What the Heart Wants

Allison noted how Gran blew out a long breath as she lowered herself onto the bench. Yes, the physical therapy had worn her out. Still, she gave Allison a beautiful smile and patted the seat beside her.

“Sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing to the old place. I can’t believe how much I miss it. How many days is it until I can go home?”

“Now, Gran,” she hedged. “You know the deal. You work hard on the therapy and I work hard on the house, and when both of us get done—”

“Pish-posh, that house has been standing since 1888. It’s tougher than I am. It doesn’t need much—just a good airing out, most likely.”

Allison rolled her eyes. “No, not much—just new wiring, a new heat pump, about four tons of insulation, and new windows. And a swimming pool’s worth of paint.”

“Now, did I raise you to be sarcastic? Oh, heavens, I guess I did. You have taken up my sharp tongue, haven’t you?” Gran folded her hand over Allison’s, and it shocked her afresh to see how thin her grandmother’s fingers were. Lillian Shepherd Bell Thomas had always seemed a force of nature. Now Allison could detect a new frailty—as though her grandmother’s eighty-nine years had caught up with her in two short months.

She’s much stronger than she was. I have to remember that. The rehab facility wouldn’t let her plan on going home unless they thought she would be well enough.

It was as if Gran had read her mind. “Not much longer until I can be home—and don’t you worry too much about fixing up that old white elephant of a house, Allison.”

She squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “I have to do some things, Gran. You fell because of that old place—”

“I fell because I was stupid and forgot about that ragged edge on that carpet. I knew it was there.”

Allison decided not to rile her with another debate about whether it was the carpet that had tripped her. “Never mind, I fixed it. That’s what I was doing this morning—ripping all that stuff out, and it’s down to the heart pine again.”

“Land sakes.” Gran shook her head. “It’s a wonder with all that fat light wood the place didn’t go up in smoke years ago. I’ll bet it looks pretty. Once I had the carpet installed, I never did like that old mess your Pops talked me into putting in. Too much vacuuming. But he teased me so much about the color, I didn’t want to let him know I regretted it.”

“It was a lovely shade of pink,” Allison observed in the mildest of tones, knowing what the comment would provoke.

Her grandmother harrumphed. “Whatever possessed me to think Mamie pink was the cat’s pajamas, I’ll never know! Thank goodness I didn’t have the money to redo the bathrooms then—else it would look like somebody had spilled Pepto-Bismol over everything.”

In a more serious tone, Allison broached the topic she knew they had to discuss. “Gran, another reason I was late was that I had to talk with the man about installing the chair lift. He came first thing this morning, and that put me behind.”

“The chair lift?” Gran’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “We don’t need to bother with putting in that. These legs will do all the lifting I need.” She patted her thigh, which was much too bony to reassure Allison. “That’s money wasted. My grandmother never had to have a chair lift.”

Allison swallowed and prayed for some patience and more of that tact. “It’s not anything permanent, Gran. And we’ll put it on the back staircase, so it won’t be ugly, like you were afraid of. But it would mean you could come home sooner.”

Gran appeared appeased by this. “Well, now...”

“But...” Might as well say it. “The man told me the wiring needs to be updated before he could install it.”

“I’ll say. Not enough outlets in that house—never were. That’s going to be a bear of a job, sweetie, and pricey, even if you can find somebody willing to tackle it. Why, I’ve had electricians and plumbers not even get out of their trucks when they got a gander of the old place. They knew it was going to be a nightmare.”

“I have some money. And...Gran, I’d like to put in better windows...and maybe some siding.”

“Vinyl siding? Now that’s an idea. I’d looked at some—they got a kind that really looks good these days, made for old houses, not that stuff on double-wides. No more painting to have to contend with.”

Allison let out a breath. She had expected her to blow her top over the siding, but apparently pragmatism had won out. Sometimes Gran would surprise her like that.

Her grandmother’s expression soured and the lines in her face seemed to be etched more deeply.

“But it won’t get you too far,” she told Allison. “Not with the historical committee running roughshod over you, no sirree. Ha. More like the hysterical committee. Tried to tell ’em I needed to put siding on the house, to save on painting, but no-o-o. Got to have historically accurate paint, you do. Five colors!”

“I think the siding is probably doable—just a lot of paperwork, maybe talk to the committee members—” Allison stated, but her grandmother broke in.

“You’d better just skip all that, Allie, girl. Because that what’s-his-name—Mitchell? Some sort of professor, he is, but he’s the head honcho of that committee. He’s never going to approve any of that.”

“Kyle Mitchell? I met him today—”

“Well, then, you know what I mean, don’t you? Surprised he didn’t run off the chair lift guy, because they didn’t have such things in 1888. They didn’t have air-conditioning or penicillin back then, either, but I don’t imagine Kyle Mitchell would like to go back to those days, now would he?”

“I can’t believe the committee won’t see reason and use common sense,” Allison protested. “If I explain the situation—”

“Common sense? That’s why I call it the ‘hysterical committee.’ It doesn’t matter what the committee members think. It only matters what Kyle Mitchell tells ’em. Nope, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, not when dealing with that Kyle Mitchell.”

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_c6c988ed-de07-5227-973b-609a242dea6f)

KYLE RUBBED HIS eyes and groaned as he took in what had to be the most horrendous response to his essay question on the causes of the Boston Tea Party. “Because they were ‘tea’d’ off,” the freshman had scrawled. To better his chances at getting at least partial credit, he had doodled a drawing of a stick figure in a passable tricorne hat, shoving a crate.

Kyle squinted. Yep. That was steam coming out from under the brim.

The student wouldn’t remain a freshman for long with answers like that, Kyle thought. He riffled through the thick stack of exams and saw he still had at least two dozen left to go. If they were all like this one, at least grading them would be quicker than the first twenty-five test papers.

Just appreciate the fact that you’re not in Afghanistan like your big brother. Or even herding teenage football players around the state like your little brother. Teaching history is a lot cushier than either of those two jobs. Plus, you could have graded papers yesterday instead of volunteering free labor for Allison.

Ah, but then he wouldn’t have been granted admittance to the mysterious Belle Paix. And it was worth every sore muscle and the double dose of ibuprofen he’d gulped down this morning.

Beautiful.

For a flash, it wasn’t Belle Paix’s intact side hall with its intricate carved banister that came into his mind.

No. It was red hair. Yards of it. And the barest hint of freckles. And how her dimples danced when she smiled.

Kyle yanked his attention back to the next essay question. The hapless freshman had made a better stab at describing the opening battles of the American Revolution, but had still managed to make a total hash of it.

Unbidden, Allison ambushed Kyle’s thoughts again. He liked her. And that surprised him, because she didn’t seem to appreciate historical preservation in the slightest.

Amazing how one woman could invade his mind. Why, he could almost swear he heard her voice now, floating down the narrow hall that ran the length of the social sciences faculty members’ offices. With a determined sigh, Kyle fixed his focus back where it belonged. He was just bored with grading, that’s all.

But then a sharp rap brought his attention to his open door. He looked up—to see Allison.

She wasn’t in jeans or shorts today. No, today she sported a light summery dress just right for the unseasonably hot temperatures. Her long legs were beautifully punctuated by delicate, strappy sandals that showed off her toned calves.

“Don’t look so blown away.” Her mouth quirked a bit at the corners as she seemed to smother a smile. “I promise, I’m not here to ask for help moving another china cabinet.”

“Good, because I don’t think my muscles will cooperate,” he admitted. “No, I’m zoned out by these absolute hideous exams I’m grading. I think I should have done a better job teaching the course material.”

Allison wrinkled her nose. “It’s not your fault. It’s the topic. History. Lotta dates. Lotta names. No offense, but history’s a dead subject. I never could get interested in people who lived a hundred years ago.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been told that. He’d heard it so often that it was the kiss of death for any blind date that his ever-hopeful colleagues kept setting up for him.

Usually the comment inspired a guilty feeling of superciliousness, as if he was somehow wiser than whoever it was talking to him—that and the sure knowledge that no serious relationship could really develop between two people who didn’t appreciate the same things.