6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Dallas
This isn’t supposed to be happening.
As I drive to see the venue I’ll be using for weddings for the next few months, I feel a little weird about it all. I’m starting my new job in Willow Cove with a guy—allegedly not named Billy, technically—that I’d waxed on about how stunning the stars were and been goofy with. I also rebound hugged him—hard—because I was feeling vulnerable about Holden and McKenna.
And I most certainly wasn’t supposed to run into Holden and McKenna here. Before, McKenna wouldn’t have ever gone on vacation without telling me where she was going. And my parents didn’t know. They decided to “go on a break” from McKenna and the rest of the family since this whole debacle started. They said they thought it would be best for them to avoid family parties and such for a little while to support me.
Ever since my parents started therapy five years ago, they use buzzword-filled phrases like “How can we support you?” and “Let’s all engage in some mindfulness here.”
Don’t get me wrong, it’s sorta cool that my parents are all “woke” now with their mental health. There was a time in my childhood when that wasn’t the case. My mom is even toying with the idea of starting an Instagram account to share quotes about relationships and family dynamics and stuff.
But sometimes it’s odd.
I swallow down the memories of the past few weeks, as I lost my boyfriend and the closeness of my cousin in one fell swoop. Holden was a divergence from The Plan —a silly, misguided mistake.
But McKenna? Everything’s changed.
The one good thing is, I’m sure they’re back in Atlanta now and I can live my life in peace.
I check the navigation hints on my phone again as I pull up to the address Beck texted me this morning. It says I’ve arrived, but I’m not so sure.
The beach unfurls before me, the scent of the salt in the air hitting me before I’ve even opened my car door. The sharp caw of a seagull overhead startles me.
Is this Willow Wood Mansion? The mission-style, two-story home with a beachy vibe was once beautiful, that much is clear. But now? What happened?
A dark olive-green shutter is hanging by its last hinge against the backdrop of the ivory colored brick, tilted so disturbingly to one side and squeaking in the sea breeze that for a brief moment, I have an apocalyptic vision.
The landscaping is a disaster. It’s as if the sand from the beach began encroaching on the home years ago and no one bothered to do anything about it. It’s having its way with the house, ready to consume it entirely.
Two large pick-up trucks are parked in the skiff of sand covering the driveway, their beds full to the brim with assorted construction equipment. And the mansion, as a whole, needs a thorough power washing.
Shoshana said Mayor Dobbs told her the house was being renovated, but the way she said it, so casually, made it seem like it was almost finished. Obviously, that’s not the case.
“Dallas!” It’s Beck’s voice, I just don’t know where he is. I whip my head around, and finally, past the single palm trees that flank either side of the front entrance, a couple of construction workers carrying buckets point to the front balcony off the top floor. It’s Beck, waving, all sunny and happy.
He really does seem happy to see me. All yesterday, especially after the meeting and when he wasn’t off doing who knows what in his big truck, he seemed dismissive, like he had way too much to do to be bothered by the new hire. He acted like our evening on the beach never happened.
Which is fine. That’s how things are supposed to be. Professional and at arm’s length. And it soon became clear that he did not see Saturday night in the same light I had.
Whatever. Beck Billingsley served his purpose. He helped me not look or feel so alone when Holden and McKenna were there on the beach. Now, it’s time to work.
I lift my hand in a small wave. He throws his arms wide.
“What do you think of the mansion?” he calls down.
It’s…well. What do I say? It’s clear the photos I found online were at least twenty years old ?
“It’s…great!” I say before opening the door to my back seat to get my laptop bag and camera. It was obviously great once, and hopefully will be again.
I stand and look back up to him just in time to see his hands fall, hitting against his thighs. “It’s a work in progress, but—”
Even from here, I can tell his cheeks have reddened. I don’t want to ruin his excitement, but images of failing at this job, which would mean failing at getting my old job in Atlanta back and having to take a position as an activities’ director at a retirement home flash through my head. There’s no way this house is going to be ready to start hosting weddings in a few short weeks.
“Give me a tour?” I shout up to him before moving around to open the trunk of my opal-white Volkswagen Tiguan. I riffle through a litany of items I don’t need, hoping to get my thoughts in order as I wait for him to come downstairs. I have to be professional. So what if the house isn’t ready to host anything except maybe a funeral for a rat? We can do this.
More importantly, I have to do this.
I take the brick walkway to the house, stepping over weeds that have grown up through the cracks. When I reach the propped open, black, heavy double front doors, I can even see the beach through the large windows in the back of the great room. You can’t go wrong with the ocean right there. See? It’s going to be okay, right?
The smell of dust, cobwebs, and sheetrock hit me square in the face as we enter the room.
“Subflooring?” I ask, pointing to the scraped, pocked surface under my feet.
He nods, his mouth tightening. “We ran into some issues with the flooring that we ordered. And my paint crew is busy with another big project at the moment, but eventually, they’ll make it over here to finish the job.” He points to a barely perceptible line partway up the wall where the new shade of cream paint meets the old.
He was expecting me to start hosting weddings here with half a paint job in the grand entry?
“Alrighty.” What does “eventually” even mean? My gaze goes along the ceiling. “Is this twenty-four-feet high?”
“The ceiling? Well, yeah. How did you know?”
The look I give him is, Please. How could I not?
His chuckle is dry and low. “Right. You’re an expert on wedding venues.” Then he gestures towards the arched doorways on either side. “Pick your poison. Where to next?”
“This way.” I point to the one on the right, trying to picture how we can make this space appealing. Because it’s clear it once was beautiful.
But with the state that it’s in right now—there are cracks in some of the glass windowpanes and a piece of plywood is covering half of another window—I may actually be delusional to think this is going to work.
The corner of his eye twitches, but he nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
We enter a narrow hallway with three doors on either side. “This part of the house will be used for wedding parties who’ve chosen to add the house rental to the wedding package,” Beck says, opening the first door. The state of the room is much like the grand entry. Bare. Stripped naked except for the beautiful crown molding. Its subfloor is threatening to haunt my dreams.
At my wide-mouthed stare, he waves a dismissive hand. “This is further down the list of priorities. We know it won’t be until mid-summer, probably, until we can start including the house as an option. For now, we’ll just be offering outdoor wedding packages, which will include the use of the kitchen and pantry for catering staff to use, and a bathroom for guests.”
“I see.”
One of the things I did yesterday to try to acclimate to my new job was read through a business plan Mayor Dobbs had drawn up—her vision for why she and her husband have purchased Willow Wood Mansion as a wedding venue. So I knew about the add-on options. I just had no idea they were so far from being done.
His mouth twists to one side, but I step through the room to the door in the corner near the window.
“Is this the ensuite?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I open it to reveal a gutted-out, small room with vulgar pipes exposed. I shield my face. “My poor eyes!”
Beck grunts and joins me at the bathroom door. “You can’t see the potential.” He traipses past me, avoiding cans of paint that litter the floor. “We’re going to put in a gorgeous vanity here—walnut. And then a floor to ceiling mirror here and another one above the basin, of course.” He gives me an apologetic glance. “We wanted a separate water closet but there wasn’t room. But there will be a clawfoot tub on this side. A clawfoot tub!” His voice echoes as he fastens on a smile.
I nod, one eyebrow going high.
“You’re supposed to get all giddy over the clawfoot tub.” He lifts his baseball cap to shove a hand through his hair.
I try to smile. I really do. I have to be a team player. But I suspect it comes out more as a grimace.
My heels click loudly on the subfloor as I cross the room, leave the first bedroom, and travel down the hall to the next bedroom. It’s in much the same state as the first one.
Would it have been asking too much to have had the venue ready to go so I could focus on getting the rest of the summer booked, an already daunting process because no one waits this late in the season to book their wedding venue?
And yet, apparently, it was asking too much.
“Can I see mockups of the finishes?” I ask. “I’ve seen the projected prices for once this is up and running and, based on what you’re wanting to charge in rental fees, people will be expecting something high-end.”
He folds his arms across his chest, which only adds to the airy nerves I feel. Come on. Those muscles? They’re obviously all natural since he works in construction. Holden’s white-collar arms are not like that.
Surprise! I’ve made a new discovery. There’s something extra special about all-natural, blue-collar arms.
Who knew?
His smile slips from his face. “Oh, these guestrooms will be high-end. Don’t you worry about that,” he says.
“What’s your projected finish date?”
He offers an easy going, aw shucks , click of his tongue. “We have the guestroom carpet ready to go but we haven’t laid it yet. We’re waiting for our carpet layer to get back from out of town.”
“Projected finish date?” I repeat.
He sighs and scratches his head under his hat again. “We’ll be done when we’re done. But it will be before the first wedding.”
“Martha Dobbs’s daughter’s wedding.” A zip of fear runs through me. The mayor holds the keys to my future. This has to work. “Anyway, can I see the carpet? I’d hate for it to have any blue undertones. We’ve got nice, cream vibes going on around here and it cannot clash.”
“The carpet’s on one of the company trucks.” He shoots out a tight breath. “I haven’t brought it over since, like I said, the carpet layer isn’t even here.”
“Do you have any samples of it lying around?” I cross my arms over my chest, mirroring his stance.
“Are you a designer or something?”
“No. But I work closely with designers to make sure the spaces are optimal. You wouldn’t believe how much a clashing aesthetic can really turn clients off.”
“You used to work with designers. That was your old job,” he corrects.
“Well—it’s part of the industry, Mr. Billingsley.” I’ve never called him that before. Not sure why I’m so formal now. It’s in stark contrast to how willy-nilly I was the other night. And somehow it does not seem to be time to use the name “Beck,” either. I can’t be all chummy with him right now. “I frequently had designers and venue owners asking me my opinions because I’m abreast of the latest trends.”
His gaze goes past me, and he mumbles, “Abreast of the latest…” before snapping his eyes back to me. “I appreciate your level of experience and expertise…” He pauses, raking his gaze over me. “…Ms. Cardon. I really do. We’re lucky to have you. But the design options? Those were decided this past winter. So, respectfully, I’m going to have to ask you to focus on your job and I’ll focus on mine…which is to renovate the mansion.”
I widen my stance. “My job involves ensuring this venture is a profitable one. It’s understood with a historical home like this there will have to be concessions made. But trust me, consulting with me on the designs is going to be good for us all.”
His jaw hardens. “I’m not able to add or change anything.”
“Who says?”
“The budget tells me I’m not.” He grunts a laugh. “The schedule really tells me I’m not.”
He’s got me there. I wince. “Maybe this can be brought up at the next staff meeting. I could write up a proposal—”
He turns and leaves the room.
Rude.
“And over here, we have the kitchen,” he says, his voice echoing in the vast space. “I think you’re going to like it,” he calls. “I’m pretty proud of it, if I do say so myself.”
Alrighty then. I have to rush to catch up with him. I guess I’m not going to see the rest of the guestrooms on this floor?
I cross the grand entry, through the empty seating area, and under another arched walkway into the kitchen.
“Spanish tile backsplash, dichromatic tiles, soapstone granite.” He raps his knuckles on the countertop. “Plus, there’s a huge butler’s pantry back there so the caterers can have room to make a big mess and hide it away.”
“Very nice,” I say, relief settling in my stomach. At least the kitchen’s close to being done.
Beck and his crew have managed to keep the original tone of the room by leaving up the old range hood, a Hampton brick cone that reaches the ceiling. The ceiling itself is covered in silver Spanish tiles that also look to be original.
It’s impressive…very fine handiwork.
He grunts and I can’t possibly begin to know how to interpret it.
“Sorry,” he says with a wince. “But the bathroom that will be available to guests of the outdoor weddings isn’t quite finished yet.”
“No worries. I’d still like to see it.”
He frowns and then leads me down a small hallway. At the end of it, a large door with many small panes of glass showcases the back patio, as well as the beach and ocean beyond. The seafoam green of the water. The warm tones of the sand.
It is beautiful.
He gestures to the door nearest the back entrance and when I open it, my inhale is sharp. “This is even worse than the ensuites!” The guts of the room—aged and darkened wooden studs, copper wiring and pipes going every which way—are the stuff of horror novels.
His sigh makes me almost feel sorry for him, and before he can respond, I hold up a palm. “Do you actually think this will be done on time?” I wince. Sometimes my directness is a little much. “I mean, I’m impressed with what you’ve gotten done so far with the house as a whole.” I try to offer a small laugh—a show of solidarity—but it probably comes out as more of a horrified guffaw. “But our first wedding is in four weeks. I—”
“We’ll get it done. I’ve done bathrooms before in a lot faster than four weeks.”
“It’s not just the bathroom. It’s the flooring, painting, and the décor. There’s so much to be decided and done.”
He scowls. “Like I said, you worry about your job, and I’ll worry about mine.”
“I can’t do my job until you’re done with yours!” I shoot back.
“Your job is to work with the brides and grooms and their families and trust that I’ll have everything done and ready on time. That’s it.”
“There aren’t nearly enough bookings, Mr. Billingsley. A full docket? One where the mayor might have hope of recouping her costs, would mean an average of two weddings a week, minimum. That means we need at least forty weddings booked for this summer alone. Want to know how many we’re at? Thirty-four, and we’re not going to get many more. No one waits until April to book their summer wedding venue.” My feet suddenly ache, all the bones of my arches taking on the weight of the task in front of me. “I’m not used to this. I’m not used to having every wedding I’m working with needing to share just the one space.” Panic sears my gut. “I’m going to have to try to sell this space without photos, without even any confidence we can even meet the construction deadlines. And with inspections and what not, you’re really pushing it.”
A muscle beats in his jaw. “Well, Ms. Cardon. Looks like you’re going to have to trust me. And by the way, welcome to the world of construction.” His arms go wide and he twists his torso to take in the room. “There are always delays. Especially if you have some party planner coming in and acting like she’s the one in charge.”
Party planner? The way he spits out that pejorative chafes my hide. He might as well call Princess Catherine a baroness!
I place my hands on my hips. “If you expected someone to come in here and not care about their wedding planner job , and just ‘yes sir, no sir’ all over the place, you are in for a surprise. Because that is not how I work. And I don’t think your company and staff even want that. You all want to help the mayor turn a profit on this venture? That’s what you’re going to get. And I don’t need you standing in my way.”