Building a Perfect Match

“My mom and sister like pretty shoes, too,” Bowen told her with a knowing smile. “They call them ‘cruel shoes’ because they can’t resist buying them even though they hurt when they wear them.”

Garth finally realized what Dale Bowen had obviously surmised with a glance. Not to be outdone, he slipped an arm about Petra’s shoulders. “By all means,” he cooed solicitously, “take off your shoes if they’re uncomfortable.”

The intimacy of his tone and gesture heightened Petra’s embarrassment. Quickly stepping out of the shoes, she stooped to pick them up by the heels. Thankfully, the elevator came to a stop just then, and the door slid open.

“Well, well,” Garth said, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“This way,” Bowen directed, lifting a hand and sliding past Petra to push open the tall, carved doors that stood across a narrow length of gleaming wood floor.

Petra gasped as she stepped into the private apartment. Twelve-foot-high ceilings radiated with hidden lights, augmenting the sunshine that spilled through the broad windows set deeply into the paneled walls. French doors in one end of the living area overlooked an enclosed patio. Black granite and steel appliances accented the small, well-appointed kitchen, separated by a bar from the greater room. The two bedrooms, each with a private bath, opened off a short hallway.

As was his practice with every hotel added to the Anderton chain, Garth had contracted the apartment separately and given his personal decorator, Dexter, control of this portion of the overall project. Dexter had done well.

“Excellent,” Garth said, brushing back the sides of his suit coat with both hands. “At least the historical society didn’t hold up things on this end.”

“This falls under the heading of new construction,” Bowen pointed out.

“Excellent,” Garth said again, looking around. “Quality work.”

“And on budget,” Bowen added. The sound of a revving engine had him reaching for his pocket, from which he pulled a cell phone. “Excuse me.” Crossing the room, he tapped the tiny screen and lifted the phone to his ear. “This is Dale.”

Petra turned away, affording him as much privacy as possible, and found Garth watching her. He stepped close enough to lightly brush a hand down her arm.

“Pretty nice, huh?”

“Lovely,” she agreed, shifting away.

“And roomy,” he went on, adding softly. “You know, staying here would be much more convenient for you than that old family mausoleum across town.”

Petra kept a smile firmly in place as she whispered, “Chatam House is blocks, not miles, away and my aunts would be offended if I didn’t stay with them.” Triplets in their seventies, the sisters held some old-fashioned but laudable ideas about hospitality and family.

“Just tell them you need to be on-site,” Garth pressed.

“If I stay anywhere else,” Petra insisted quietly, “their feelings will be hurt. Besides, Chatam House isn’t a mausoleum. It’s quite grand, actually.”

Garth narrowed his eyes. “I’d like to see that for myself.”

“I’ll have my aunts issue an invitation when it’s convenient,” she returned lightly. “You understand, of course, that it’s a busy time for them just now.”

Her Aunt Odelia was getting married after more than seventy years of maidenhood—to the same man she’d jilted fifty years earlier! Petra’s brother, Asher, had also married last month, and two family weddings in so short a space of time had had the house in an uproar for weeks. The former gardener, Garrett Willows, had recently married, too, so of course the aunties had insisted on hosting a small reception for him and his bride. No, this was not an optimal time to introduce a new face into the mix, and Petra could only be glad of that. She was having enough difficulty keeping this relationship on a business footing as it was.

Bowen returned. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to track down—” He broke off. “Never mind. Another job. Now then, if you’ve finished here, we need to stop on the third floor to take a look at a problem with the railings there.”

“What problem?” Garth asked, frowning.

“They’re gone,” Bowen reported. “Whole sections of them. And none of my suppliers can find anything like them. We’re probably looking at having them replicated.”

Garth threw up his hands and charged for the door. “I don’t suppose we could just replace them with something similar?”

“We’re not going to find anything similar,” Bowen called out to him, following. He stopped and held the door open for Petra, who hurried through on her bare feet. He winked, as if to say that the boss was having a bad day.

Petra had the sinking feeling that it was only going to get worse, and she proved entirely correct.

The two men disagreed on everything from the depth of the carpet pile to the placement of light switches. Petra thought Garth would pop a blood vessel when it came to the issue of closets, of all things. The Vail didn’t have any, and Dale doubted that the historical society would approve of having them built.

Garth finally turned on his heel and stormed off. Petra shot Dale Bowen an apologetic glance before hurrying after Garth in her killer shoes. This project was becoming more complicated by the moment, and she couldn’t help worrying.

Please, Lord, she prayed, please help me work it all out. For once, Lord, help me get it right!

* * *

Bam! The pickup truck rocked as Dale slammed the door. He took a firm grip on the steering wheel with both hands and closed his eyes, calming himself.

Okay, Lord, he thought, it’s obvious this job isn’t going to be easy.

“Man,” he added aloud, “that guy rubs me the wrong way!”

Sucking air in through his nose, Dale blew it out again through his mouth. An image of Special Assistant Petra popped up in his mind. Average height with a truly lovely face, she had captured his interest instantly. Unfortunately, she was obviously very “special” to Garth Anderton, even though he had to be forty if he was a day, and she couldn’t be older than her mid-twenties.

Not that it’s any of my business, Dale admitted silently, frowning.

Business. He’d somehow forgotten the importance of this job as soon as he’d laid eyes on the woman, which wasn’t like him at all, especially considering that business had been slow these past couple of years and the doctor had told his dad to take it easy. Sitting back in his seat, Dale closed his eyes again and began to pray.

Lord, You know that we need this job. This one job could let Dad step back, maybe even retire, so please give me what it takes to see it through. Amen.

Feeling better, Dale started up his white, double-cab truck and eased it out of the alley and onto the street flanking the downtown square with its turn-of-the-century, pink granite courthouse and circa 1930s storefronts. A few blocks later, he turned right onto Chatam Avenue then made a sharp left.

He’d been guiding his truck through the black wrought iron gate and up the easy slope in the circular drive to the big antebellum mansion—built in 1860—on the hill for weeks now. Soon after Odelia Chatam and Kent Monroe, both in their seventies, had gotten engaged, the Chatam sisters had hired him to reconfigure several rooms into a suite for the newlyweds. Dale had been pleased to take on the job, but with the three sisters’ insistence that he not work before nine in the morning or after five in the afternoon, the project had been slow going.

Still, the Chatam sisters were generous Christian women. His buddy Garrett Willows had worked as their gardener after he’d gotten out of prison, and the sisters had allowed Dale to take time away from the Chatam House renovation in order to help Garrett and his new wife open a florist shop and plant nursery in Kent Monroe’s old Victorian house. Then they’d helped Garrett get a much-deserved pardon.

Pulling the truck through the porte cochere at the west side of the mansion, Dale parked it out of sight, then gathered his tools and let himself into the back hall through the yellow door. As was his custom, he stopped by the kitchen to elbow open the swinging door and let the cook know he was on the premises.

“Hilda, I’m here.”

“Well, that makes two of us, sugar,” she quipped, turning from the sink. As wide as she was tall, with lank, straight hair cropped just below her chin, she winked at him. “I’ll let the misses know.”

“Thanks.”

Backing out of the doorway, he continued down the hall to the end, only to turn right into another that flanked the massive marble-and-mahogany staircase, which anchored the foyer at the front of the house. Dale always looked up when he started the climb. He dearly loved the painted ceiling with its ruffled clouds and white feathers against a sunny blue backdrop. No one could tell him who the artist had been, but he’d certainly been a genius.

The grand staircase, with its yellow marble steps and ornately carved mahogany banister, was an architectural wonder that few could appreciate more than the skilled carpenter who crossed the landing and went to work opening a new doorway into the unfinished suite.

Dale managed the chore with a minimum of noise and mess, while wolfing down his lunch, answering numerous phone calls from other jobs and, if he were to be honest, thinking about the blonde whom he’d left back at the hotel. He couldn’t help wondering about her. She hadn’t worn a ring, so he assumed she was single, but that didn’t mean she was unattached. Anderton had made his interest in her clear enough.

That didn’t mean they were involved, though.

Neither did it mean that Dale ought to get involved with her himself. He wanted an old-fashioned Christian girl, like his mom, a homemaker who valued family above all else. All he knew about Petra was that he was attracted to her. Maybe he’d get a chance to know her better, and maybe he wouldn’t. That was up to God.