Chapter Two
Catherine
––––––––
I PUNCHED IN THE ADDRESS for my potential new client. While I drove through town, I thought about the new project. This was exactly what I wanted. My career goal was to be the premier historical renovation carpenter on the East Coast. I hoped I could make a living focusing on these old houses. I counted it as my contribution to society. I was getting to save one house at a time from the ravishes of time. And those who felt every house needed to be white walls and open floor plans.
I pulled up to the address in the secluded, historic neighborhood, feeling a sense of anticipation mingled with curiosity. The Historical Society had connected me with this new client, a man who had recently purchased a house in a district with strict renovation regulations. It seemed I was just the woman for the job. Stepping out of my car, I smoothed down my blouse and adjusted my briefcase, preparing to meet the homeowner.
After my first meeting with Timothy, I had learned a few things. For one, I was showing up early. I looked the part of a professional. I needed to take this seriously. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into with the house. No information had been passed along. All I knew was the house was old and needed a lot of updating to make it safe, and the new owner wanted it to be luxurious. The other homes up and down the street all had perfectly manicured lawns, wrought iron fences and Mercedes and Beamers in the driveways. This was an upscale neighborhood, which meant this was likely going to be an owner that liked pretty things.
As I made my way to the front door, I couldn’t help but notice the man waiting for me. He was tall and undeniably handsome, with a charm that was evident in the twinkle of his eyes and the curve of his smile. The way he was looking at me was a little unnerving, but I held my composure.
“Hello,” he said in a deep voice. “I’m Henry. The owner of this pile of bricks.”
“Nice to meet you, Henry,” I said, returning his smile with one of my own. “I’m Catherine Jacobsen.”
“Well, you should probably come in and see what this job entails,” he said with a hint of disgust in his voice.
He gestured for me to follow him inside, and I couldn’t help but notice the playful glint in his eyes as he led the way. There was something about him that reminded me of Timothy, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the comparison. But I pushed the thought aside as I focused on the task at hand.
“I have to admit, I have some concern about this house,” he said.
“What kinds of concerns?” I asked.
He waved his hands. “Look at the place. When I bought it, my thoughts were to gut the place and start fresh. I like the exterior, and I really like the neighborhood, but there are so many doors. Narrow doors. I swear, everyone was five feet tall and a hundred pounds. There are these grand rooms, but the doors are so small. And the bedrooms. Don’t get me started on the bedrooms.”
“You do realize this neighborhood has strict regulations when it comes to renovations, right?”
Our visions for the house were very different. He was the kind of client I’d been afraid Timothy was going to be. I started to get a little concerned with the job because I didn’t think we were going to see eye to eye. But if I walked away, some other contractor would do what he wanted and go up against the Historical Society.
Henry’s expression darkened slightly at my words. “Yeah, I’m aware,” he admitted begrudgingly. “But honestly, I’m not too thrilled about it. It’s my house. I can’t believe someone has control over what I can do with my own house.”
I couldn’t help but smile at his frustration. “Well, you probably shouldn’t have bought a historic house then,” I quipped, unable to resist a playful jab.
To my surprise, Henry laughed. “Fair point,” he conceded. “But I’m sure glad the Historical Society connected me with you. You seem like just the woman for the job.”
I felt a surge of pride at his words, grateful for the opportunity to prove myself. As we continued our tour, I found myself impressed by Henry’s willingness to explore every nook and cranny of the house.
“What is with all these weird holes in the walls?” Henry asked.
“Some are for shoes, others are like mini root cellars,” I explained. “Old houses were all about keeping things neat and tidy.”
“Seems like they are perfect houses for mice,” he muttered. “I want them all sealed. I don’t need weird doors and crap.”
“We can do that.” I nodded. “I’d like to go into the attic,” I told him. “I need to check on the condition of the wood and insulation.”
“I have no idea how to get up there,” he said.
I laughed. “I do.”
I led him to the rear of the house, where a narrow wooden staircase was tucked away. It was an old relic, with creaky steps that groaned under our weight and a musty smell that spoke of years of disuse.
“We’ll need to be careful,” I warned him as we slowly ascended into the darkness. The air in the attic was heavy with dust, making it difficult to see. But as my eyes adjusted, I could make out a series of hefty wooden rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, their old oak surface aged a deep brown. Cobwebs draped off in all corners, giving the space an eerie quality.
“I’ll wait here,” he said when I turned on my flashlight to get a better look. “Maybe we can just seal this off as well.”
I laughed. “It’s the attic. You can’t seal it off. I would recommend replacing those stairs, though. They’re not very sturdy.”
I moved farther into the attic, careful to avoid stepping on any rotten boards. The beam of my flashlight illuminated the wooden rafters and old, dusty insulation.
“It’s not a bad space,” I called back to Henry. “Could be converted into an extra bedroom or a loft, if you wanted. Would add some value to the house.”
“Let’s just stick to making it livable first,” Henry replied, his voice echoing strangely in the confined space.
I made a couple of mental notes and rejoined him. I dusted off my knees and shook my hair to make sure I hadn’t picked up any creepy crawlies.
“You don’t meet many women so happy about getting their hands dirty,” Henry remarked with a teasing grin as I emerged from the attic.
I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at his comment, unsure if it was meant as a compliment or something more. But I shrugged it off, choosing to focus on the task at hand. “It’s all part of the job,” I replied with a casual shrug. “And I don’t mind.”
We continued the tour with me making a few notes on the yellow pad.
“What do you think?” Henry asked as we wound back to the front door. “What’s this going to cost me, and am I going to be able to live in this house?”
“Of course you can live in it,” I laughed.
“Without hitting my head going through one of those stupid arches,” he said. “And the kitchen. I may as well build a campfire and heat up a can of beans.”
“The house will be livable,” I assured him. “I will put together an estimate and get back to you tomorrow with some sketches.”
“Don’t you have one of those computer programs?” he asked. “The 3D renderings?”
I smiled, feeling a little bad I wasn’t that technological. “No. You’ll just have to trust my vision. I can bring some pictures of other projects I’ve worked on to help give you an idea of what your house will look like when it’s finished.”
“I guess that’s the best we can do,” he sighed.
“This is a great house, Henry,” I said, placing my hand gently on the worn wooden railings of the staircase. “It’s got character, history. With a little work, it can become a home again.”
Henry looked around, his gaze fixed on the high ceiling and the intricate lattice work of cobwebs that hung from it. For a moment he was silent, as if lost in thought.
“When I bought it, this was not what I had in mind,” he muttered, his disappointment apparent. I didn’t know why he didn’t just sell it. If he didn’t like it, why buy it?
“People used to build houses that lasted,” I finally said. “Now it’s all about quick flips and cheap materials. That’s why I love working on these old places. They are beautiful. They just need a little updating, but they can still hold their original charm.”
“If you say so.” He shrugged.
“I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
As I drove away from the historic neighborhood, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. I was eager to tackle the project head-on. It wasn’t as grand as Timothy’s house, and it was in a little rougher condition, but it was going to be beautiful when I was done with it.
I was lost in thought thinking about the plans for the house when my phone rang. I glanced at the screen and frowned. I didn’t recognize the number, but something compelled me to answer. It could be another job lead.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Catherine?” The voice on the other end was hesitant but undeniably familiar.
“Paisley?” I exclaimed, my heart skipping a beat at the sound of Timothy’s daughter’s voice.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Paisley replied, her voice tinged with sadness. “I miss you. I want to come home.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me reeling with a mixture of emotions. “I miss you,” I said. “How are you?”
“Terrible,” she replied. “I want to come home, please.”
“Paisley, I know,” I said.
I hated that there was nothing Timothy could do to get her back. It was so unfair.
“Can you talk to Timothy for me?” she asked. “Tell him I promise I’ll be good. I’ll keep my grades up. I’ll do anything if he’ll let me come back.”
A wave of realization washed over me. Paisley had misunderstood the situation. She believed Timothy had sent her away. I was sure that was part of Regina’s story. She was trying to drive a wedge between the two of them. The woman had no boundaries. She was easily the most horrible woman on the face of the earth.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered, my voice breaking with emotion. “Timothy loves you, Paisley. He would never send you away.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and I could hear the uncertainty in Paisley’s voice. “But then why can’t I come back?” she asked, her voice trembling with emotion.
I swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words to explain. “It’s... it’s complicated, Paisley,” I replied, my throat tightening with emotion. “There are... there are things going on that you don’t understand.”
“But I want to come home,” Paisley insisted, her voice growing more desperate. “Can’t you talk to Timothy? Convince him to let me come back?”
The plea in her voice shattered what little resolve I had left, leaving me feeling raw and exposed. How could I deny her this? How could I continue to stand by and watch as she suffered?
“I’ll talk to him, Paisley,” I promised, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do everything I can to bring you home.”
As I hung up the phone, a heavy weight settled over me. The enormity of what was happening suddenly seemed overwhelming. A child was caught in a tumultuous crossfire, desperately seeking a stable home. I debated whether I should tell Timothy what Regina had done to Paisley. It would only hurt him more. He was already trying so hard to make things right. The man’s hands were tied. There wasn’t much he could do.