Page 23 of Passion and Privilege

“Well, if this is what retirement is going to look like, then maybe I should start considering it seriously,” he teased as he took his place at the table. “I thought you were going to make me eat cardboard and dry fish for the rest of my days.”

“You don’t get pizza every night,” I teased and took a bite. “But you have to splurge now and then. Life is too short not to eat pizza.”

“I agree.”

He reached for a second slice. “So, how much work have you gotten done over there? Are you working on the banister?”

“I am,” I said, nodding eagerly. “It’s a tricky piece but I’m getting there. Once it’s finished, it’ll look great.”

“I’m sure it will,” he replied, brushing crumbs from his lips onto a napkin. “You always had a knack for making things seem grander than they are. That house is lucky to have you.”

We lapsed into a comfortable silence as we ate our pizza, both of us lost in our thoughts. After the meal, I got up to clear the table while he disappeared into the living room to turn on the news. I loaded the dishwasher, my mind drifting back to Bennet and his comments about Timothy.

There was something curious about men who were described as complicated. Complicated often meant there were emotions buried deep, covered by layers of reinforced steel that took time and patience to peel away. It sounded exhausting but also strangely intriguing. I knew some women liked the idea of fixing a man.

Not me. I didn’t need the drama.

But I could admit the thought of Timothy sitting in that huge house all alone made me sympathetic. But not enough to want to take on the problem.

I switched off the kitchen lights and popped my head into the living room. My dad was snoring lightly in the armchair, an opened newspaper draped across his chest with the TV on. I smiled at the sight. I wasn’t going to wake him and tell him to go to bed. He fell asleep in the chair almost every night. He would get to bed on his own.

I let myself out and headed home to my own quiet, lonely abode.

Chapter Eleven

Catherine

THE DAYS BLENDED INTO each other, a continuous stream of hard, tedious work and progress. The whole time, I poured my heart and soul into the restoration of Gloriana Manor.

The first floor was nearing completion, a testament to the dedication of the skilled subcontractors who had become an integral part of this project. We were ahead of schedule. They were making me look good. I could tell they were all invested in this place.

The kitchen was coming along nicely. It was beautiful. Earlier renovations had expanded it beyond the original footprint but most of the cabinetry was original. It was stunning to think these cabinets had been around for over a hundred years.

I squatted down to get a view of the floors that I had spent hours and hours on. They were pristine. I couldn’t help but smile as I got to my feet and surveyed the work once again. I could see myself cooking a meal in this massive kitchen.

I could hear the stone masons working diligently outside, each chisel strike echoing through the halls as they breathed life back into the grand exterior.

Summer had arrived with a sizzling heatwave. I felt bad for the men working outside, but they assured me they were used to it. I was thrilled the HVAC team had shown up yesterday.

The ventilation system was another update that had been made in the eighties. Unfortunately, with no one living in the home for twenty years, things had gotten a bit rough. Duct work had to be replaced. The heating and AC units as well. I didn’t even want to think how much it cost to try and cool a place like this, but I was grateful it was up and running now.

I walked by one of the vents and let the air wash over me.

Fortunately, our grumpy boss had been gone all week. I had not seen him since the night he came home and sent me away. He was in New York City. He didn’t get to see the metamorphosis taking place in his old mansion. My only connection to him was through text, if I had an issue or needed approval to make a purchase.

I had sent him an update on the progress, along with some photos of the polished flooring and cleaned-up exterior.

“Looks good,” was all he replied.

It wasn’t exactly effusive praise, but then I didn’t expect much more from him. As long as he was satisfied with the work, that was all that mattered. He had never been one to gush over anything.

Today, I was looking forward to getting into the library to start on the built-in shelving. It was a carpenter’s dream. Thousands of books on shelves that reached the ceiling covered three sides of the room. It was one of the few rooms that didn’t have the benefit of a lot of natural light. It would have ruined the books if it had.

The library had been painted in a dark burgundy color, which worked, but Timothy wanted it brightened up a bit. I agreed. We were going with a warm honey color, a shade that would make the room feel cozy yet adequately lit. After all, a place that was the center of many, many ghost stories needed to be inviting.

The colossal fireplace with the aging mantel would provide all the heat the room needed. It was such an amazing room. If I lived here, I would spend a lot of my time in here. It was just so cozy.

As I slowly made my way around the towering shelves, my fingers trailing over the weathered spines of the books, I couldn’t help but imagine generations of Timothy’s family sitting in this room.