Chapter 2
Jamal tossed a pack of screw anchors into his shopping basket and headed for the lighting aisle.
He’d accidentally cracked the bulb in his hanging work lamp, which had forced him to stop working once the sun went down.
He couldn’t afford to work only during daylight hours anymore, not if Belle Maison was going to open as scheduled.
Maybe he could run a special promotion, get half off your stay if you were willing to pick up a hammer.
“Get a grip,” Jamal said under his breath.
He had contractors lined up to do most of the big-ticket items—to paint the exterior and strip and refinish the home’s original hardwood flooring. What he needed was someone with expertise in restoring some of the home’s unique elements that he wanted to preserve.
Jamal was having a hard time deciding whether he was upset or relieved that Phylicia was too busy to help.
He could use her skill with a detailing chisel, but he sure as hell had not been looking forward to the cold showers that were undoubtedly in his future if he had to spend any significant time working alongside her.
It didn’t matter now, did it?
Corey had warned him that Phylicia’s skills were a hot commodity. He should have known her calendar was booked months in advance.
Jamal grabbed a replacement halogen lamp and frowned at the rows of pear-shaped incandescent bulbs stacked on the shelves. He shook his head. Were people really still using those things?
He made his way to the hardware store’s single checkout counter, where a group of older men were loitering.
After several trips here, Jamal had discovered that the three men who lingered around the counter were not customers but retirees who spent much of their day shooting the breeze with Nathan Robottom.
“Hey, it’s the architect,” Nathan greeted him.
“Hello, Mr. Robottom. Gentlemen.” Jamal nodded to the group as he placed his items on the counter.
“How’s the work coming on the new hotel?” Nathan asked.
“Not a hotel, just a bed-and-breakfast,” Jamal corrected him. “And it’s coming along just fine.”
“You think it’ll be done in time for the Christmas in Gauthier celebration?
” a man Jamal knew only as Froggy asked in a gravelly, toadlike voice.
Hence the nickname, Jamal assumed. “My granddaughter lives up in Michigan. Said she saw an advertisement for Gauthier’s Christmas celebration on the internet all the way up there. ”
“It’s the same internet wherever you are,” Nathan said with an eye roll. “Why do you think they call it the World Wide Web?”
“Well, hell, I don’t fool with that internet,” Froggy blustered.
Jamal suppressed the urge to laugh. “Mya Dubois-Anderson is in charge of publicizing it, so I have no doubt word of Christmas in Gauthier will reach far and wide.”
“Gauthier owes you a lot for opening this hotel,” Nathan said. “It’s nice to have tourists passing through, but it will be even better when they can stay for a couple of days and spend some money.”
Jamal nodded. He knew just how much having Belle Maison up and running would mean for Gauthier’s local economy.
“I was hoping you gentlemen could suggest someone who could help me with the renovations. I’ve got a few guys coming out to do the heavy lifting, but I need someone who can handle the delicate woodworking without damaging it.”
“Did you try Phi—” Froggy started.
“I just came from Phylicia Phillips’s place,” Jamal said. “She’s booked up.”
“Yeah, Phil gets a lot of work. Did you see the job she did on the Rosedale house?” Nathan whistled. “That girl is better with a wood chisel than her daddy was.”
“Do you know of anyone else?” Jamal asked.
He didn’t particularly want to hear about how good Phylicia would have been.
Dammit, he knew how good she would have been.
Maybe if he offered her twice whatever the job she was currently working on paid?
Would she consider giving it up and coming to work for him?
Jamal winced at the selfish thought. He didn’t know much about Phylicia, but she didn’t seem like someone who would risk damaging her reputation for a few extra bucks.
If anyone could respect the notion of integrity and a strong work ethic over money, it was him.
He could be making an impressive salary as an architect with his family’s construction business, instead of reallocating money from his savings in order to open a bed-and-breakfast. But he was a helluva lot happier, and no amount of money was worth giving that up.
“If you think of someone else who may be able to help, give me a call,” he told Nathan as he pocketed his change and headed out of the hardware store.
He waved at a couple of folks as he drove down Gauthier’s Main Street.
For a city kid, he’d allowed this small town to thoroughly charm him.
It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with its brightly colored storefronts sporting striped awnings and hand-painted We’re Open signs hanging in the windows.
Jamal hadn’t known towns like this still existed, especially with predominately Black populations.
Moving to Gauthier had been, without a doubt, one of the best decisions he’d made in his thirty-three years.
He had been slowly dying back in Phoenix, but this small town had given him a new start.
Having the freedom to live life on his terms instead of being bound by the confines of the Johnson Construction legacy had changed everything.
He was finally free to pursue his dreams of opening his own architectural firm, without having to face his father’s derision.
So why was his firm still just an idea on paper?
A jolt of anxiety ricocheted against the walls of Jamal’s chest. The sensation had become commonplace, rearing its head whenever his mind so much as tiptoed in the vicinity of his underdeveloped career plans.
He quieted the unease by picturing the Victorian and what it would mean to Gauthier.
The men back at the hardware store had reiterated how appreciative the town was that he was renovating Belle Maison.
It would be selfish to think about his architectural firm when so many would benefit from the B she would be too busy with her own.
The caretaker at a home on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans had emailed yesterday afternoon, informing her that a decision would be made soon on the restoration job she’d bid on.
It wasn’t a huge project—a bit of work on some of the home’s antique furniture—but it would be welcome income.
She was barely keeping her head above water, and the waterline was gradually creeping further up her neck.
Phil spotted the mail carrier in front of her next-door neighbor’s house. She set her coffee cup down and was waiting outside when Paul Ricard pulled up to her mailbox.
“How you doing, Phil?” he greeted her.
“Doing okay,” she answered. “How’s Liza? Baby Number Five make an appearance yet?”
“Any day now,” Paul said, handing her a stack of envelopes and catalogs. “Liza’s at that stage when she’s not talking to me. That usually means we’re close to a delivery.”
“Well, if she still hasn’t figured out what to call the new baby, I think Phylicia is a beautiful name.”
“That it is.” Paul laughed. “See you later, Phil.”
She waved as she turned and headed back toward the house, thumbing through the mail. There were two credit card offers—her current financial state must not have reached those companies yet—the bill for her auto insurance, and an advertisement for the grand opening of a dry cleaner in Maplesville.
The fifth envelope caused her heart to sputter and her breathing to escalate. Phil stared at the return address, dread suffusing her bones. A weight settled in her stomach as she reentered the house and went into the kitchen. Stalling, she tossed the mail on the bar and refilled her coffee cup.
Leaning a hip against the counter, Phil eyed the envelope from Mossy Oaks Care Facility.
She already knew what it contained. She’d received an envelope just like it about a month ago, with a letter stating that the rising cost of health care was forcing the facility to increase its rates across the board.
Even with the money from her dad’s life insurance policy, Phil was still paying nearly a thousand dollars out of her own pocket every month for her mother’s care.
She couldn’t afford several hundred more.
But she couldn’t afford not to pay it, either.