would be essentially complete in two-and-a-half years, just about the time Rachel would need to start.
He refused to sigh. Or whine. Or beat his head against a wall. For the moment, anyway.
As he backed onto the two-lane country road, visions of the gracious Victorian swam into focus. Corner brackets. Framed ceiling lights. Muraled upper walls. Built-ins everywhere, a sign of a well-done Queen Anne. Shelves, closets, cabinets, pantry cupboards. This grand old lady had them all and he’d always longed for a chance to work on her, but not with Meredith Brennan.
Never with Meredith Brennan.
Chapter Three
“Tell me again why you can’t do this, Matt.” Meredith gazed up at her newly married half brother late Friday. She encompassed the entire mansion in a wave of her hand. “You said yourself the building’s in decent shape, that it just needs a little sprucing up to be spa-ready.”
Matt slanted her a no-nonsense look. “My exact words were ‘it needs a doll-up and major revisions on utilities to bear the load of spa equipment.’”
“So…”
He stood his ground, solid. Determined. “Cam’s your man. He’s an expert at classic home refurbishing, he’s approved by the Landmark Society, he’s experienced and he’s the best around. You saw what he did with the Kinsler estate.”
She had, but… “I—”
“Mere.” Matt grasped her shoulders with two firm hands. Sympathy met her gaze, but behind the kindness lay straight-up honesty. “I’d do it if I could. But Phase One of Cobbled Creek is almost completely sold and I’ve got Phase Two ready to go. It’s March and we’re moving into prime building season. And since my father-in-law is my partner—” his eyes twinkled into hers “—you don’t mess with time frames that cost the business money.”
“Money’s not a problem,” Meredith told him. Her bequest from her late grandfather had secured the sprawling Victorian. The just-upgraded loan from her grandmother would cover the remodeling. And hopefully a partnership with her old friend Heather Madigan would provide the necessary customer base, crucial to developing a new business.
“Not your money,” Matt explained. “Mine. Outdoor construction time is finite here.” Matt jerked his head south where the shaded foothills of the Allegheny Mountains rolled in splotched gray and white, stick trees poking up, bereft and dark, the late-winter look unappealing. “With the first section of the subdivision nearly complete, I’m already digging basements for the next group.” He pressed her shoulders with gentle affection. “Stick with Cam. Unless you’re too afraid.”
Afraid? Her? Of Cam Calhoun? As if.
Meredith shrugged Matt off. “I’m not afraid of anything. I’d just rather not open up a box that’s best left shut.”
“It’s business, kid.” Matt’s military training kept him on the upside of common sense. “And speaking from experience, we can’t afford to let old wounds adversely affect business relationships in a town this size. We make amends and move on.” He jerked a shoulder toward the rambling house. “With two kids to take care of, Cam could use the work and you need someone good enough to create what you envision here. I’m a construction guy. Not a fine carpenter.”
His words tipped the balance. Meredith knew what she wanted, she’d envisioned the finished product that would allow beautiful but affordable spa luxuries to the men and women of Allegany County. The recent upsurge in employment and business made this move timely. Grandpa’s money made it affordable.
But why Cam? Of all the craftsmen in all the world…
Reality smacked her. Wellsville and Jamison weren’t that big. And fine carpenters weren’t common in large metropolises. Here?
The local towns were blessed to have a craftsman of Cam’s caliber available. She huffed a sigh, folded her arms and dropped her chin. “Okay.”
Matt laughed, gave her a brotherly chuck on the arm and headed toward his truck. “Gotta head out. Callie’s got a doctor’s appointment in thirty minutes.”
“Aha.”
He met her up-thrust brows with a wink. “It’s too early for big announcements, but prayers are appreciated.”
“Oh, Matt.” Meredith hugged him before he climbed into the truck. “I’m so happy for you. And a baby…”
“Not gettin’ any younger,” Matt told her, “so we decided not to wait.”
“When?”
“Thanksgiving if all goes well.”
“Perfect.”
Matt’s crooked grin showed his full agreement. “’Bout as close to that as you can get on Earth, sis.”
He drove off, leaving her to contemplate her current predicament. Was she stupid to have invested in this old place? Or was she savvy to have recognized the amazing potential?
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
Sage words. Sound advice she wished she’d embodied a few years ago before losing her heart to a man who led two lives, a man like her trouble-making illicit father. If she’d heeded her mother’s wisdom back then, she’d have averted a lot of unnecessary drama.
A stupid mistake, one she would never repeat and would rather forget. She hoped coming home to Allegany County allowed just that.
* * *
Some days Cam hated that the cemetery stood half a mile east of their home. Others, like today, he welcomed the proximity. Once the girls awoke, his hours would race from one task to another, a typical Saturday in the life of a single parent. And then he’d play catch-up on Sunday, taking care of menial tasks left undone during the busy week before starting all over again Monday morning. But he refused to dwell on the negatives. His beautiful girls made the time, the work and the sacrifice worthwhile.
Cam would have said the chill morning fog painted the trek from the gravel-stone path to the gray stone marker in monochromes, if he was prone to drama.
He wasn’t.
But the sigh in his heart softened his jaw as the etched words became more legible with each step.
Kristine DeRose Calhoun
Beloved wife, mother and daughter
The stark reality of the carved letters sucker-punched him every time. The all-consuming ache he’d felt those first weeks and months had dulled to an old sore, but he couldn’t come to the graveyard to pay respects without remembering Kristy there, on their old couch, gone forever.
Irreparable harm. That’s what he’d done. Not like he’d gone to bed expecting her to die, but he’d gone to bed cranky and bad-tempered, as if her time, her work with the girls, her tasks were less important than his. Sometimes that hurt more than her death, that he’d minimized her worth in sharp words that last night.
He laid the single red rose on the grave, a tribute to an old promise, when Kristy had scoffed at the idea of money wasted on twelve flowers, destined to be tossed away within days. “One flower,” she’d told him, smiling, trailing her hand along his scruffy cheek. “Just one, now and again. To show me you care.”
He had cared. Did care. As he stared at the single flush of color against dull grays of the early-spring graveyard, he wished he had a chance, one more chance to say he was sorry.
So sorry.
But he’d blown that, too, so he leaned down, laid his hand against the cold, smooth stone, and prayed the prayer that remained unanswered, a prayer for forgiveness.
The hard, flat surface yielded nothing, but he was used to that. He straightened and tipped the visor of his faded baseball cap, but didn’t