Page 3 of Hearts of Wealth

Catherine

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I PUNCHED IN THE ADDRESS for my potential new client. While I drove through town, I thought about the new project. This was exactly what I wanted. My career goal was to be the premier historical renovation carpenter on the East Coast. I hoped I could make a living focusing on these old houses. I counted it as my contribution to society. I was getting to save one house at a time from the ravishes of time. And those who felt every house needed to be white walls and open floor plans.

I pulled up to the address in the secluded, historic neighborhood, feeling a sense of anticipation mingled with curiosity. The Historical Society had connected me with this new client, a man who had recently purchased a house in a district with strict renovation regulations. It seemed I was just the woman for the job. Stepping out of my car, I smoothed down my blouse and adjusted my briefcase, preparing to meet the homeowner.

After my first meeting with Timothy, I had learned a few things. For one, I was showing up early. I looked the part of a professional. I needed to take this seriously. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into with the house. No information had been passed along. All I knew was the house was old and needed a lot of updating to make it safe, and the new owner wanted it to be luxurious. The other homes up and down the street all had perfectly manicured lawns, wrought iron fences and Mercedes and Beamers in the driveways. This was an upscale neighborhood, which meant this was likely going to be an owner that liked pretty things.

As I made my way to the front door, I couldn’t help but notice the man waiting for me. He was tall and undeniably handsome, with a charm that was evident in the twinkle of his eyes and the curve of his smile. The way he was looking at me was a little unnerving, but I held my composure.

“Hello,” he said in a deep voice. “I’m Henry. The owner of this pile of bricks.”

“Nice to meet you, Henry,” I said, returning his smile with one of my own. “I’m Catherine Jacobsen.”

“Well, you should probably come in and see what this job entails,” he said with a hint of disgust in his voice.

He gestured for me to follow him inside, and I couldn’t help but notice the playful glint in his eyes as he led the way. There was something about him that reminded me of Timothy, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the comparison. But I pushed the thought aside as I focused on the task at hand.

“I have to admit, I have some concern about this house,” he said.

“What kinds of concerns?” I asked.

He waved his hands. “Look at the place. When I bought it, my thoughts were to gut the place and start fresh. I like the exterior, and I really like the neighborhood, but there are so many doors. Narrow doors. I swear, everyone was five feet tall and a hundred pounds. There are these grand rooms, but the doors are so small. And the bedrooms. Don’t get me started on the bedrooms.”

“You do realize this neighborhood has strict regulations when it comes to renovations, right?”

Our visions for the house were very different. He was the kind of client I’d been afraid Timothy was going to be. I started to get a little concerned with the job because I didn’t think we were going to see eye to eye. But if I walked away, some other contractor would do what he wanted and go up against the Historical Society.

Henry’s expression darkened slightly at my words. “Yeah, I’m aware,” he admitted begrudgingly. “But honestly, I’m not too thrilled about it. It’s my house. I can’t believe someone has control over what I can do with my own house.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his frustration. “Well, you probably shouldn’t have bought a historic house then,” I quipped, unable to resist a playful jab.

To my surprise, Henry laughed. “Fair point,” he conceded. “But I’m sure glad the Historical Society connected me with you. You seem like just the woman for the job.”

I felt a surge of pride at his words, grateful for the opportunity to prove myself. As we continued our tour, I found myself impressed by Henry’s willingness to explore every nook and cranny of the house.

“What is with all these weird holes in the walls?” Henry asked.

“Some are for shoes, others are like mini root cellars,” I explained. “Old houses were all about keeping things neat and tidy.”

“Seems like they are perfect houses for mice,” he muttered. “I want them all sealed. I don’t need weird doors and crap.”

“We can do that.” I nodded. “I’d like to go into the attic,” I told him. “I need to check on the condition of the wood and insulation.”

“I have no idea how to get up there,” he said.

I laughed. “I do.”

I led him to the rear of the house, where a narrow wooden staircase was tucked away. It was an old relic, with creaky steps that groaned under our weight and a musty smell that spoke of years of disuse.

“We’ll need to be careful,” I warned him as we slowly ascended into the darkness. The air in the attic was heavy with dust, making it difficult to see. But as my eyes adjusted, I could make out a series of hefty wooden rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, their old oak surface aged a deep brown. Cobwebs draped off in all corners, giving the space an eerie quality.

“I’ll wait here,” he said when I turned on my flashlight to get a better look. “Maybe we can just seal this off as well.”

I laughed. “It’s the attic. You can’t seal it off. I would recommend replacing those stairs, though. They’re not very sturdy.”

I moved farther into the attic, careful to avoid stepping on any rotten boards. The beam of my flashlight illuminated the wooden rafters and old, dusty insulation.