Ruth Herne - A Family to Cherish

“Code?”

“Fire code. Building code. They’re sealed so they don’t offer an escape route.”

“And bad hair can be a life-threatening experience.”

She offered the retort lightly, but Cam turned a serious stare her way. “Are you planning a pedicure tub, like the one Heather’s mother had?”

Heather had been Meredith’s best friend throughout high school. Her mother had run a two-stool shop in her home and did mani-pedi’s alongside. Sandy Madigan’s gentle example had offered Meredith her first shot at her current career. She nodded. “Yes. Four.”

“Blow dryers?”

“Yes.”

“Curling irons?”

She was starting to see his point. “Umm…yes.”

“Chemical propellants?”

She frowned.

“Hair spray.”

“Oh.” She grinned. “Of course.”

“So multiple sources of heat and flammable liquids. Brett Stanton and Bud Schmidt do the fire code inspections for the town. They’ll check thoroughly to ensure everyone’s safety. Code is important.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

“Listen, Meredith—”

“Cam, I was kidding.” She sent him a more solemn look. “Of course fire codes and building codes are important. I just saw my brother go through all this with his new subdivision. I get it. Really.”

“Matt’s doing new build.” Cam’s voice took on a teaching air. “We’re upgrading old. That presents a host of different problems.”

“All of which drive costs up.”

His shrug said that was a given.

“So these windows.” Meredith ran her fingers along the wide, dark trim surrounding the old glass. “Can we modify them or do we have to replace them? I want to do what’s right for the house while keeping in mind my budget.”

“Which is?”

The figure she named thinned his mouth. “You either need a bigger budget or go step by step.”

“That pricey, huh? Even with my help?”

“Your…what?” Cam faced her, surprised.

“My help.”

“As in?”

She hoped he didn’t mean to be as offensive as he sounded, but the look he swept her outfit said he meant it all right.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Don’t go all knee-jerk, Mere. Remember, he only knows the girl you were. Not the woman you are. “I redid my entire place in Maryland. Not the skilled stuff like trim and moldings and cupboards. But the patching, painting, papering. New light fixtures. All me. I’m not afraid to get dirty, Cam, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

His guilty look confirmed her assertion and reaffirmed her first instincts. No way in the world should she and Cam be working together. She decided then and there to let him bow out gracefully. “Listen, it was nice of Matt to suggest you and all, but it’s probably better if I find someone else, don’t you think? Considering our history…”

“Ancient news and there is no one else, at least no one who’s approved by the Landmark Society. That approval saves a whole lot of time because they trust me to do the job right,” Cam told her as he squatted to examine the floor. He frowned, scribbled a note, then rose in a fluid move that said he stayed in shape, a fact she’d noticed first thing. The dark brown bomber jacket fit broad shoulders before tapering to his trim waist. Classic blue jeans ended at camel-colored work boots. His hair was clipped short, browner than she remembered, but the North didn’t get a whole lot of winter sun. His skin had a healthy look that made the furrow of worry seem out of place, but his eyes…

His eyes were the same soft shade of sky that melted her heart back in the day. Gorgeous eyes, she thought before clamping a lid on memory lane. His gaze proved harder than she remembered. Sadder.

Life could do a number on people. She knew that. Even when you thought you were chasing the right dream…

She put away that train of thought promptly. She’d learned a lot by being cheated out of the life she thought she’d have and the job she knew she’d earned. But falling in love with a married man…

With political connections…

That went beyond dumb. But only once does a person get a chance to make such a colossal mistake. Luckily she’d smartened up, but caution and mistrust mingled as if they were her two new middle names.

Cam crossed into the formal dining room. “This crown molding is exquisite. You’ve got yourself a classic Queen Anne in all her glory.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s more elaborate than a simple Victorian,” he explained. He swept a hand across the low, wooden panels framing the room and his expression took on a reverent cast. “The mahogany wainscoting. The gingerbread-trimmed second story. The wraparound porch. The turret on the north front corner.”

“I love the turret.” Meredith moved to the left and bent low. “The minute we saw this, we knew it would be perfect.”

“Your husband and you?”

She grimaced at something resembling mice droppings. Closer inspection proved her right. “Mom, Grandma and me. I’m not married.”

She tossed the personal info into the conversation easily because he was married, so her single state was immaterial. And that was good.

“Ah.” He snapped his tape measure open, measured quickly, then closed it as he continued through to the expansive kitchen. “Do you hear the girls?”

“No.”

He made a U-turn for the stairs. “Nine years of fatherhood has taught me that silence is rarely golden.”

“Oops.”

“Soph! Rachel! Where are you?”

He took the steps at a quick clip, then called their names again on the top landing.

Silence answered him. He turned toward Meredith. “Attic?”

“This way.” She started toward the equally ornate attic staircase at the end of the hall, but a giggle from the turret room halted their progress.

“Yes, m’lady?” Rachel’s little voice had taken on a seven-year-old’s rendition of peasant Scotland.

“I need proper biscuits, Higgins. These are quite stale.” Sophie’s tone embraced a more haughty British aristocracy.

“But cook just made them,” Rachel protested, indignant.

“Cook’s a fool.”

“And the butter is fresh, mum.”

Cam and Meredith stepped in as Sophie pirouetted, backlit by the bank of windows lining the rounded wall of the turret room. The higher angle of the March sun glared with little remorse through smoggy windows, lighting streams of dancing dust motes, but the sight of two little girls made Meredith remember another little girl playing dress-up. Pretending to be fancy and special. Above reproach.

That was a long time ago. When she was Daddy’s little girl. Before the world saw Neal Brennan’s true colors. And before she made the very same mistakes she’d abhorred in him.

“Daddy, do you see this?” Rachel spun about, arms out, a little girl twirl of gladness. “I just love it so much!”

“It’s beautiful, Rach.” Cam moved forward, palmed her head and leaned down. “And it’s a perfect space for dancing.”

“Kitchen help isn’t allowed to dance,” announced Sophie. She glided across the floor as if extending a dress out to the side, then curtsied toward her father. “Perhaps on her day off.”

“Since you have an orthodontist appointment in twenty minutes, her dancing debut must wait anyway. Come on, ladies.”

The girls didn’t argue, but Sophie sent a wistful look back toward the light-filled, dusty turret. “It’s like a princess dream room, Daddy.”

“You don’t like princesses, Soph.”

Sophie made a face her father didn’t see.

But Meredith saw it, and wondered why a little girl would pretend not to like princesses.

Not her business, she decided as she followed them down the stairs. Cam was obviously in as big a hurry to leave as she was to have him gone. He’d go, give her an estimate she’d politely decline, then go back to his wife and perfect family while she hunted up another remodeler to do the work.