to sell their house, pack up their belongings and move to the oceanside town. The sky was a perfect California blue, the temperatures promised to reach into the mid-seventies and a faint tang of salt scented the sweet breeze.
Del paused to study the porch and front door of the old place. Both were in need of repainting, but the structure was fundamentally sound. He’d been through the house enough times to be able to picture every room and imagine the possibilities. At one time he’d even thought he might live here. The plans he’d brought along with him were proof of that. That dream had disappeared along with his wife. Although he could regret losing the house he could honestly say that he didn’t have the same feelings about Josie. She was out of his life forever, and he was glad.
As he raised his hand to knock on the front door, he frowned. He hadn’t thought about his ex-wife in months. Maybe not in the past year. Why had she turned up in his mind now? Was it being back at the Miller place? After all, they’d often talked about buying it. But every time they’d toured it, they’d ended up arguing about remodeling, just like they’d argued about everything else.
Forget it, he told himself firmly as he knocked.
As he waited for a response, he listened for the slow step of the soon-to-be owner. Rose. He frowned as he realized she hadn’t given him a last name. She’d intrigued him, which was strange. They’d exchanged only a handful of words. Maybe it had been the way the light had caught her pale-blond hair. Josie’s hair had been that color, but she’d always worn it as short as a boy, while Rose had soft, feminine waves that slipped down to her shoulders. With her big blue eyes and full mouth, she reminded him of a 1940s movie star. Curvy, sultry and a dozen kinds of trouble.
Before he could tell himself that sexual attraction to a client was a serious mistake, the front door opened. If he’d been hoping that seeing his potential new customer in person would erase the image he had of her as a temptress, he’d been mistaken.
Yesterday she’d worn a light-green dress. Today’s was pink. Short sleeves in a gauzy material flirted with her upper arms. The floral print fabric skimmed over full breasts and hips before falling gently to her calves. Makeup accentuated her big eyes and full mouth, and the fact that she was leaning heavily on a cane did nothing to stem his male interest.
“Good morning,” he said, forcing his voice to sound professional rather than husky with yearning. What on earth was wrong with him? He’d given up unrealized crushes on women about the time he’d turned seventeen and Betty Jo Lancaster had let him go all the way in the backseat of his Mustang.
“Mr. Scott.” She gave him a brief nod and a quick smile. “You’re very prompt. I appreciate that.”
“Just part of the Scott family service. We’re on time and we come prepared to do work. The same applies to my crew. If I tell you they’ll be starting at eight, they’ll all be here then. And please, call me Del.”
“All right. Del.” She stepped back to let him into the vacant house.
A beautiful chandelier hung in the foyer. He knew that it and the marble tiles underfoot had been shipped over from Italy in the early 1920s.
“I’ve been reacquainting myself with the house,” Rose said, closing the door behind him and turning slowly toward the main living area, keeping her cane close to her side. “I’d forgotten how much work the house needs.”
He was surprised to experience a stab of disappointment. He told himself his feelings came from having wanted to fix the old place for the past ten years, not from the realization that Rose might drift out of his life as easily as she’d drifted into it.
“Have you changed your mind about the remodeling?”
“Not at all. I’m prepared to see her looking as lovely as she did when she was first built.”
Her comment surprised him. “Have you seen pictures?”
“A long time ago.”
Before he could ask when, she started through the foyer, pointing to the front parlor. “I thought that room could be a combination living room and library. What do you think about bookshelves on a couple of the walls?”
He tapped the large case he carried. “You read my mind. I already have that design drawn up. Which leaves this as the main living area.”
They stepped into an oversize room about twenty-five by thirty. The ten-foot ceilings and crown molding added to the grandeur of the room. The hardwood floors were in need of refinishing but otherwise in good shape. On the right, bay windows let in morning light. To the left was the entry to the kitchen and dining room. A huge fireplace dominated the north wall.
Del pointed at the bricked opening. “That was imported from a castle in England. The stained glass in the dining room came from a chateau in France. There are bits and pieces of the world all over the house.”
“That’s one of the things that intrigues me about the place,” Rose told him. She paused in the center of the room, leaning heavily on her cane. “I don’t agree with the current construction philosophy that if it’s new it must be better. Sometimes what’s old has a unique charm that can’t be duplicated.”
“I agree.”
He noticed that her movements were slow and deliberate, the way they’d been the day before. He wondered if her disability was new—the result of an accident—or if she’d been born with it.
He grabbed a couple of straight-back chairs tucked in a corner of the room. There was also a folding table, flattened and leaning against the wall opposite the fireplace.
“Have a seat,” he said, putting the chairs in the center of the room, then retrieving the table. “Let me show you my plans.”
She settled into the chair and smiled at him. “You noticed me weaving. I’m a little tired, which always affects my balance.”
“Actually I didn’t,” he said, and it was almost the truth. “My mom raised me to offer a lady a seat. This is the best I can do under the circumstances.”
He straightened the table legs and locked them into place. After placing it in front of the two chairs, he opened his large briefcase.
“What do you know about the house?” he asked. “Any of the history?”
She shook her head. As she moved, the long, blond strands swayed back and forth, the gentle wave causing a curve of her hair to brush her cheek. He was once again reminded of a forties movie star…and his ex-wife, which was a strange combination. It was the hair color, he told himself. And the eye color. They were startlingly similar. But Rose and Josie had little else in common. Rose was quiet, elegant and feminine. Josie had been an argumentative whirlwind. Not exactly restful.
He opened his case and slid out the large sheets of paper, then set them on the table. But instead of showing them to her, he took the spare chair and sat down facing her.
“This house was built by a San Francisco shipping tycoon in 1910. It was a wedding gift for his second wife, whom he married shortly after the death of his first wife. Apparently, the first time he married for money and connections, and the second time he married for love. Local legend says they were very happy together, as were the next three couples who owned the place. The Millers were the last. Mr. and Mrs. Miller lived here for fifty wonderful years until they died within a few days of each other. Eventually their heirs decided to sell the house. There have been several interested parties, but no one has been serious about buying it until you.”
Rose raised her pale eyebrows. A slight smile teased at the corners of her full lips. “So if I buy the house, I’m joining a long line of happy marriages?”
“Something like that.”
“I guess I need to start dating,” she teased.
“Absolutely. It doesn’t pay to mess with a legend.”
A legend that explained why he and Josie hadn’t bought the place. By the time they could afford to