Page 1 of Passion and Privilege

Chapter One

Catherine

MY TRUCK WITH ABOUT half a shock left bounced down the road. The groceries were on the verge of popping out of their bags when I hit a pothole.

I pulled my trusty old Ford truck into the familiar parking lot of my dad’s workshop. With the window down, I could smell the scent of sawdust and freshly cut wood. It was a comforting aroma that reminded me of my childhood.

I shut off the engine, the gentle rumble fading into the background, and I surveyed the familiar surroundings. The workshop was old and weathered, but it was still sturdy after all these years. The apartment attached to the workshop served as my dad’s very humble abode. It certainly cut down on his commute, but I wished I could get him into a nicer place. One of us needed to win the lottery. Of course, that would require us to actually play the lottery.

With a tote bag filled with fresh produce and groceries in hand, I made my way toward the apartment’s entrance. The routine had become second nature to me. Every Saturday, after my visit to the farmer’s market, I would swing by to check on Dad. I was the only one around to take care of him. Lord knew he wasn’t going to take care of himself.

Setting the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, I couldn’t help but smile at the untidiness. I was always trying to coax him into taking his vitamins and the prescriptions the doctor put him on. I wanted him to live forever, or at least until the day after I died. I couldn’t fathom losing him. I didn’t want to deal with grief. Been there, done that. Not interested in doing it ever again.

“Dad?” I called out, realizing he wasn’t in the bathroom.

He was supposed to be taking the day off, a fact I had insisted upon numerous times. Weekends were meant for relaxation, or so I believed. Yet, a distant hum of machinery reached my ears.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Dammit, Dad.”

I quickly put away the fruits, veggies, and the goat cheese I knew he loved and made my way to the workshop. The wooden door creaked open, revealing the familiar sight of saws, drills, and a workbench scattered with tools. The machinery hummed steadily, and there, amidst the dust and wood shavings, he stood, a rugged figure with hands stained by the marks of his craft.

“Dad,” I called out, turning off the table saw to put an end to his unauthorized workday. “I told you to take weekends off. It’s important.”

My father looked up, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he offered a sheepish smile. “I know, sweetheart. But I’ve got work to do.”

“And it will be there Monday,” I said with a sigh.

“I’ve got big news.” He grinned and took off his safety glasses.

I arched an eyebrow, the annoyance giving way to curiosity. “What is it?”

“A big project that could put our business on the map. You know Gloriana Manor?” he asked, his eyes reflecting a glint of excitement.

A grin played on my lips. Gloriana Manor was my absolute favorite house in the world. A true Queen Anne Revival, standing tall since the late eighteen hundreds and miraculously untouched by the modernization craze.

“Yes,” I said, waiting for him to tell me something good.

“There’s been some whispers that the owner is looking for a crew to come in and renovate, top to bottom. Interior and exterior.”

My heart plummeted into my stomach. My dream project. Gloriana Manor, the pinnacle of architectural history, and they were talking about renovating it? Panic surged through me. “Dad, we can’t let them ruin it. We have to put in a bid for the job. They’ll slap gray paint on every wall and paint all that gorgeous wood white.”

Dad sighed and shook his head. Jacobson and Sons had a reputation for restoring old homes without stripping away their charm, but Gloriana Manor was an intimidating project. “Catherine, that’s a huge job. Huge. It’s probably about thirty-thousand square feet of work on the inside alone. I’m not sure we can handle a job like that.”

“We’ll hire a crew. People we trust.” I pleaded with him, my passion for the craft burning in my eyes. I’d officially become a journeyman carpenter last year, despite Dad wanting me to pursue a different path. But this was my chance—our chance—to make a mark on history. That house was beautiful, even if it didn’t look so good right now. It was one of the last homes in the world from that period that hadn’t been stripped, gutted, and redone with a modern twist.

“I just don’t think we would have a chance,” he said. “There are going to be a lot of contractors from all around the country that are going to be able to outbid us. It would take us five times longer than any of those companies. I just thought you would be interested to know it’s finally getting renovated.”

I felt a pang of disappointment, but I wasn’t about to give up so easily. Gloriana Manor was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I couldn’t just let it slip through our fingers.

“Dad, we’ve worked hard to build our reputation and gain the trust of our clients,” I argued. “We may not have the same resources as those big companies, but we have something they don’t. Dedication, craftsmanship, and a deep love for what we do. We’ve restored numerous historic homes in this town, and we do it with care and passion. Gloriana Manor deserves nothing less. We’re old school. Jacobson and Sons Carpentry is the real thing. Yes, we’re a little slower, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do it.”

My father studied me for a moment, his eyes softening with an understanding that only a father could have. He sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair. “You really think we can do it?”

“I know we can,” I replied, determination burning in my voice. “With the right team, the right planning, and our unwavering commitment, we can restore Gloriana Manor to its former glory. We can bring out its beauty and preserve its history. And who knows? This could be our breakthrough. Our chance to show the world what we’re capable of.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “But don’t get your hopes up. Look at the workshop. We don’t have the space or equipment to take on a project like that.”

I wanted to stomp my foot and pout. “Think about it. Please. I really want this. We can do it. I’ll take on the bulk of the work.”