he was a carefree kid whose only concern had been what to eat for breakfast. And that had been lying on an air mattress too short to contain his height, in an otherwise unfurnished room. Maybe it had been Boo Boo, napping on his pillow next to his head, that comforted him. Or being back in the house of his childhood. Or a sense of Gran’s approval of his having become caretaker of the home she’d loved and had lived in since her marriage to his grandfather at age nineteen.

  Whatever the reason, he woke in good spirits, lying there for a bit, listening to the rain outside his window, watching elm branches sway in the breeze, their leaves just starting to turn red and gold. He made a decision. If Boo Boo had in any way contributed to his newfound peace, she must stay. She belonged in the Victorian as much as he.

  The morning rain had given way to clear skies throughout the day, drying out the roads. At the village common, Rick jogged over what was once a nineteenth-century railroad bridge, enjoying the view as he headed down a wooded, fence-lined path.

  Adrenaline kicked in. The soles of his training shoes rhythmically beat the leaf-strewn asphalt. Rick rolled out the kink in his neck, releasing the tension of his hectic workday. His thoughts drifted to the evening ahead. What did a man get for a vivacious, beautiful, older woman he barely knew but, for some reason, sought her approval? A box of gourmet truffles? With her figure, he suspected Stella didn’t eat much in the way of sweets. Flowers? She might appreciate a beautiful autumn arrangement, but flowers weren’t original enough for a woman like Jamie’s mom. He wanted to give her a gift she’d remember.

  Stella’s had been an impromptu invitation. She’d specifically told him no gifts, so why was he putting so much thought into one?

  Jamie.

  Huh? No. This had nothing to do with Jamie. It was Stella he wanted to impress. Stella Bellucci Kearly was a warm, gracious woman who had shown him extreme hospitality. She’d made him feel welcome in the neighborhood of his youth and in so doing had reinforced his belief that he’d made the right decision in purchasing Gran’s house. She was a new friend, owned a local restaurant he was crazy about, and was someone with whom he could share the romantic language of Italy and a love of that country.

  Jamie, on the other hand, was an enigma. There was a woman hidden underneath that contractor exterior and ever-present ball cap. He sensed it in the depths of her deep, dark Italian eyes. Eyes that intrigued him a little too much, and which, if he had to be honest, might have influenced his decision to ask her assistance in choosing kitchen appliances.

  With her heart-shaped, feminine face, she seemed too delicate to work in such a physical and potentially hazardous field. Although she didn’t fit his slightly chauvinistic image of a construction worker, he appreciated her sensitivity and commitment to updating his house without compromising its original design. Her thoughtful ideas and historical knowledge impressed him. She understood why the Victorian deserved care and respect, not just in the preservation of its historic structure but with an appreciation for those precious lives that had once called it home. She understood its character and respected the craftsmanship of its architecture. Jamie was an ally.

  Vera, not so much. In fact, she hadn’t been to see the place. There was always some excuse. Anything from Elm’s Corner being out of her way, to not wanting to get paint or plaster dust on her clothes. Her disapproval was clear. She felt he’d made a terrible mistake in selling his high rise condo in the city for an old cottage in the suburbs. He was losing the prestige of being centrally located in Providence, along with the opportunity to entertain at an upscale urban home with ready access to the city’s theaters, restaurants, and night life.

  Before his overseas trip, Rick had hosted a dinner party for the officers of Rhode Island Philanthropic, a multi-billion dollar Trust corporation which granted money to deserving charities throughout the state. Vera had been at his side, helping with the preparation and entertaining, and the evening had come off a huge suc
cess. He knew one of the reasons Vera enjoyed being with him was for the exposure. His colleagues were prominent and influential. By association she sought to broaden her society connections and enhance her celebrity, elevating her respect within the Rhode Island community above that of local traffic reporter.

  Rick was okay with that. He understood how zealously Vera pursued a career in television, and he supported her. In the few months they’d been dating, they’d enjoyed each other’s company, as time allowed, around the demands of their careers. They’d proven to be assets to each other, and were seeing each other exclusively. It wasn’t unreasonable Vera thought of herself as his girlfriend, but lately Rick felt more and more as if she was someone he needed to continually woo and impress. It was growing tiresome.

  Everything with Vera was appearances and work. If only he had someone in his life he could relax and be playful with, someone truly interested in getting to know the person he was inside. Maybe that was why he enjoyed hanging around Jamie’s family. He longed for friendship and perhaps more, but he’d never been comfortable with anyone getting too close, not since he’d been a kid.

  His mother had gotten pregnant with him in high school. After graduation, she ran off with a classmate whom she later married, leaving Rick to be raised by his grandmother. He didn’t miss her. He’d been happy in Elm’s Corner with his gran and his friends. When he was a sophomore in high school, Gran passed and he was uprooted, sent to Texas to live with a mother he barely knew. By then his mother had divorced and remarried. Her second husband was a military man — a decent, stable guy — who welcomed Rick into his home and took Rick under his wing. Though strict, Chris became the first father figure Rick had ever known. He’d been there for Rick when, eighteen months later, his mother deserted them, running off to Las Vegas, where she was killed in a car crash.

  Gran had left him money for college, and Chris had done his part to make certain Rick stayed focused and kept up his grades to get into a good school. Two years after moving in with his stepfather, Rick returned to Rhode Island to study at Brown University. He later went on to law school, never to return to Texas again, except for holidays. Chris, meanwhile, met Deb. They married and started a family.