by Laura Briggs
She knew what a corbel was now, thanks to the internet.
“I go to local estate sales and auctions,” Blake explained, rummaging around his toolbox for another implement. “If there’s a house or business being demolished in the area, I try to find out if there’s anything worth salvaging before they pull it down—fireplace mantels, stained-glass windows, old armoires. I find new homes for them when they fill a gap at another place I’m restoring. It’s usually easy to tell when a piece is right for a certain atmosphere.”
“Wow,” said Tessa, impressed. “So you’re like a… a house surgeon, in a way. You rebuild the missing and damaged parts.”
Blake lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve never had it put like that before,” he answered. He tossed the screwdriver into the toolbox again.
“This looks great, by the way,” she said. She touched the surface of the counter, stroking the smooth metal. “And this is compliant with city code, right?”
“Health inspectors won’t be able to complain,” said Blake. “I got you the best deal that I could, after arguing with the guy at the salvage yard. Hopefully, that won’t turn out to be the last good deal I ever make.” His smile was one of irony.
“It won’t,” promised Tessa. She moved her hand at the same moment Blake reached for his hammer on the counter. Their fingers brushed. Tessa felt a sudden jolt through the tips of her own, her mind imagining a blue spark leaping between them. Electricity.
A pause. “I should put some sealant behind this,” said Blake, clearing his throat. He reached for the tube of caulking—located on the opposite side of the counter from Tessa’s hand.
“I should go back to work myself,” said Tessa. She took a step backward, almost stumbling over his toolbox in her sudden decision to retreat from his workspace.
“See you later.” He was too busy with the counter’s seam to look at her again as Tessa hurried to her office without replying.
Seventeen
Tessa slid the copy of Brideshead Revisited next to a set of volumes on decorating, then stood back to admire the effect. The shelf was a little crooked, true. But she could fix that if she borrowed a hammer and nails from Blake’s vast collection of tools downstairs. Maybe in the dead of night, when he wasn’t around to notice.
Or remind you how attractive he is, she thought, remembering that moment in the kitchen last night. It wasn’t the first spark between them, either. She might never feel the same again about ladders, for instance, though she would certainly try to block that particular incident from her memory.
In the meantime, she could distract herself by sprucing up her new home, such as it was. Having more of her favorite things on hand would make it seem cozier in no time. Or so she told herself, as she hung a mirror on the powder room door. Her reflection revealed a few cobwebs in her hair from poking around the old dresser in search of a space for her linens.
Her lips formed a wry smile at the sight—before letting out a shriek of surprise as the bookshelf gave way under its new burden. Hardbacks tumbled to the dresser below, tipping over a box full of cosmetics, which scattered everywhere in seconds. The broken shelf banged against the wall, scuffing the old paint that Tessa fully intended to replace.
“Is someone in there? What’s going on?”
The door popped open, and Natalie stuck her head inside. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of Tessa’s belongings scattered amid a sea of cardboard boxes. “What happened?” she asked, stepping forward to help.
“Ummm… nothing. I’ve just been sorting through some stuff,” Tessa replied, shoving her hairspray back in the box, along with several tubes of lipstick and a curling iron. “You know, basic organization,” she added, stacking the books into a pile beside the dresser.
“Isn’t that the loveseat from your apartment?” Natalie pointed to the cushy piece of furniture partly hidden beneath a stack of dry cleaning. “These are your bunny house shoes, too. Pretty causal for the office,” she said, dangling the grubby but cherished footwear in one hand, the bunny’s whiskers drooping slightly. “What’s going on, Tessa? Because it looks like you’re sleeping here or moving your stuff in, or something.”
“Sort of. I mean, it’s more convenient since I’ve been putting in so many late nights and…” She trailed off as Natalie shook her head with a stony look of accusation.
Tessa took a deep breath. “Okay, so technically, I am living here,” she confessed. “But it’s only because I really need this business to work, and I’m saving every penny I can to make that possible. It’s just temporary, so don’t worry. And don’t mention it to Ama right now, okay?”
“Mention what to Ama?”
Their other business partner had appeared on the scene, her smile a little confused as she glanced at them through the door. “Sorry to interrupt,” she told them, “but a photographer phoned Tessa on the business line earlier. I didn’t know you were up here, so I had to take a message. What happened, by the way?” she asked, nearly catching her foot on a strand of twinkle lights Tessa had left just inside the door. “Did the previous owners leave this stuff behind? I don’t remember seeing any of it when we moved in.”
“It’s Tessa’s,” said Natalie. “She’s decided she’s going to move in here.”
“Really?” Ama looked a little shocked. “Wow. That’s really… brave of you,” she said, after searching for the words a moment.
“That’s one way to put it,” said Natalie, though in a tone that suggested “stupid” or “reckless” might have been a more suitable description. But she didn’t say either of those aloud, which Tessa was grateful for, since it gave her an opportunity to change the subject.
Tessa turned back to Ama. “Tell me what the photographer said. Does he need me to call him back? I gave his receptionist all the details so hopefully—”
“He’s booked already. Until fall, actually.”
Of course he was, Tessa thought. All the really reputable ones had been booked weeks in advance. She had contacted just about every photographer and studio listed in the local yellow pages at this point. Except for one, a little studio called Special Moments that photographed “life’s occasions big and small,” according to its webpage. She decided to visit it in person, since she was running an errand in that part of town later on.
* * *
Special Moments was located in a tiny brick building squeezed between the Hummingbird Cafe and a shop that sold musical instruments. Another customer was exiting the building as Tessa approached, their tiny Chihuahua dog dressed in a little summer outfit. It yapped furiously at the sight of Tessa, while its owner apologized and said, “Hush now, Mitzi!” to no avail.
No one was behind the front desk when Tessa arrived, but a young woman in a maternity blouse and jeggings emerged from a curtained-off room a moment later.
“Well, howdy there! I didn’t hear you come in.” A smile accompanied her friendly sounding Southern twang as she consulted a binder in front of her. “Are you my husband’s ten-thirty appointment? He’s getting the film ready now, so we can take the photo as soon as you and the little fellow are ready. Or is it a girl?”
“Who?” Tessa asked, feeling confused.
“Your dog,” the woman said. “A poodle, isn’t it? My husband, Alan, made the appointment, but he wrote something that looks like ‘poodle’ here. Or Pomerat.” Laughing, she added, “My husband’s handwriting is practically encoded. Which breed is your dog, incidentally?”
“Actually, I don’t have a dog. Or an appointment,” Tessa admitted. “I wanted to talk to your husband about a possible job, though,” she began, eyeing the photo gallery on the opposite wall. It was filled with portraits of small dogs that reminded her of the one she had encountered on the way inside: dogs in Halloween costumes and Santa suits; dogs in funny hats and handmade sweaters. Dogs in tam-o’-shanters and tartan, even.
Wait a second. Were all these pictures of dogs? Maybe she had gone to the wrong address. But the name above the door had been the same as the websit
e she’d visited—which hadn’t mentioned anything about being for pets only in its description of life’s photographic moments.
“I’m afraid we’re not hiring right now.” This from the photographer, who’d overheard Tessa’s last remark and misunderstood its meaning. He wore a friendly smile as he joined his wife at the desk, a pair of reading glasses propped on his nose. “My wife Callie and I run the studio together and there’s not really enough work for an assistant. But if you leave us a contact number, we’d be happy to consider you for a future position.”
Tessa shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. You see, I’m an event planner for a new firm in town, and we’re hoping to connect with a local photographer for our client’s wedding day.”
“A wedding.” The photographer exchanged a glance with his wife. “I’ve never been hired to photograph one of those before. Well, except—” He jerked his head in the direction of one of the portraits on the wall: a pair of Yorkshire terriers dressed as a bride and groom, complete with a little bone-shaped tie for the tuxedo.
“They were a lovely couple,” Callie recalled, lips twitching into a humorous smile as her glance met Tessa’s. “They’ve already started a family, I heard. Six puppies in all.”
“Very impressive,” said Tessa, grinning in spite of her disappointment. Another photographer crossed off her list; a big, fat question mark in its place for how to find a suitable candidate now that she had exhausted the local talent. “Well, I’m really sorry to have bothered you,” she told them.
“Alan,” the woman said, turning back to her husband. “Show her the other photos you took.”
“Other photos?” Tessa stopped, glancing back at him. “Do you have a portfolio of some other work you’d like me to consider?” Please say yes, she thought.
“Sure. Absolutely. Come this way,” he said.
Tessa followed the couple to a doorway where a curtain was pulled aside to reveal a very different collection of images from the one she had just viewed: photos of weddings and big, cheerful celebrations, confetti raining down on one event; fireflies glowing in the atmosphere for another. Laughing faces and smiling eyes from life’s events both big and small, captured in stunning color, black and white, and even old-fashioned sepia.
“These weren’t professional jobs, I’m afraid,” he said, waving a hand at them. “Just photos I took for friends and family. But I like to think it’s my best work,” he added, with a grin that proved he was modest enough to think it might not be, if she happened to disagree. Tessa didn’t, of course. They were brilliant. Clearly, his best talent was a hidden one.
One in particular stood out for her: a wedding on the beach, the bride and groom running hand in hand along the shore as well-wishers threw confetti in the air. Wind whipped their hair, their faces alight with laughter and excitement. It was as magical as anything you could see in a magazine, only this was genuine. These were real people experiencing real happiness on the best day of their lives. It was breathtaking.
“That’s one of my favorites, too,” Callie said, noticing her smiling at the photo. “He’s good, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Tessa agreed. “Really good. So why aren’t these photos on display up front so the customers can see them?”
“Oh, you know how it is,” Alan said with a shrug. “These were just taken as a favor to family and friends. And it seems like folks don’t take your work seriously unless you’re getting paid for it. I keep ’em in the back. No one’s ever asked to see them until now.”
“You know,” said Tessa, “I might be able to help you out there.”
* * *
“So he’ll take the wedding photos for just a flat fee? That’s amazing,” Natalie said. She was paging through the folder of copies the photographer had given to Tessa for their clients, looking at the amazing snapshots of family weddings.
“Yep. A really reasonable one, too,” said Tessa, who was perched on the arm of the loveseat, since Natalie had taken the only part of the cushion not covered in dry cleaning. “Since he’s an undiscovered talent, he’s willing to charge a lesser fee in exchange for the exposure, I guess.”
“Kind of like us,” Natalie joked.
It kind of was, Tessa thought. Although she didn’t have a second business to fall back on if her big creative leap didn’t work out. “By the way, how is the job search going?” she asked Natalie, since the subject was on her mind.
“It’s over, for now. You’re looking at the newest part-time employee at Dress for Less,” said Natalie. “The finest in discount clothing and retail.” She sighed and took a sip of her coffee. “At least it’ll pay the bills until something better comes along, right? And if I get bored, I can always quit and go back to Ma’s bakery.”
“Congratulations,” said Tessa, clinking her mug against Natalie’s. “Between that and Ama’s cookie business, at least two of us will be fairly solvent.”
“And you’re contributing your rent money to the business, I suppose,” Natalie said, glancing at their surroundings. “Are you really sure about this, Tessa? Giving up your apartment, kicking your longtime job to the curb. You’ve burned a lot of bridges for this, so to speak.”
“Bridges that were leading nowhere,” Tessa reminded her. “At least now I have a chance of finally getting someplace that I really want to be.”
Or losing everything she had, including her dreams. But that was something she preferred not to think about just now.
Eighteen
“You’ll come, won’t you?” said Tessa to Blake, as he adjusted the new stainless steel panel behind the stove. “I think it would mean a lot to Bianca… and to the business’s future. And Natalie already picked out a suit for you to wear.”
“Not electric blue,” said Blake, with a warning glance over his shoulder.
“How do you feel about salmon pink?” she asked. His gaze grew chilly, until she smiled. “Kidding, kidding. It’s Versace, and very traditional. Very gray.”
“Gray is good,” said Blake.
“So you’ll be there?”
“How can I refuse?”
Bianca had invited the staff of Wedding Belles to her place, insisting on having them all meet with Paolo and Molly over dinner. Tessa was trying to imagine tiny little Bianca preparing a meal for seven people, and wasn’t sure this was a great idea, but Bianca had insisted this was what she wanted.
* * *
“Come in, come in.” She ushered them into her home, a beaming smile on her face. “You are in time. The fish soup is hot and the seafood will be ready soon.”
“It smells good,” said Natalie, sniffing the air. “Very rich and tempting.”
“It is a good Norwegian soup,” said Bianca. “A real ‘chowder’ as you would say. There is fish and sour cream thickening it with the eggs.” She took their coats. “Paolo, pour some aquavit for a toast.”
“Aquavit? Not Italian wine?” said Ama, as she removed her pashmina scarf and sat down beside Molly on the sofa. “That’s kind of a surprise.”
“This is Gran’s drink,” said Paolo, pouring some small glasses. “Growing up, I ate a lot of Gramps’s food, since he was the cook. But when Gran cooked for love, it was always the northern country’s dishes.”
“Tonight we are having my soup, some crab and baked fish, then some roast mutton with spinach and nettles and potatoes to the side. I have made some horseradish sauce and tomato butter if you wish for some spice—”
“Horseradish and tomato butter?” said Blake, trying to look intrigued and not repulsed by the concept. “A new choice of condiments for me.”
“You eat horseradish with fish,” explained Paolo. “Like Italians eat red sauce with pasta,” he said, grinning.
“Don’t worry,” said Molly. “I’m as clueless as you are when it comes to national dishes. Paolo was the first person who told me that the Olive Garden was about as Italian as SpaghettiOs.”
“I love the Olive Garden, too,” confessed Ama, giving Molly’s arm an empathe
tic squeeze. “And SpaghettiOs.”
Blake looked as if he agreed also, but he didn’t say it aloud. The reputation of Stefan would not include confessions of eating canned pasta, Tessa thought, and she was grateful he was making an effort to stick with the image; right down to the suit Natalie had borrowed for him—a very attractive gray, as promised. And Blake looked more than a little attractive in it, as Tessa had anticipated. She did her best, however, not to notice.
“Trust me,” Paolo told the others, “I only know because Gramps loved his food. Me, I’m happy with a Chicago deep-dish pizza. But in my family, food equaled heritage for the most part.”
“That’s something I can identify with,” said Ama with chagrin. “I’ve eaten a lot of makki di roti and tandoori in my time. I was the only girl at my lunch table who’d never eaten a turkey Christmas dinner or had a Thanksgiving pie. Even for birthdays, all the desserts were made with ghee and sugar syrups when I was a kid.”
Tessa peeked in the kitchen. Bianca, wearing a frilly apron over her pink summer dress, was stirring something in a big soup pot. Steam rose from the oven when she opened its door and checked on a fish lying in a roasting pan with wedges of lemon and some onions. The fish still had its head, Tessa noticed with surprise.
“Can I give you a hand?” Natalie asked, pushing the kitchen door open wider from behind Tessa.
“No, no,” said Bianca. “I am fine. Go talk to the young people. Go,” she said, shooing them away from the door. “It will only be a little longer.”
Dinner was like a Swedish smorgasbord, only consisting of Norwegian dishes. Platters, bowls, and trays were passed back and forth at the table, while Paolo poured cool glasses of water and samples of sweet apple brandy for his grandmother’s guests.
Glancing at each of them around the table, he said, “I’m glad all of you could make it tonight. You’ve done so much for us, making the wedding special. And not… well, making too much of it.” Here, he avoided his grandmother’s gaze, although she was busy telling Ama about the mutton’s seasoning.