Cynthia Reese - What the Heart Wants

Kyle stood, took in the windows and the expanse of the dining room. “I can imagine that I’m back in 1888, and this room is brand-new. Those windows...wow.”

“Yeah. Those windows. They’re going. I’m getting Gran some double-paned ones that won’t leak air like a sieve.”

He stared over his shoulder at her, his eyebrows drawn. “You can’t.”

“Yes, I can. I have the money. A window guy’s coming out next week.”

Kyle’s frown deepened, out of concern, not anger, she thought. “No. We have rules. Ordinances. Any exterior change to a house in the historic district has to be approved. By the historic preservation committee. Didn’t you know that?”

“But as long as they look right, I don’t really see a problem, do you? I mean, I’m not putting in art deco glass block windows. I’ll pick out good-looking ones. Maybe get vinyl-clad. Easier to take care of.”

“Whoa, no.” He shook his head, then held up a hand, as if what she’d just said pained him deeply. “No. You can’t do that. We have a list.”

“A list?”

“Yeah. Of manufacturers to provide historically accurate windows. And no double-paned ones. Plus, these look to be in pretty good shape, I’d advocate repairing them instead of replacing them.”

Allison crossed her arms over her T-shirt and surveyed him. “Whoa, yourself. You can’t tell me what I can do with my own home—well, Gran’s. This house has been here forever. Surely it’s grandfathered in.”

“These ordinances protect you, protect the value of your home. Trust me, you’d hate what the house looked like with modern windows.”

“I hate seeing the power bill every month, that’s what I hate. Do you know how drafty these things are?” Allison realized her hands had moved to her hips and her voice possessed an edge to it. She tried to drop the attitude raging through her. Still, Kyle’s know-it-all tone irked her.

“I hear that all the time. And my house is the same way. The price you pay for living in a place that has character.”

Allison took in the stubborn jut of his jaw. This guy wasn’t budging. Surely, though, these rules couldn’t be as cut-and-dried as he made them out to be. Surely she could figure out a compromise, a workable solution. The city couldn’t dictate that she remain in a house exactly as it was in 1888.

She decided to change the subject. No point arguing about this any longer, at least not today. “I appreciate your help, but I’ve got to get cleaned up and get out of here if I’m going be on time to visit Gran.”

“I’ll see myself out. Thanks for letting me help.” Kyle’s smile was easy, free from the momentary irritation she’d spotted earlier.

“Thank you. I couldn’t have managed without you.”

He was halfway up the hall, but called over his shoulder, “Sure you could—you’ve got Davinia’s blood running through you, right?”

“Right,” she said. The front door closed behind him, and through the beveled glass inset, Allison stared at Kyle’s departing back as he strode down the walkway toward the wrought-iron fence.

Well, blast. She was probably in for a fight with the historical committee if he was anything to go by. A guy who thought it was a crime to put down carpet on heart-pine flooring would definitely think vinyl siding—even the very high-end vinyl siding she’d been looking at—was a mortal sin.

CHAPTER THREE

AS USUAL, the old house showed her who was boss. By the time Allison managed to coax hot water out of a cantankerous set of hundred-year-old pipes for a bath in the claw-foot tub, she had managed to shift from on-time-just-barely to well-and-truly-late.

She rushed down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen, all the while making a blood oath to find a plumber. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be one insane enough or broke enough or some combination of both to tackle the old house’s hodgepodge of patched pipes, and yank that upstairs bath into the twenty-first century.

How had Gran survived? Allison hadn’t remembered the house being so...obstinate. Okay , she thought to herself as she pulled out of the drive and made the turn toward Gran’s rehab facility, so houses don’t have souls, exactly, but this one sure does have a cantankerous personality. In the rehab facility, way down the hall from the physical therapy suite, she could hear her grandmother—just as cranky and stubborn as those old pipes had been, Allison thought with a chuckle.

“Young man, in my day, people didn’t rush their elders, no sirree! I’m moving, yes, I am, but I don’t trust that contraption.”

Allison heard the poor physical therapist’s low, conciliatory mumble, and in response, her gran came roaring back with, “Why, yes, I do want to go home! I’m doing these exercises, aren’t I? My goodness, you are a strong fellow, aren’t you? Are you single? My granddaughter is in need of a good husband—but notice I said good, not just any old husband. A girl would do worse to have the wrong fellow than none at all, if you ask me.”

Allison paused outside the door to allow her cheeks to cool off from the embarrassment. Her grandmother, huffing and puffing from her exertion, spoke up again. “That girl is a hard worker—a nurse, so you two ought to have plenty to talk about, you being in the medical field. She’s given up a big career in Atlanta to come back to Lombard to live with me, so that I can go home. And that’s why I’m doing these ridiculous exercises! As if I need to be on a bicycle at my age! Do you know how old I am? I’m eighty-nine! And before I broke my hip, I lived by myself and drove myself and did all my shopping and housekeeping. Oh, but these old bones...What’s that? Save my breath?”

Allison covered her mouth to hold back her giggle. Poor fellow. Some people might call Gran standoffish, but once she decided she liked you, you couldn’t get her to hush.

Allison decided she’d better rescue the therapist. Sure enough, he looked as done in as Gran when she came in the room. Still, Allison was glad to see her tiny grandmother with her fluffy white hair, pink-cheeked and determined. That was Gran—a tiger when it came to any sort of goal.

I guess I got that honestly, huh?

The therapist called it quits soon after Allison had taken a seat near Gran’s stationary bike to cheer her on. “You’re doing good, ma’am,” he told her. “Let’s give you a chance to recover.”

“Now, I’m no wimp,” Gran assured him. “I’ve got Davinia Shepherd’s blood in my veins, I have. And I’ve got to get back on my feet. I am determined that I’m going to be strong enough to climb the stairs to my old bedroom. No more sleeping in the library for this old gal.”

It took the man another ten minutes to convince Gran of the law of diminishing returns, and that he wasn’t going easy on her because “you think I’m some frail old lady.” At that point, Allison helped her to her walker and assisted her down the hall.

Halfway to Gran’s room, Allison had to tactfully suggest that they take a seat.

“No, no, I’ll get there—”

“No, Gran, it’s not you. I’m tired out from working on the house this morning. Can’t I have a little bit of a break?” Allison didn’t like lying to her grandmother, but what choice did she have?

Gran gave her a sharp-eyed glance. “Well, maybe a few minutes. Help me to that bench over there.”

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?”