Lattice-work enclosed the three steps leading to the front door. From the street, a gold-leafed shrub and soaring red maple accentuated the colors, dappling the sunlight and making her feel as if they were about to enter a fairy tale turned real.
Except that Samara didn’t believe in fairy tales.
“Mama!” Jade tugged her hand away. “You’re squishing.”
“Sorry, honey.” She squeezed her own hands together as nervous excitement bubbled through her.
For better or worse, she was a property owner now, a have finally instead of the have-not girl she’d been for so long.
A man stepped out of the sleek black sports car parked at the curb. A flash on the door read Tod Styles Real Estate. Getting YOU Home!
“Hello!” he called. “You must be Samara and Jade.”
She was surprised to see him. Due to the reduced price and the unusual nature of the deal, Tod was only getting a fraction of his commission. As a result, she’d received a fraction of service. Her search had brought up two Styles realtors; she wondered if she’d have had better luck with the other one.
Tod glanced at the truck across the street.
“Foreman’s here. Let’s go see what you bought.”
“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this moment,” she said.
Samara hadn’t been involved with any of the design or restoration; she had no idea who the workers were. But surely having the foreman stop by, even now that the work was completed, was a good sign. He must be conscientious.
The door complained noisily when she pushed it open.
At triple the space of their Manhattan suite, even the relatively modest front room of this house yawned before them.
“Mama?” whispered Jade. “I wanna go home.”
Samara lifted her up onto her hip, unease creeping over her.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she repeated, to convince herself or Jade, she wasn’t sure.
“No. It’s dirty.”
Bob trotted over the threshold into the front room, leaving paw prints in the thick layer of sawdust on the hardwood. A beam of sunshine slanted through the chilly room, highlighting the dust motes hanging in the air, waiting.
Jade had a point. But she knew it wasn’t the dust that bothered her child as much as the chaos. She craved routine, predictability and order; this was anything but.
“Looks like things are coming along,” said Tod. He brushed something off his tailored sleeve and walked ahead of her to the next room.
“Wait.” They weren’t supposed to be coming along. They were supposed to be already there. “You told me it was complete.”
“Yeah, today’s the date they gave me.”
She stepped into the small front room, with its wide windows overlooking Collier Avenue to the north. Samara ran the toe of her sneaker over the hardwood, to see the grain beneath, telling herself to stay calm. Polished up, it would be beautiful.
But on top of it, against the walls, baseboards lay in piles, ready to be nailed into place.
“This isn’t ready, Tod.” She bit back the stronger words clinging to the tip of her tongue. How long did it take to install baseboards? They still had a couple of days. She was probably overreacting.
Think positive, Samara. Don’t borrow trouble.
She imagined a lushly textured carpet being rolled up, so people could dance on that warm, dark wood. Jane Austen, the country-western version.
It didn’t work.
The central feature wall should be the proud home of numerous ancestral portraits, she thought with a pang, not their meager family photo collection.
And she shouldn’t be able to see the drywall tape.
The ceiling – painted at least – loomed above them, a single bulb dangling from a cord, shining down like a searchlight.
The brand-new windows still wore their factory stickers, jarring against the old, stripped and as yet unpainted trim.
These walls, so long neglected, wanted to be filled with friends and family, laughter and love and life and who were they getting? A lonely woman and her odd little girl.
Samara felt suddenly like she was trying on a princess gown, hoping it would transform her, knowing the whole time that no matter how she stuck out her chest, she couldn’t fill it.
She pushed away those thoughts and went to find Tod. Whether or not she had second thoughts, the deal had closed. She’d made furniture delivery arrangements based on Tod’s assurances that everything was on track.
And from what she could see, there was a month of work left.
*
Logan Stafford surveyed the mess in the master suite bathroom, shaking his head. His students were in class all morning, giving him time to examine their work and do any necessary fix-ups.
There were always fix-ups.
This time, someone had dripped blobs of spackle into the luxurious clawfoot bathtub, then tried to scrape it off. He’d have to get someone in to refinish the surface.
He guessed the new owners would be arriving soon – the real estate agent’s communication left much to be desired – but everyone knew that house construction rarely came in on time or under budget. His original estimation of being ready for final inspection in a week was off by at least two weeks, probably three. The chances of moving in on schedule were slim to none.
He examined the millwork on the bathroom cabinets. Original maple, over a hundred years old, and more beautiful than ever. His students had stripped and refinished them, installed new hardware and assisted in the reinstallation.
Time-line aside, the kids were doing a great job. They’d done their assigned tasks with care and precision, eager to get their shop credit, determined to finish high school with a leg up toward a career in construction. Their enthusiasm was a joy to behold.
Helping struggling students succeed was the best part of his job.
But if they couldn’t meet their deadline, if the new owners weren’t flexible, he’d have to bring in outside help. His students would still get their credit, but his hard-won project might not be renewed for next year.
Education politics was the worst part of his job.
Footsteps sounded from below.
“Stafford, you here?”
Tod Styles. Getting YOU Home!
He didn’t dislike the man, exactly, but Tod hadn’t made his opinion of this project a secret. He clearly considered his time a precious gift he couldn’t afford, rather than a partial donation to a worthy cause.
The other Styles real estate agent – Tod’s brother or cousin, maybe? – had a similar reputation. Rick, that was his name. He couldn’t imagine how they survived, splitting Marietta’s flat housing market between them.
“Hey, Tod,” he said, descending the stairs.
“There must be a mistake.” He heard a voice from around the corner.
A woman’s voice, melodious, modulated.
Familiar.
A black and white dog bounded up to him then, wagging her tail and slipping on the hardwood steps. “Whoa. Who are you?”
“Bob?” called the woman. “Come on back, girl.”
His mind raced as he walked toward the voice, unable to place her, but aware of a desperate urgency to do so.
Then he rounded the corner to the kitchen and came face to face with her. She stopped short, one arm tightening on a child who clung to her back like a limpet, the other gripping the doorframe so tightly her knuckles were white.
A child.
Then memory snapped into clear focus, shutting down rational thought for an endless split second, allowing emotion to flood in and take over.
Years fell away and he was back in high school, waiting for his calculus class to end so he could run out to their spot, under the bleachers. She would already be there, waiting, her slender form poised with eagerness. He’d watch the tension fall from her face as she broke into a smile. How he’d loved that, being the one who made the new girl smile and laugh.
It couldn’t be h
er.
It couldn’t be anyone but her.
Apparently she was having a similar reaction. She shifted the kid – a little girl with Asian features – onto her hip, holding her close with both arms.
He shouldn’t be surprised she had a child. But children come with daddies and that thought carried a surprising amount of distaste.
“Logan?” she said, finally, the bell in her voice cracked.
Her face was paler than he remembered, her dark eyes huge. Her slenderness had progressed to the hard thinness he associated with long distance runners. He could see tendons stretching between clavicle and throat and small lines bracketed her mouth.
“Samara.”
He reached back for the teenage agony that had sliced through him when she’d disappeared from his life, wondering if it was still there. It wasn’t.
The only movement she’d made was to blink but he could see a muscle flicker in her jaw. Whatever life had handed her hadn’t been easy. She was still Sam. Guarded, careful, trying to hide her vulnerability. Failing.
He took her hand, pressing it between his like a damn politician, unable to resist touching her more. Her skin, against his. Her small bones, as he remembered.
Then he stepped in for a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then another squeeze. The smell of her hair caught him like a right hook to the jaw, staggering him with a rush of memories.
The new girl, books held tightly against her chest, dark eyes wide and cautious. The first time their eyes met, the flare of recognition that lit up inside him. The sensation of her lips opening against his, yielding, giving, so, so sweet –
The kid in her arms squirmed as if frightened and Sam shifted away.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, her voice steady and impersonal once more. “Is it really you?”
How quickly she’d collected herself, put up her shield and donned the guarded face she presented to her unknown and potentially hostile world.
“In the flesh,” he answered. He forced himself to smile. “And in shock. You’re not about to turn into a totally traumatized Girl Guide selling cookies to a man who’s seeing things, are you?”
Her cheeks colored and a smile, an authentic one, broke through the mask.
Tod appeared then, clicking off his cell phone and slipping it into the breast pocket of his monkey suit. As usual, he seemed oblivious.
“Good, you’re both here. Logan Stafford, general contractor, meet Samara Davis, purchaser. Nice job, Staff.”
Staff. As if they were friends. As if Tod Styles knew plywood from cork board.
He wasn’t just the general, either.
“Listen,” said Tod, “I’ve got to run. Lock up when you leave, Staff.”
“I will, Tod.”
Like he did every single day.
Sam turned to the door then, as if remembering something. “Tod, hang on a second.”
But it was too late.
Then the penny dropped for Logan.
“Wait. You’re the purchaser?”
“Me, my daughter, Jade and her dog, Bob.”
“You’re S. Kim? You bought this house?”
He recalled the name on the transfer papers, the new owner purchasing this neglected beauty from the city.
She nodded, as if unsure how to react to his shock. “Kim’s my married name.”
Of course she was married. A woman like her would hardly have stayed single.
And of course, Samara’s marital status was absolutely none of his business.
“Good,” he said, like she needed his permission or something. “Lucky guy! Can’t wait to meet him.”
Shut up, Logan!
“You won’t,” she said, stepping around him. “He passed away.”
A widow. That’s how a woman like her would be single.
Chapter Three
‡
Not married. No daddy. Relief surged through him, followed immediately by shame. What kind of a selfish jerk was he?
He could feel his mouth opening and closing. Thank goodness no sound was coming out.
The kid squirmed and Sam put her on the floor.
“Stay with me, honey,” said Sam, gesturing to her daughter. “What do you think of our new old house?”
“I wanna go home.” The little girl plunked herself down on the hardwood and crossed her arms. The dog promptly flopped down beside her, as if her sole purpose in life was to hang with this kid.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Logan, brushing over the whole widow-situation, “you’re S. Kim and you’re moving to Marietta? Coming back, with your daughter and your dog. After all this time?”
She nodded. “Long story. Anyway, I’m back and moving in next Friday. I wanted to check in.”
She straightened up and began moving down the hallway to the kitchen.
“This is the first time I’m seeing it in person,” she continued. “I found out about it from my agent in New York. I’m a teacher myself – well, I was before Jade – so I’m thrilled to be part of a project like this.”
There was pride and excitement in her voice.
“Yeah,” said Logan, as his heart sank.
He heard her footsteps stop abruptly. She’d found the kitchen, then. The kitchen, where the plumbers were still working to connect the original iron sink to modern up-to-code pipes. The kitchen, where his students were slowly and painstakingly installing the slate flooring. The kitchen, which was still at least a week away from completion.
She turned to him. “How long will that take? It’s supposed to be approved for occupancy by now. I’m moving in next week.”
They’d managed to stick to the budget, because of the free labor, but the free labor had, yeah, put them behind schedule.
Then she frowned, as if remembering that Tod Styles had referred to him as the general contractor.
“If you’re in charge, then you can speed things up, right?”
Logan ran a hand over his face. “I am in charge. I’m the curriculum designer, teaching out of Livingston High. The sub trades go through me but my main focus is educational.”
“Okay.” She lifted her eyebrows and drew out the last syllable, making it into a question. Teacher-Sam was impressed; home-buyer-Sam was not.
“The students work with the tradesmen, under my supervision and we work to our students’ abilities. That’s why we’re behind schedule. Having never done it before, delivery dates are subject to change. Didn’t Tod Styles tell you?”
Obviously not. No wonder the guy disappeared so fast.
Samara blinked. Confusion and anger washed over her features. She crossed her arms, then raised her fist to her chin, shaking her head.
“We’re moving in next Friday. My furniture is heading out tomorrow, the last eighth of the truck. It’s a milk run and the schedule is tight.”
Thanks for nothing, Styles.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sam.”
Logan looked around him. No wonder she was upset. There had to be something he could do to push the project and meet her deadline.
Something. Anything to take away the disappointment on her lovely face.
“I’ll see what I can do to speed things up, okay? Now, let me show you the rest of it.”
She took a deep breath. “Might as well. Jade? Come on, honey.”
“No!” said the kid, still sitting in the corner. “I wanna go home.”
Despite her sulky tone, Logan sensed that the kid was more scared than anything.
“There’s a perfect little girl’s room up there,” offered Logan, grateful that they’d put the bedroom closet doors on yesterday. But Jade wouldn’t be moved. She clung to that dog like a life-preserver, rocking back and forth.
Samara looked torn.
“We’ll just be upstairs,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be right back, okay, honey? Bob, stay.” She dropped a kiss onto the kid’s head.
“Upstairs, Sam. Not off planet, I promise.”
&nb
sp; Samara lifted an eyebrow at him. “She’s my child.”
“My bad.” He lifted both hands in apology, then turned to Jade. “I’ll bring your mama right back, okay kiddo? Don’t grow up and start driving in the meantime.”
Sam’s lip twitched. She walked past him to the staircase, her eyes on the reclaimed hardwood stretching across the great room.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “My boys did a great job on the flooring. It would have been much easier to buy a package from Costco, but this floor is unique and in keeping with the character of the home.”
“It’s lovely.”
She looked up and down the staircase. It was the original structure, with only a few risers replaced, plus a total refinish. These stairs were a particular point of pride for his boys and he found himself exhaling in relief at her nod of approval.
She trailed her hand over the banister, then continued up to the bedrooms, feeling the texture of the carpet, running her hands along doorframes, windowsills, even the walls, as if she was blind.
“It’s going to be just lovely.” Uh-oh. Her voice was crackly, like she had a cold.
“Painting is next.” He spoke quickly, hoping to sidestep the threat of tears, recognizing how far from done everything must appear to her. “The swatches are on the paint cans. A professional decorator handled the color choices.”
She barely glanced at them.
“They’re fine.”
She pushed open the door to Jade’s room. A small squeak sounded.
“I’ll oil that tomorrow,” said Logan, before she could ask. “And the front door, too.”
“Thank you.”
“And we’ll have the cleaning crew in once we’re finished creating dust,” he said as she brushed her hands together.
“Of course.” She walked through the bathroom, touching the surfaces and checking doors without comment, then went toward the master bedroom.
And stopped abruptly in the doorway. She cupped one elbow tightly against her stomach and her other arm crept between her breasts, her fingers against her throat.
Logan couldn’t help but stare.
Damn. Those fingers, that throat. Those breasts.
But even after all those years, he recognized the defensiveness in the gesture, her need to guard herself.
Finding Home (Montana Born Homecoming Book 2) Page 2