Page 17 of Passion and Privilege

I led him into the kitchen, where he marveled at the updates we’d made while still preserving the original stone wall and wood beam ceiling. The new appliances blended seamlessly with the rustic decor, and I could see the approval in his eyes.

“This is amazing,” he said, running his hand over the smooth granite countertop. “Modern yet traditional. Exactly what I was hoping for.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I wasn’t sure I would like the granite,” he said. “I thought it was too modern, but it works in here.”

I smiled, agreeing with him. “It does. Unfortunately, as much as we want to keep it all original, the kitchen is just one of those spaces that needs to be modern in order to be functional. The electricians have rewired things and made sure there are plenty of outlets as well.”

“Great. I like it. I’ll leave you to it. I have some work to do in my office. I appreciate the updates and it looks like things are moving along well.”

After Timothy left me to my work, I found myself wandering back up to the second floor. I made mental notes about the intricate details that would require attention. The landing and railing bore the scars of time, signaling the need for a delicate restoration. On the brighter side, the wooden columns lining the corridor seemed salvageable with a thorough refinishing.

As I roamed the hall, my gaze fell upon a set of original wooden doors that called to me. I had been in the house for a week but still had not managed to explore every room. I was too busy directing the contractors downstairs. I was curious to see what was behind the door. After all, I would need to remove the doors eventually to refinish them.

I opened one door and stumbled onto a sight that left me breathless. It was a library. It hadn’t been part of my initial tour, which was surprising considering the amount of wood shelves and other woodwork in the room.

I stepped inside and inhaled. The scent of aged paper and wood enveloped me. It always gave me a little chill. Before I could immerse myself in inspecting the shelving and the molding, my phone rang. I glanced down and saw it was Amber.

“Hey,” I answered. “What’s up?”

“Let’s get dinner tonight,” she said. “My treat. How about Mexican?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “I can’t wait to talk about the design for this place. It’s going to blow your mind.”

“I can’t wait,” she said. “I’ll see you at six.”

After work, I went home to shower before heading to our favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner. Amber was a talented, successful interior designer. I was itching to explore a potential collaboration, envisioning the magic we could create together.

“I think he’s going to be open to anything you present,” I told her around a mouthful of homemade tortilla chips and spicy salsa. “I doubt he’ll object to most of your ideas.”

“I’ve been brainstorming all day and have a few concepts in mind.”

We spent the next couple of hours immersed in discussion about the project, exploring different design paths for lighting fixtures and wallpaper patterns. Yet, somehow our conversation always circled back to the man behind the project.

“He seems perpetually grouchy,” I said. “Whenever he smiles, it’s like he realizes he’s smiling and he quickly replaces it with a frown. Whenever he’s there, he’s always in his office with the doors closed. When he comes out, he looks like he’s been sucking on lemons.”

“He’s a wealthy dude,” she said, shrugging. “I’m pretty sure all they think about is money and more money.”

“Do you think he ever has any fun?” I sipped my Corona as I pondered the mystery that was Timothy Hastings.

Amber leaned in, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I might have done a little snooping,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to know who you were working for,” she replied. “Who I might be working for. I was curious as to why this guy has shown up in town and decided to restore the family home. There’s always something juicy going on with these rich people.”

“What did you find out?”

“Girl, you won the lottery with this project. Timothy Hastings is not just some local big shot. He’s a billionaire. A million dollars to him is a drop in the bucket. You could probably get him to spend a lot more.”

“I’m not trying to milk him for money,” I said. “But I’m glad there is money available to do this right.”

“Did you know he is responsible for his family’s money?”

“How can that be?” I asked. “They’ve always been rich.”

“They used to be rich, but they were slipping. Timothy came in and turned things around. Now, he’s super rich, like he’s regularly in the top ten richest people in the world.”