Chapter 2
Chapter Two
G rant ran his fingers over the carved wooden trim, feeling for any rough spots he might have missed. The late January wind whistled through the gaps in the Carroway Building's windows, but he barely noticed the cold. This piece needed to be perfect. The decorative molding was original to the building, and he'd spent the better part of a week carefully stripping away decades of paint to reveal the craftsman's handiwork underneath.
The sound of boots clicking on the hardwood floor behind him broke his concentration.
"Grant Lawson, please tell me you weren't planning to work straight through lunch again."
He turned to find Miss Doris approaching, a covered basket over one arm and determination in her steel-gray eyes. Her silver curls bounced with each step, and her wool coat was buttoned up against the chill.
"Miss Doris, you didn't have to?—"
"Of course I didn't have to." She set the basket down on his work table. "But someone needs to make sure you eat more than those protein bars you keep in your truck."
The rich smell of beef stew made his stomach growl. Grant set down his sandpaper and wiped his hands on a rag. "You're too good to me."
"I know." She unpacked the basket with practiced efficiency. She handed him a thermos of stew, fresh cornbread wrapped in a checkered cloth, and what looked suspiciously like her famous apple hand pies. "Now, tell me about this photographer who's been wandering around the island."
Grant paused with a spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth. "Charlotte Bennett?"
"Mm-hmm." Miss Doris settled onto the wooden chair he kept for breaks, smoothing her skirt. "Evelyn Sutton told me all about the coffee table book. Says it'll be wonderful publicity for the island."
“Does she now?” He should have known that the wealthy head of the Sutton Corporation would be in touch with Miss Doris. They were practically neighbors on the rare occasions Evelyn was on the island. Her children on the other hand practically lived here.
"Ms. Bennet seems to know what she's doing." Grant broke off a piece of cornbread. "Has a good eye for detail."
"And what else?"
"What do you mean, what else?"
Miss Doris's eyes twinkled. "Well, she's a pretty little thing, isn't she? Creative too, from what I hear. The kind of person who might appreciate all this history you're always going on about."
"Miss Doris, don’t be getting any ideas." Grant tried to sound stern, but it was hard to be stern with someone who'd been feeding him since he was knee-high. "I'm helping her navigate the restoration sites. That’s all. It's my job to make sure these buildings are protected."
"Of course it is, dear." She patted his arm. "Just like it's my job to make sure you don't work yourself into an early grave. Speaking of which, I heard she adopted that stray dog that's always following you around. Took it to the vet and everything."
Grant smiled despite himself. "He took to her right away."
"Smart dog." Miss Doris rose, gathering her basket. "You know, the Pelican Inn's next on her list. The way I hear it, she’ll be there this afternoon to photograph the parlor."
"Is that so?" Grant kept his tone neutral, but Miss Doris's raised eyebrow told him he wasn't fooling anyone.
"The front steps could use some attention," she said innocently. "In case you were looking for somewhere to be useful today."
After she left, Grant found himself staring at the piece of trim in his hands. Charlotte had noticed things about the Carroway Building that most people missed—the way the morning light hit the carved details, the subtle patterns in the brickwork. She saw the island the way he did, but through a different lens.
He glanced at his watch. The Pelican Inn's steps really could use some work, and he did promise to help Charlotte navigate the restoration sites safely.
It was just part of the job, he told himself, packing up his tools. Nothing more than that.
The Pelican Inn's front steps creaked under Grant's boots as he climbed to the wraparound porch. He'd rebuilt these steps himself five years ago, and already they needed attention again. The salt air was relentless.
"About time you showed up." Jacob Oswald, the general contractor, met him at the door. "Got a situation with the parlor's crown molding you need to look at."
Grant followed Jacob inside, inhaling the familiar smell of sawdust and old wood. The Inn's renovation was moving along. Drop cloths covered antique furniture, and tools were scattered across makeshift workbenches.
"See here?" Jacob pointed to a section of molding that had partially separated from the ceiling. "Previous owner tried to repair it with construction adhesive."
Grant shook his head, running his hand along the decorative trim. "Amateur fix. We'll need to—" The sound of car doors closing outside interrupted him.
Through the window, he watched Charlotte unload her camera equipment, the dog dancing around her feet. She'd tied her dark hair back today, and her cheeks were pink from the cold.
"I'll grab my tools," Grant said, maybe a bit too quickly. Jacob's knowing look suggested he wasn't being subtle.
By the time Charlotte entered, Grant was already working on the molding. She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. "Should I come back later?"
"No, you're fine." Grant climbed down from his ladder. "I can show you around if you'd like. There are some interesting architectural details you might want to capture."
Charlotte's face lit up. "That would be great." She adjusted her camera strap, while the stray trotted past them to investigate a corner.
"The fireplace is original," Grant said, leading her toward the massive stone structure. "Those carved medallions? They tell the story of the family who built this place. See how this one shows a ship?"
Charlotte leaned in close, her camera forgotten for the moment. "The detail is incredible. Who did the carving?"
"Local craftsman named Thomas Wheeler. Story goes he fell in love with the owner's daughter while working on it." Grant traced the intricate pattern with his finger. "You can see his initials hidden in the corner here."
"Did he get the girl?"
"Actually, yeah. Their grandson still lives in the area."
Charlotte smiled, already raising her camera. "I love that. These aren't just buildings, are they? They're stories."
"Exactly." Grant watched as she framed her shot, appreciating how carefully she considered each angle. A crash from behind them made them both jump.
“Milo,” she called, “Get over here.”
The dog had knocked over a container of nails, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Sorry" Charlotte hurried to help clean up, but Grant was already laughing.
“Milo's got your enthusiasm for exploring every corner," he said, earning a mock glare from Charlotte.
They worked their way through the Inn, Grant pointing out details while Charlotte photographed them. In the grand dining room, afternoon sun slanted through the wavy glass windows, casting patterns across the hardwood floor.
"This light is perfect," Charlotte murmured, adjusting her settings. Her face glowed in the warm light as she worked, completely absorbed in capturing the moment.
"What made you choose photography?" Grant found himself asking.
Charlotte lowered her camera, considering. "I love how a single image can tell an entire story. Like this room." She gestured around them. “You can almost see the dinner parties, the celebrations, all those moments frozen in time." She paused. "What about you? Why restoration?"
"These buildings, they're part of who we are here. Every time we save one, we're keeping those stories alive." Grant ran his hand along the dining room's chair rail. "Most people just see old buildings. But they're more than that."
"I'm starting to understand that," Charlotte said softly. "Thank you, by the way. For sharing all this with me. It adds so much depth to what I'm trying to capture."
Grant felt warmth spread through his chest at her words. "Just doing my job," he managed, though they both knew that wasn't entirely true.
Later, as he watched Charlotte's car disappear down the oak-lined drive, Milo's head hanging happily out the window, Grant realized he was already thinking about tomorrow. About which building she might photograph next, what stories he could share with her.
About how her face lit up when she talked about her work, and how he wanted to see that light again.
"Not good," he muttered to himself, turning back to his tools.