Granddad's House (On Geneva Shores) (2 page)

“Your name?” she
repeated,belatedly recalling what she needed.

“James.”

“James what?”  She wrote it in her notebook, pressing so hard the nib of the pen almost went through the top page.

He hesitated ever so slightly and she thought she detected heightened color on his neck and clean-shaven cheeks. Was he blushing?

“For purposes of the contract, I suppose you’ll want my full name. It’s kind of long, especially for this part of the country.”

She nodded.

“Beauregard Elias James.”

A bubble of laughter erupted involuntarily as she wrote it down. “Beauregard,” she repeated. 
Like the deep South after Reconstruction.
She glanced at him again, pleased to see he seemed less brash.

This time he was the one who frowned. “My friends call me Beau. It’s a family name, my mother’s family.”

Too bad for them.
“I see.” Her pen was poised above the paper. “Your phone number, Mr. James? And email?”

He gave her both. Without comment.

“There’s no sense following me back to the office. I’ll have to talk to the seller first. He—it’s his family home. He’s lived here more than fifty years. I’m not sure … I’ll need to get back to you
.
”

The man looked admiringly at the woodwork in the living room before turning to Olivia and giving her a full-bodied smile that churned her insides. “I’m sure you can work your considerable wiles on him, lovely Olivia. Tell him my offer is cash. Full price. It can be a quick close. Besides, once he has his money, why should he care what I do with his former house?” He opened the front door, then reversed direction and faced her again, his voice quiet. Then, his voice quieter, a challenge in his intense green eyes, he added, “You might tell him I intend to preserve the architectural detail, the character of the building.” He paused and handed her his business card.

“Isn’t that what you realtors want these days? Something easy, with no haggling? I’ll wait for your call.” Something about the way he seemed to swagger down the front steps suggested he was used to getting his way.

She shut the door after he left and sat down.
You may have to wait till hell freezes over
. 
Granddad is
not
going to be happy about this.
Or maybe he would be. But she wasn’t. And she was no pushover.  She glanced at his card. He was an architect, not a developer, like she’d first thought.

But the man was rude, he was incredibly handsome, he was offensive, he was funny, he was incorrigible, his eyes were so green, he was dressed to the nines, he had a funny name and an accent that added charm to his considerable sexiness. Her body, especially certain parts, couldn’t seem to stop reacting to him when he looked her way or opened his mouth. Not like any other client she’d encountered. If she’d been alone in a house with any other man who came on to her that way, she’d have been terrified, sure he was some kind of deviant. But something about him intrigued her and made her want to live a little dangerously.

His offer was outrageously wonderful, a dream come true for Granddad—quick close and full price—in cash, but the man was so pushy and insulting, actually implying she must be someone’s assistant until she’d set him straight on that score. Except he wasn’t representing a family with children, which is what Granddad wanted. Maybe she was being overly sensitive. Not so much to Mr. James’s words. She’d heard worse from other buyers.

Maybe it was him. That had to be it. She shook her head and her bouncing curls seemed to reflect her frustration.

How many times had she wished for just such a transaction? But turning Granddad’s house into a B&B? Or making the garden building a duplex, or the garage that used to be a carriage house into a triplex? She’d spent more time here than where she’d lived with her father, growing up. This house didn’t deserve such callous treatment.

And what worried her most was her physical and emotional reaction to the man. She had lost all objectivity, all professionalism in his presence. She had to talk to Sally, the closest
theing she had to a sister. Sally’d know what Olivia should do about the challenge that was Beau James.

An hour later her grandfather called.

“Granddad, we have to talk—before you come home.”

“About the open house? How’d it go? How many people came?”

“We’ve had ten groups so far—sorry, eleven—and I’m still here. I’ve got a few more minutes to go. But this one guy. He wants to make an offer. Full price. Cash—”

“Well, write it up! Do you think we priced it too low?” The craggy rumble of her grandfather’s voice boomed through the phone. “It’s not even been on the market two weeks. Cash, did you say? That’s the kind of offer I’d love to sign.”

“But, no … He—oh dear. More people are coming up the walk. I have to go. I’ll call you back.” She closed her phone and opened the door. “Welcome! Come right in. When you’re done looking at everything, please come into the kitchen for some cookies, fresh out of the oven.” She smiled and watched as the woman took off her shoes, placed them next to the sign on the floor and poked the man next to her to do the same.

By four o’clock, three more groups had viewed the home. Olivia turned off the lights and closed the blinds in the rooms her grandfather preferred to be darkened against the late afternoon sun. She took down the signs and refilled the flyer box. She had nearly finished cleaning up the kitchen when her phone rang.

“Ms. Brown, have you talked to the owner yet?”

The voice was vaguely familiar. “Who is this, please?”

“Beau James. You said you would call me.”

She straightened her back and took a deep breath.
Gotta play it cool.
“I haven’t had a chance to speak with the seller yet, Mr. James.” Maybe formality would make him go away.  “I will call you after I’ve had that opportunity.” She hoped her voice sounded firm.

“I have a better idea. I’ll meet you at your office, so we can write up the offer. Most sellers won’t consider a verbal.”

“That is
not
necessary. I will call you back—after I’m finished with the open house.”

“I just drove by and the signs are down. Doesn’t that mean you’re done?” His voice warmed her through the phone.

Her breath came faster.  She limped in the direction of the front dining room window. Was that him—in that fancy silver sports car across the street? “Is that you, Mr. James?”

He chuckled into the phone and waved at her from the front seat, maybe the only seat from the size of it. And that too-masculine grin.
What does he think this is—fun and games?
“I will call you later, Mr. James. Good-bye.” She turned away from the window.

Chapter 2

Five minutes later Olivia’s grandfather opened the back door and began rummaging in the kitchen for something to eat.

She kissed his cheek and moved toward the stove. “Would you like a cup of tea? The water’s hot. I could use some myself.”

“Good idea, Livvy. Tell me about this offer you mentioned.” He took a seat in the breakfast nook.

She joined him, limping away from the bar stools she now considered her enemy.

“You won’t like him. The man was so pushy. And he wants to turn the house into a B&B—and make the carriage house and the garden building into a duplex or a triplex.” She broke a cookie in half in her agitation.

Robert Brown poured himself a cup of tea. His bushy eyebrows rose and almost touched his thick shock of white hair. His hazel eyes gazed back at her as he cocked his head. “Is it in writing, this offer you don’t like? Or is it just the buyer you don’t like?”

“Not yet. I told him I would talk to you first, but I knew you wouldn’t like it. You don’t, do you? I mean, you said you wanted a family to buy the place, a family like you and Grandmamma were with Dad and Aunt Victoria. You don’t really want a developer—” such a distasteful word, it almost made her nauseous to think about what he might do to Granddad’s house—“do you?”

“Who, exactly, is this developer?” He bit into a cookie.

“Actually, he’s an architect.” Almost as bad as a developer if he’s going to make changes. “His name is Beauregard James. Have you ever heard of such a silly name? Makes me think he ought to be riding around on a big horse with a sash around his waist and a sword at his side—like those Southern gentlemen in the movies, for heavens’ sake.”
Like those romantic period movies she’d always loved.
“Whoever in the world names their children such old-fashioned names?” Her face heated up thinking about it … and him, a so-called gentleman sweeping up an unsuspecting virgin and making off with her.
Maybe me, if he wasn’t particular about the virgin part.
Now why was she thinking that?

Her grandfather chuckled. “Probably a mother from the South. They do that sort of thing, I’m told. But Southern mothers aren’t the only ones. Your father was named after your mother’s family. You know that. And why is your face all red—about as red as your hair, dear girl?”

“Auburn, Granddad. It hasn’t been red since I was little enough to slide down the banister.” She forced herself to take a deep breath and gain control over her thoughts about the buyer. “Besides, Dad’s first name isn’t as ridiculous as Beau-ree-gaard.” She elongated it for effect, hoping her ridicule would calm her down. Why was her heart racing when she thought of that dreadful man and his comments to her, about her hair and her name?

“Hmm. He must want it pretty badly if he’s willing to offer full price. Cash, you said?”

She nodded and sipped her tea. “He saw how many people came to the open house. He probably figured he’d better act quickly, before someone else did.” Her ankle, the one that she’d twisted, bounced up and down under the table, reminding her with little twinges of her fall off the barstool. “Surely you aren’t going to take it? To make the carriage house into a triplex? How could he possibly get a permit for that in this neighborhood?”

“Better go to the office and do your homework on that question,
Livvy. One of the neighbors said he read in the paper that the city council is debating allowing all of us on these big, near-acre lots to subdivide—something about making more houses on less land. Density, I think he called it. Maybe that what he’s planning ’cause he’s already figured out it’s possible.” 

When he reached for another cookie, she stopped him. “Doctor Dawson said to go easy on the cookies, Granddad.  Remember?” She pulled the cookie plate away from him.

“Then you eat it.” He handed her the cookie and concentrated on the tea in one of his late wife’s favorite china teacups. “Tell you what. Write up the offer—”

“Oh, Granddad, no. He was a terrible man. You won’t like him, you
can’t
like him. I don’t want him to have this house—”

“Olivia.” His voice rose. “If it’s a full-price offer, I want to see it. But make sure he’s got the money to back up what he said. And I want to meet him, this Southern gentleman.”

“He was no gentleman, Granddad,” she interrupted him again, determined to find someone else to buy the house. “He—he—he—”

“He what? And what about
him is making you stutter?” He peered at her, his brow wrinkling. “I can’t remember the last time you did that.”

She gripped her teacup with both hands and willed her tongue to behave. “Okay. I’ll write it up and
then
you can reject it. I just can’t believe you would even consider it—a B&B in our beautiful old home.” Her eyes misted as she imagined what her grandmother would say to such an idea. Or her father, except that he would probably congratulate her and tell her to go for it. 

She pushed back her chair and limped to the front door. Remembering the car that had been sitting out front, she peeked through the curtains on the side light next to the door.
Is he still there? No. Good.
“I have to go, Granddad.” She padded back into the kitchen to grab her papers and her purse, trying not to favor her ankle.

“Then give me a hug and let me know when you have the offer. I’ll come to the office and look it over. And why aren’t you wearing your shoes—or was it to make the visitors take theirs off?”

“That, too.” She gave him a hug and a kiss. “I twisted my ankle—and broke a heel.”

“That’s too bad.” He patted her back. “I didn’t say I would accept the offer. But you have to show it to me, and I have to consider it. You know that. Once I see it, if I don’t like what I see, you can tell him no. Especially if there were others who liked the house. You did say you had lots of people here, didn’t you?”

She nodded, hopeful Mr. Beauregard James’ bank account was woefully short of the necessary cash. That would make it easy for her grandfather to reject the offer. She wanted to get back to those other people, especially that very nice older man with the cute grandchildren. His was the kind of family the house would be perfect for, and the apartment in the carriage house would be just the thing for him if he wasn’t planning to live with the rest of the family but wanted to be nearby. Maybe they would turn the apartment into a play house for the children. She would mention that when she called him.

The chair on which her grandfather was sitting scooted back. “Don’t forget your shoes,
Livvy,” he reminded her with a smile.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She shoved one foot into the unbroken shoe and hobbled carefully down the porch stairs, not entirely trusting that her ankle wouldn’t twist again.
Damn.  But now I have to talk to him. Mr. Beauregard Elias James. No Southern gentleman, he.
Maybe he was blowing smoke and really didn’t have the money. Like that guy she’d worked with two months ago. She’d demand to see written proof that he had more than enough to cover his offer. That ought to stop him cold and prove to him that she knew what she was doing.

Just as she was opening her car door, a sleek silver car drove up and parked behind her.

Not him again.

He leaned out the open driver’s side window of his car and grinned in her direction. “I forgot something and my partner just called with a question. I’d like to take a look at the three-car garage. It used to be a carriage house, didn’t it?”

She nodded. “Do you want to park here on the street, or would you prefer the alley?” Anything to get him away from the front of the house.

“Your ankle is probably still bothering you. Let’s park in the back.”

The light in his eyes told her he might be thinking of more than the house, or maybe her mind was racing in that direction. Against her will.

She drove down the block, turned the corner, eased into the alley and parked in the spot her grandfather had used for the RV he and Grandmamma had used when they traveled around the country. When she emerged, Mr. James had pulled his car right behind hers, trapping her again.

She pulled out her personal key to the small apartment and hobbled up the stairs on one side of the garage.

He opened the door for her and stood for a moment, seeming to measure the space with his eyes. “Know the square footage?”

“Eleven hundred and some change. A bit deeper than the usual. That’s why it has enough space in the back for the workbenches and tools.”

“Good. That’s good.”

She sat down on the nearest chair in the small kitchen. “Do you want a tour, or would you prefer to walk around by yourself?”

“Why don’t you tell me about it first and then I’ll explore.” He leaned against the counter, seeming to dominate the space as he angled his face closer to hers.

How to do that and not look at you? Not that you’re not good-looking, but that grin on your face.
Her stomach was doing a jig again. “This apartment was set up for a woman who took care of my grandmamma for a while, before she died. It’s only about six hundred square feet, but you’ll see that the bedroom is big enough, and the living room, over there, looks out on the backyard.”

He walked into the living room. She rose from the chair and followed him.

“Who decorated this?”

“I did.
Grandmamma’s helper wasn’t into modern things.”

“No sixties kitsch, either. Very tasteful.” He pointed at a door to one side of the largest living room wall, partially hidden by the couch. “What’s this?”

“That goes into a large storage area. It’s unfinished, and just a little smaller than the apartment. There’s nothing in there—” her voice rose when he opened the door and disappeared before she stopped talking —“except boxes and odd pieces of furniture.”

Why was he knocking on the walls?

When he came out, his dark hair was dusted with cobwebs. She giggled behind her hand.
Serves him right
.

“You’re wearing a hat of cobwebs, Mr. James. Thanks for dusting.” She turned back toward the kitchen.

Before she reached her seat, he came up behind her. “Maybe you’d like to brush them off,” he seemed to croon, smiling.

Her brain went to red alert as her heart rate quickened again. “I’ll pass.” She sat down with a thud. “Is there anything else you want to see?”
Please leave.

He looked out the windows toward the larger house, seeming to admire the large maple trees that bordered the property. “Those trees are worth keeping.”

“You weren’t thinking of cutting them down, were you?”
My favorite tree—with my swing. Granddad even saved it for the family he wants to live there.
She made a mental note to tell her grandfather Mr. James wanted to cut down his trees.

But he didn’t answer her. Instead, he swung around to appraise her slowly before he dropped his gaze to the flyer he must have pulled from the box affixed to the fence at the front of the house.

“I think that’s about it.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket and quickly texted something. “I’ll wait for your call—about when you’ve written the offer. So I can sign it and your grandfather can accept it.” He opened the door to the apartment and clumped quickly down the stairs. “Good-bye, Olivia … Ms. Brown.”

Oh. My. God.
He knew it was granddad’s house. Had she mentioned that? By the time she returned to her car, he was gone.
Good riddance.
She drove slowly toward the office, stopping at the red light on the corner. She thought of the Christmas decorations she’d helped Grandmamma place in every room, even the bathrooms. The fake ivy she’d strung around the clawfoot tubs, and the lights wrapped around the evergreen shrubbery that bordered the front porch. Her eyes filled. Who but her grandparents would love this house as much?

Maybe only her. How could that too-confident Mr. James possibly consider turning the old carriage house into a triplex? Just last year, her grandfather had suggested that she remodel it
into a spacious home, expanding the apartment to include the half-finished storage space Mr. James had banged around in.

At the time, it had seemed like a silly idea, but now? Maybe if she did that, it would keep Mr. Nasty Beauregard James away from the big house. She would have to mention that to her grandfather, too. Except she didn’t have nearly enough money to make it into the kind of place she would like. But if she lived in the apartment and did things a little at a time, perhaps she could make it work. Unless, of course, that nice family with the grandfather bought the place.

She would check her savings when she got home. Maybe there was a way. Maybe if one of the other buyers made an offer she could keep the house away from Beauregard Elias James. But would another offer be as good—cash, full price, and a quick closing? She had to do something. There was no way she was going to let her grandfather sell his beautiful home to that dreadful man who churned her insides into such turmoil. Not if she had anything to say about it. She clenched her teeth, trying not to imagine the worst.

George Dunston, Beau’s partner at James and Dunston, Architects, lounged in the doorway of his office. “Stop pacing and sit down for a minute. What do you think of it?”