The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2) Page 7

  When they see me, Emmie turns the music down and declares, “You slept outside.”

  I nod my head. “I couldn’t knock off with all the quiet, so I went out to investigate the lack of noise. That’s the first time I’ve slept outdoors in my whole life.”

  “You never went to sleep-away camp as a girl?” Gracie asks, astonished at my confession.

  “I did,” I tell her. “But we were in cabins.” I only went twice, once in Pennsylvania and once in Poughkeepsie.

  I point to their getup and ask, “What’s going on here?”

  Gracie laughs, “We’re getting our exercise on.”

  “To Tina Turner?” I ask.

  “Who else?” Emmie replies. “Have you seen the state of that woman’s legs?”

  “Eighty never looked so good,” I agree. “You have any coffee?” I figure after a cup or two, I might join in and show them how it’s really done.

  “I’ll get you some,” Gracie says as she glides into the kitchen like her four-inch stilettos are tennis shoes.

  “I’m going to grab a quick shower,” my friend says. “Can you be ready to go in thirty minutes? We can get something for breakfast at the new coffee place in the factory.”

  I agree to be ready and gratefully accept a mug from Gracie when she comes back. She announces, “Lee and I want to take you around a bit while you’re here. We’ll give you a couple days to settle in, but then we’re hoping to kidnap you for a few local adventures.”

  I assure her that sounds delightful before heading to my bedroom to get ready for the day ahead. My wardrobe at home is mostly comprised of business suits. It’ll be nice to dress more casually for a change. After choosing a pair of blue jeans, a dove-gray cashmere V-neck, and a pair of black suede booties, I get busy taming my hair. It’s a process that requires a load of moisturizing spray and more patience than I currently have.

  I choose a coral color palate for my makeup, and when I’m done, I meet Emmie in the living room with moments to spare. We say goodbye to her mother and the baby and then we hop into her dad’s old sports car.

  “What was it like growing up here?” I ask, wondering at the differences in our childhoods.

  My friend takes a beat to think about her response. “I thought I hated it back then. But now that I’m home, I realize what an ideal upbringing it was. If Cootie hadn’t been around to orchestrate trouble, I might have actually loved it.”

  “That woman is a bit of a freak show,” I say.

  Emmie laughs, “She’s been pretty tame since Shelby’s miscarriage. You should have seen her before.”

  I tremble at the thought.

  Admiring the wide-open spaces, I ask, “Do you ever have rush hour traffic?”

  “This is rush hour traffic,” she says.

  It can take a full hour on the bus to go forty blocks in a New York rush hour, which is why almost everyone takes the subway. Of course, in the subway you’re squashed in like cattle, the air conditioning and heat don’t always work, and you frequently find yourself stopped dead on the tracks while something in the system is being fixed. Walking is my main mode of transport unless I have to go more than thirty blocks. “Five cars at a stoplight is rush hour?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Can’t beat it with a stick, can you?”

  I have no idea what that saying means, so I simply smile. “What’s on your agenda this morning?”

  “I have a couple of early meetings, but I should be free after three or so. Depends on how busy it is today.”

  “Have you been getting a lot of business? You’ve only been open for a month, right?”

  “Just about. And yes, to business. There are a lot of towns smaller than Creek Water nearby, and those folks are as desperate for new shopping outlets as we are.”

  As soon as we park and make our way to the building, we stop at the Muffin Bar for breakfast. We both order dark chocolate croissants before finding a table to sit at. As soon as we’re settled, Beau strides past to order his own breakfast. Then, spotting us, he stops by to say hello. After a perfunctory greeting, he asks, “Em, you got a sec?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Sit down.”

  He glances at me and says, “I’d prefer to talk in private.” Ouch. Gone is the charming man I got a glimpse of last night. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get up and move or if he wants Emmie to go with him. Either way, I feel as welcome as a cockroach at the dinner table.

  My friend starts to get up, but I beat her to it. “I wanted to walk around town for a bit. Why don’t I do that now and I’ll meet you back here later?”

  Emmie asks, “Are you sure? I’m happy to talk to Beau over at the shop.”

  “I’m sure. See you in a bit, Em.” I pick up my coffee and walk away without a word to Beau. That man needs a personality transplant, stat.

  Chapter 15

  My dad has a fascination with Norman Rockwell paintings, which is kind of odd as his own painting style has always been abstract and modern. He owns a couple of signed limited-edition prints that he stares at like he expects the people in them to jump out of the frame and start talking to him. The one he’s particularly enchanted with, “The Runaway,” depicts a young boy at the counter of a soda fountain talking to a police officer.

  When I asked him why he loved it so much, he told me the story of how he got away from his mom one afternoon while they were shopping in the Village. He walked out of the grocery store and hopped on the uptown bus. When he came to the end of the line, he was in Harlem. Luckily, a lady getting off the bus realized he was alone and took him to a nearby diner to call the police. She bought him a root beer float while they waited.

  Bertie didn’t know who the woman was until fifty years later while we were celebrating Christmas dinner with my mom’s family. My Jewish grandfather was not religious, so Christmas was the observed holiday in their home. It was always my grandmother’s favorite.

  Over dessert, Dad told the story of his adventure, and Mimi immediately knocked over her red wine, staining the pristine white tablecloth like a crime scene. “Honey, that woman was me!” she’d declared. “I was rushing home to get supper on the table for Leonard and there you were this little scrap of nothing, all alone. I bought you a root beer float.”

  Mimi went on to say, “Regina, you need to marry this man, already.” My grandparents were legally wed and didn’t share their daughter’s beliefs against the institution.

  My mom had laughed and announced, “Bertie and I are perfectly content the way things are.” Then she smiled and said, “Aren’t we, Bertie?”

  Even though I was only in high school at the time, I could tell the smile on my dad’s face was forced. He’s never said so, but it’s my belief he would have loved to have been married to my mom.

  The memories rush over me like a waterfall as I stand on the ribbon of sidewalk that runs against the brick façade of Main Street in Creek Water, Missouri. This town is reminiscent of a Rockwell painting. It feels like a slice of life that time has forgotten. Aside from the people and style of cars, I could easily be standing on a street in the nineteenth century.

  I’m not sure which way to go, so I let the spirit move me. I pass stores with the original names painted on the sides of the brick buildings. The paint is faded but still legible—Maggie Lou’s Baked Goods, Slinger’s Fishmonger, and Wilbert’s Farm Supply.

  After several blocks, the neighborhood changes to a residential one. A small plaque attached to one of the old-fashioned streetlights reads, “Millionaire’s Row.” The houses appear to be well over a hundred years old with enormous yards and long paths leading to imposing entryways. I can imagine this street when it was dirt roads instead of concrete and asphalt. It reminds me of the street the family lived on in the old Judy Garland movie, “Meet Me in St. Louis.” Mimi and I watched that one at least a dozen times together.

  One house catches my eye. It’s a three-story Victorian-era red brick home, full-on with a turret. I cross the street to get a better look, when I notice
the realtor sign out front. Why would anyone sell such a stately piece of history?

  As a little girl, I used to beg my parents to take me for walks in the residential parts of Manhattan where the brownstones are. Those are the closest things we have to actual houses. They share walls with the buildings on either side of them.

  I remember seeing houses on television, but I didn’t set foot in a real one until college when I went to Connecticut with my roommate. It was a pretty trippy experience, to say the least.

  I pull an information flyer out of the plastic pocket attached to the For Sale sign. This house was built in 1861, has seven bedrooms, five and half baths, multiple fireplaces, and is seventy-two hundred square feet. I’m shocked. It’s so massive it feels like a museum.

  I continue up the sidewalk and climb the eight stairs that lead to the front door. The porch is probably as big as my entire apartment. In my mind’s eye, I see it with white wicker furniture and hanging flower baskets. Maybe even a porch swing.

  I turn around to appreciate the view from this vantage point and need to sit down on the top stair to regain my equilibrium. I feel punched in the gut by the sensation of being home. It’s not exactly déjà vu, but it’s pretty darn similar. Instead of feeling like I’ve been here before, it’s more like I know this is where I’m meant to be. Yet for the life of me I can’t imagine I’m meant to live in Creek Water, Missouri. That can’t be right.

  I look at the flyer in my hand to check the price, expecting it to match the name of the neighborhood, Millionaire’s Row. When I find the information I’m looking for, I’m relieved to be sitting down, but not because it’s so expensive. This amazing property is only a hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars. How can that be?

  I pick up the phone to call the realtor to see if there’s a mistake. I almost decide against it when I notice that Beau’s company has the listing. But my desire to know the information wins out and I place the call.

  “Frothingham Realty,” a feminine voice on the other end of the line answers.

  “Hi there,” I say. “I’m looking for some information on the house you have listed on Millionaire’s Row.”

  “Ah yes, the old Frothingham place. What would you like to know?”

  The old Frothingham place? Emmie’s family used to live here? Why in the world did they ever move? “I’m wondering what the listing price on the house is,” I say.

  I hear her clicking away on her keyboard, before she answers, “It looks like the price was just reduced to a hundred and forty thousand dollars.”

  I don’t answer for several seconds. Why is it so cheap? Is it infested with bats? Are the pictures misleading and it’s really a demolition zone inside? But instead of asking any of those questions, I surprise myself by saying, “I’d like to set up an appointment to see it, please.”

  What am I thinking? There’s no way I’m going to buy this house. That would be insane. But crazy or not, I know I need to go inside. So, when the woman on the other line asks when I want to see it, I answer, “Right now, if possible.”

  She puts me on hold before coming back on the line and announcing, “I can have someone meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Perfect, I’ll be here.”

  Chapter 16

  I’m so excited, I don’t even consider that Beau will be the one to come. After all, he’s the owner of the company. But, of course, he’s the one to show up. He parks his SUV at the curb and gets out completely unaware that I’m the person he’s meeting. I hide behind one of the brick columns and watch him walk up the sidewalk. He looks like he did when I saw him an hour ago at the coffee shop, only he doesn’t seem tense right now. There’s a carefree quality about him that makes him even more handsome than I’d previously realized. Crap, that’s the last thing I need to be thinking.

  I have an overwhelming desire to run away but there’s no way I can do so without him seeing me. Plus, I need to see the inside of this house, so I have to suck it up. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and step out from my hiding place. Forcing a smile to my lips, I greet, “Hi, Beau.”

  My friend’s cousin falters before stopping dead in his tracks. After several uncomfortable moments of silence, he manages, “I didn’t expect you’d be the one I was meeting.”

  Clearly. “I was walking around town,” I explain, “and I wound up here. I couldn’t resist wanting to go inside.”

  “You can’t possibly be thinking about buying this place?” he accuses like he’s on a fool’s errand and I’m wasting his precious time.

  And while I’m not really thinking about buying it, I feel the need to terrorize him. “Why couldn’t I buy it?”

  “Because you’re moving to Atlanta,” he replies matter of factly.

  “I’m contemplating taking a job in Atlanta and I’ve given up my apartment. I’m open to any possibility as I’m kind of in limbo right now.”

  “But you’re going to move to Atlanta,” he emphasizes like he’s speaking to a child.

  “Again, I’ve been offered a job there,” I tell him. “That doesn’t mean I have to take it.” Put that in your pipe.

  He exhales loudly before joining me on the porch. Pulling out his phone, he in punches a code which results in the lock box popping open. Once the door is open, he stands back to indicate that I should go in first.

  I walk into a giant entry hall with a marble floor and an enormous crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Straight ahead is an extra-wide staircase with an intricately carved balustrade. Jolts of excitement shoot through my body like I’m on the receiving end of a cattle prod. When I find my voice, I say, “The lady on the phone said your family used to live here. Why are you selling it?”

  “These old houses are money pits. It takes a lot to keep them maintained and running. Most folks don’t want to be tied down to that kind of responsibility.”

  “That’s why you’re selling?” I ask. Who in the world would turn their back on this kind of family history out of laziness about maintaining the property?

  “My family hasn’t owned this house in decades. One of our great-great uncles sold it in the nineteen forties.”

  I shake my head. I can’t imagine such a thing. “Don’t any of you want to buy it back?” I ask.

  “Why? We all have our own places. Living here would be a full-time job.” He’s trying to put me off buying it.

  That’s when the craziest thought hits me and I feel my knees buckle at the very idea. “Someone needs to turn this house into a bed and breakfast,” I blurt out. I don’t add that person should be me. I don’t know anything about running a B&B. Although I did watch a movie once where a girl moved to Ireland to renovate an old inn. She was going to sell it and move back to the US when she was done, but she fell in love with it and stayed.

  Beau shrugs his shoulders. “I guess it would be a nice B&B, but in addition to already having homes, we already have jobs. I don’t think any of us are looking to change careers.”

  Thought after thought crashes through my brain like high tide smashing onto a rocky shore. I pull out my phone and open the mortgage app I downloaded when I was trying to figure out a way to afford my apartment on Central Park West. I punch in numbers while Beau stares at me like I’m turning into the Incredible Hulk right before his eyes.

  He finally demands, “What are you doing?”

  “Math,” I answer. “According to my calculations, I could buy this house with forty thousand dollars down and finance the rest over fifteen years at a four-point-five percent interest rate. The result would have me paying less than eight hundred dollars a month in a mortgage payment, which is a nearly a quarter of what I’ve been paying in rent.”

  I could use the rest of my savings for repairs and living expenses before I turned a profit. I don’t say that out loud, though. I mean, heck, I’m not really going to do this. It’s just fun dream material. Who knows if Creek Water needs a B&B? There might not be a demand for that kind of lodging.

  “Do you have th
at much saved?” he demands.

  Despite his ungracious tone, he does have a right to know. I smile deviously, “I do.”

  Beau begrudgingly leads me through the rest of the downstairs, which includes a formal living room, dining room, kitchen, sunroom, and library. There are spots on the ceiling where the plaster is falling down and some of the flooring needs to be refinished. The kitchen is a horror show that was last updated in the nineteen eighties. But the built-in bookshelves, china cabinets, high ceilings, stunning light fixtures, and fireplaces are so extraordinary I hardly even notice the work that needs to be done.

  The only time Beau speaks is to tell me what a dump the place is. “The electric is nob and tube and needs to be replaced.” I shrug my shoulders in response, so he adds, “The furnace is shot.”

  Perversely, every negative he mentions makes me want it more. “Aren’t you the listing agent on this house?” I ask. “I thought it was your job to sell it, not scare potential buyers away.”

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, he leads the way to the stairs. The second floor transports me to another time. The staircase is wide enough for three people to comfortably ascend side-by-side. There are seventeen stairs to the first landing. I stop to look out the french doors that lead out to a small lookout. The back yard is a mess of overgrowth, but it’s positively enchanting. There’s a ruin of a decorative fountain, old circular benches that wrap around several trees, and a rose arbor so thick you can barely see the arbor. Even in its neglected state, it’s positively gorgeous.

  Beau interrupts my thoughts. “As you can see, the property is a disaster area. It’ll probably take a crew a month of nonstop work to get it back into a reasonable state. That’ll cost a fortune.”