Always and Forever

“It absolutely is not,” Phil stressed. “One means that you’re trying to bring it to its former glory; the other often means that you’re tearing up the insides and overhauling it with a bunch of modern crap that doesn’t belong in there. I just want to know which one you’re doing, a restoration or renovation?”

And wasn’t she just the epitome of smooth and detached? It wouldn’t take much for him to figure out that when it came to the Victorian, she wasn’t just an interested bystander.

His curious stare indicated he was halfway to figuring out the puzzle already.

“For the most part it’s a restoration,” he said.

“Good.” She nodded.

“I do plan to make the house eco-friendly, but I need to get the basics done first.”

A splotch of red flashed across Phil’s visual field. She should have known this was coming. From the moment she’d walked into the Georgian he’d renovated and saw all of those beautiful cypress floorboards tossed into a pile like so much rubbish, Phil had known this man would wreck any piece of property he got his hands on.

“I need to get back to work,” she said through barely clenched teeth.

“So do I. Sorry you can’t help. I could really use your expertise.”

Phil couldn’t form the words to respond. She knew if she opened her mouth she would regret it. Instead, she nodded and closed the door behind him. Moments later, she heard an ignition turn over and his truck drive away. On shaky legs she walked back to the buffet she’d been restoring. She placed the safety shield back over her eyes and picked up the sander. She didn’t even try to wipe away the tears that trailed down her cheeks.

Chapter 2

Jamal tossed a pack of screw anchors into his shopping basket and headed for the lighting aisle. He’d accidentally cracked the bulb in his hanging work lamp, which had forced him to stop working once the sun went down. He couldn’t afford to work only during daylight hours anymore, not if Belle Maison was going to open as scheduled.

Maybe he could run a special promotion: get half off your stay if you’re willing to pick up a hammer.

“Get a grip,” Jamal said under his breath.

He had contractors lined up to do most of the big-ticket items—to paint the exterior and strip and refinish the home’s original hardwood flooring. What he needed was someone with expertise in restoring some of the home’s unique elements that he wanted to preserve.

Jamal was having a hard time deciding whether he was upset or relieved that Phylicia was too busy to help. He could use her skill with a detailing chisel, but he sure as hell had not been looking forward to the cold showers that were undoubtedly in his future if he had to spend any significant time working alongside her.

It didn’t matter now, did it?

Corey had warned him that Phylicia’s skills were a hot commodity. He should have known her calendar was booked months in advance.

Jamal grabbed a replacement halogen lamp and frowned at the rows of pear-shaped incandescent bulbs stacked on the shelves. He shook his head. Were people really still using those things?

He made his way to the hardware store’s single checkout counter, where a group of older men were loitering. After several trips here, Jamal had discovered that the three men who lingered around the counter were not customers but retirees who spent much of their day shooting the breeze with Nathan Robottom.

“Hey, it’s the architect,” Nathan greeted.

“Hello, Mr. Robottom. Gentlemen.” Jamal nodded to the group as he placed his items on the counter.

“How’s the work coming on the new hotel?” Nathan asked.

“Not a hotel, just a bed-and-breakfast,” Jamal corrected him. “And it’s coming along just fine.”

“You think it’ll be done in time for the Christmas in Gauthier celebration?” a man Jamal knew only as Froggy asked in a gravelly, toadlike voice. Hence the nickname, Jamal assumed. “My granddaughter lives up in Michigan. Said she saw an advertisement for Gauthier’s Christmas celebration on the internet all the way up there.”

“It’s the same internet wherever you are,” Nathan said with an eye roll. “Why do you think they call it the World Wide Web?”

“Well, hell, I don’t fool with that internet,” Froggy blustered.

Jamal suppressed the urge to laugh. “Mya Dubois-Anderson is in charge of publicizing it, so I have no doubt word of Christmas in Gauthier will reach far and wide.”

“Gauthier owes you a lot for opening this hotel,” Nathan said. “It’s nice to have tourists passing through, but it will be even better when they can stay for a couple of days and spend some money.”

Jamal nodded. He knew just how much having Belle Maison up and running would mean for Gauthier’s local economy.

“I was hoping you gentlemen could suggest someone who could help me with the renovations. I’ve got a few guys coming out to do the heavy lifting, but I need someone who can handle the delicate woodworking without damaging it.”

“Did you try Phi—” Froggy started.

“I just came from Phylicia Phillips’s place,” Jamal said, cutting him off. “She’s booked up.”

“Yeah, Phil gets a lot of work. Did you see the job she did on the Rosedale Plantation?” Nathan whistled. “That girl is better with a wood chisel than her daddy was.”

“Do you know of anyone else?” Jamal asked. He didn’t particularly want to hear about how good Phylicia would have been. Dammit, he knew how good she would have been. Maybe if he offered her twice whatever the job she was currently working on paid? Would she consider giving it up and coming to work for him?

Jamal winced at the selfish thought. He didn’t know much about Phylicia, but she didn’t seem like someone who would risk damaging her reputation for a few extra bucks. If anyone could respect the notion of integrity and a strong work ethic over money, it was him. He could be making an impressive salary as an architect with his family’s construction business, instead of reallocating money from his savings in order to open a bed-and-breakfast. But he was a helluva lot happier, and no amount of money was worth giving that up.

“If you think of someone else who may be able to help, give me a call,” Jamal told Nathan as he pocketed his change and headed out of the hardware store.

He waved at a couple of folks as he drove down Gauthier’s Main Street. For a city kid, he’d allowed this small town to thoroughly charm him. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with its brightly colored storefronts sporting striped awnings and hand-painted We’re Open signs hanging in the windows. Jamal hadn’t known towns like this still existed, especially with predominately black populations.

Moving to Gauthier had been, without a doubt, one of the best decisions he’d made in his thirty-three years. He had been slowly dying back in Phoenix, but this small town had given him a new start. Having the freedom to live life on his terms instead of being bound by the confines of the Johnson Construction legacy had changed everything. He was finally free to pursue his dreams of opening his own architectural firm, without having to face his father’s derision.

So why was his firm still just an idea on paper?

A jolt of anxiety ricocheted against the walls of Jamal’s chest. The sensation had become commonplace, rearing its head whenever his mind so much as tiptoed in the vicinity of his underdeveloped career plans.

He quieted the unease by picturing the Victorian and what it would mean to Gauthier. The men back at the hardware store had reiterated how appreciative the town was that he was renovating Belle Maison. It would be selfish to think about his architectural firm when so many would benefit from the B&B.

“Yeah, you’re all about the noble self-sacrifice,” Jamal muttered.

Renovating the Victorian was a stalling tactic, and he damn well knew it. Just like the renovations of the Georgian he’d purchased when he moved to Gauthier a year ago.

He didn’t have the time or energy for a mental debate over why he continued to avoid moving forward on his architectural firm. There was too much work to be done, regardless of the true reason he was doing it.

Despite his exhaustion, Jamal drove straight past his house, forfeiting the hot shower and food his body craved in exchange for getting in a few more hours of work on Belle Maison. Now that he had the replacement bulb for his work light, there was no reason for him to call it quits for the day.

* * *

Sitting at the bar in her kitchen after a fitful night of very little sleep, Phil sipped a cup of piping-hot coffee and thumbed through the latest issue of Antique Abodes. There was a feature on a Greek Revival in Natchez, Mississippi, that a young couple had spent the past five years restoring. She wondered if she could swing a trip up to Natchez. It was worth the three-hour drive to see the house firsthand.

If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have the time to drive into Mississippi to look at someone else’s restoration project; she would be too busy with her own. The caretaker at Evergreen Plantation had emailed yesterday afternoon, informing Phil that a decision would be made soon on the restoration job she’d bid on. It wasn’t a huge project—a bit of work on some of the plantation’s antique furniture—but it would be welcomed income. She was barely keeping her head above water, and the waterline was gradually creeping further up her neck.

Phil spotted the mail carrier in front of her next-door neighbor’s house. She set her coffee cup down and was waiting outside when Paul Ricard pulled up to her mailbox.