Always and Forever (2 page)

She swiped at an errant tear and lowered the safety shield back over her face. The more work she got done, the sooner she could get the monkeys off her back. Though now that there was no chance of buying back the Victorian, the motivation to work wasn’t as strong.

Phil spent the next hour removing the caked-on paint inch by inch. The rich, caramel-colored oak she unearthed was absolutely breathtaking. Who in their right mind had thought to mask such handsome wood?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Phil’s head popped up. She shut off the sander and pushed the face shield up again as she walked to the side door of her detached garage, which she’d converted into a workshop when she’d bought this house five years ago.

As she swung the door open, a balled fist came barreling forward, straight for her head. It stopped just in time.

“Oh, sorry. Hi.” Jamal Johnson stood before her in a pair of khaki deck shorts and a light gray T-shirt. A swath of sweat made a V from his neck to his navel, and dark rings circled under the arms. Apparently, he’d been hard at work...ruining her house.

And looking good while doing it. The bastard.

“I hope it’s okay that I dropped by,” he started. “I was on my way to the hardware store and decided to drive over. Can I come in?” he asked, then moved past her and into the workshop before she could react.

“So, this is the mastermind’s laboratory, huh?” he asked, his gaze roaming the shelves she’d custom-built for the countless bottles of varnishes, paint thinners and other materials she used daily. Jamal turned to her. “I left a message on your voice mail. I wasn’t sure if you got it.”

“I did,” she answered stiffly.

His brow peaked. “So, will you be able to help? I really need it. I’m renovating that abandoned Victorian over on Loring Avenue.”

It was not abandoned!
Phil wanted to yell. Even though no one had lived there since she’d had to put her mother in a special care facility three years ago, Phil had still occasionally checked on the old house. She had
not
abandoned it.

“I realized today that I’m in way over my head,” Jamal was saying. “This job is a bit different from the work I did on my house. I gutted most of that one, but I’m trying to preserve the Victorian’s woodwork.”

His words nearly caused her to slump against the door in relief. Phil had pretty much convinced herself that the next time she drove by the house she’d find rows of solar panels lined up like garden vegetables on the side lawn.

“I apologize for not returning your call,” she said. “But I’ve been busy today. That’s also why I won’t be able to help you. I’ve got several restoration projects lined up,” she lied. She had only one small project, to restore a wooden 1931 Crosley antique radio. She had bids on several larger projects at some of the plantation homes in the River Parishes, but not one was guaranteed.

“Tell me you’re kidding me,” Jamal said with a frustrated groan.

Seeing the anguish on his face, Phil could almost feel sorry for him. As far as she knew, Jamal had no idea that it was her house that he had bought right from under her. But that didn’t matter to the irrational part of her brain that thought of him as the enemy.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “But I can’t help you.”

Still standing next to the door, Phil opened it wider, a clear invitation for him to leave.

He brought a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck. The movement caused his damp T-shirt to stretch across his chest, and Phil found herself in desperate need of ice-cold water.

“Do you at least have a timetable of when you’ll be available?” he asked.

“Probably not until the spring,” she returned, swatting away the guilt that accompanied the lie. She knew Jamal was on a strict timetable. According to Mya, the bed-and-breakfast was already booked for the entire Christmas in Gauthier celebration, which meant he had three months to finish the house.

“That won’t work,” he said, his mouth tilting in a frown. “Damn, I guess I’m on my own.”

“Guess so,” Phil said with false sympathy. She ran another fleeting glance down his body and was once again struck dumb by the picture he created. For a man who had supposedly spent most of his days behind a desk before coming to Gauthier, he had the well-honed body of an athlete. He walked toward her on long, sinewy legs, and the sweat-drenched shirt that clung to his chest and back outlined their chiseled perfection.

Phil had firsthand knowledge of what was hidden underneath the cotton. She recalled how the solid muscles had felt as she’d held on to him during several dances they’d shared at Mya and Corey’s wedding reception.

She shook her head, clearing away the untoward thoughts that had no business taking up residence in her head. Hadn’t she learned from last year’s debacle what a fine-ass man with a pretty smile and nice muscles could lead to? A trip to the poorhouse.

“Good luck on the restoration,” Phil said. “It is a restoration that you’re performing, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“No, you said you were
renovating
the house, not restoring it.”

“Same thing.” He shrugged.

“It absolutely is
not,
” Phil stressed. “One means that you’re trying to bring it to its former glory; the other often means that you’re tearing up the insides and overhauling it with a bunch of modern crap that doesn’t belong in there. I just want to know which one you’re doing, a restoration or renovation?”

And wasn’t she just the epitome of smooth and detached? It wouldn’t take much for him to figure out that when it came to the Victorian, she wasn’t just an interested bystander.

His curious stare indicated he was halfway to figuring out the puzzle already.

“For the most part it’s a restoration,” he said.

“Good.” She nodded.

“I do plan to make the house eco-friendly, but I need to get the basics done first.”

A splotch of red flashed across Phil’s visual field. She should have known this was coming. From the moment she’d walked into the Georgian he’d renovated and saw all of those beautiful cypress floorboards tossed into a pile like so much rubbish, Phil had known this man would wreck any piece of property he got his hands on.

“I need to get back to work,” she said through barely clenched teeth.

“So do I. Sorry you can’t help. I could really use your expertise.”

Phil couldn’t form the words to respond. She knew if she opened her mouth she would regret it. Instead, she nodded and closed the door behind him. Moments later, she heard an ignition turn over and his truck drive away. On shaky legs she walked back to the buffet she’d been restoring. She placed the safety shield back over her eyes and picked up the sander. She didn’t even try to wipe away the tears that trailed down her cheeks.

Chapter 2

J
amal tossed a pack of screw anchors into his shopping basket and headed for the lighting aisle. He’d accidentally cracked the bulb in his hanging work lamp, which had forced him to stop working once the sun went down. He couldn’t afford to work only during daylight hours anymore, not if Belle Maison was going to open as scheduled.

Maybe he could run a special promotion: get half off your stay if you’re willing to pick up a hammer.

“Get a grip,” Jamal said under his breath.

He had contractors lined up to do most of the big-ticket items—to paint the exterior and strip and refinish the home’s original hardwood flooring. What he needed was someone with expertise in restoring some of the home’s unique elements that he wanted to preserve.

Jamal was having a hard time deciding whether he was upset or relieved that Phylicia was too busy to help. He could use her skill with a detailing chisel, but he sure as hell had not been looking forward to the cold showers that were undoubtedly in his future if he had to spend any significant time working alongside her.

It didn’t matter now, did it?

Corey had warned him that Phylicia’s skills were a hot commodity. He should have known her calendar was booked months in advance.

Jamal grabbed a replacement halogen lamp and frowned at the rows of pear-shaped incandescent bulbs stacked on the shelves. He shook his head. Were people really still using those things?

He made his way to the hardware store’s single checkout counter, where a group of older men were loitering. After several trips here, Jamal had discovered that the three men who lingered around the counter were not customers but retirees who spent much of their day shooting the breeze with Nathan Robottom.

“Hey, it’s the architect,” Nathan greeted.

“Hello, Mr. Robottom. Gentlemen.” Jamal nodded to the group as he placed his items on the counter.

“How’s the work coming on the new hotel?” Nathan asked.

“Not a hotel, just a bed-and-breakfast,” Jamal corrected him. “And it’s coming along just fine.”

“You think it’ll be done in time for the Christmas in Gauthier celebration?” a man Jamal knew only as Froggy asked in a gravelly, toadlike voice. Hence the nickname, Jamal assumed. “My granddaughter lives up in Michigan. Said she saw an advertisement for Gauthier’s Christmas celebration on the internet all the way up there.”

“It’s the same internet wherever you are,” Nathan said with an eye roll. “Why do you think they call it the
World Wide
Web?”

“Well, hell, I don’t fool with that internet,” Froggy blustered.

Jamal suppressed the urge to laugh. “Mya Dubois-Anderson is in charge of publicizing it, so I have no doubt word of Christmas in Gauthier will reach far and wide.”

“Gauthier owes you a lot for opening this hotel,” Nathan said. “It’s nice to have tourists passing through, but it will be even better when they can stay for a couple of days and spend some money.”

Jamal nodded. He knew just how much having Belle Maison up and running would mean for Gauthier’s local economy.

“I was hoping you gentlemen could suggest someone who could help me with the renovations. I’ve got a few guys coming out to do the heavy lifting, but I need someone who can handle the delicate woodworking without damaging it.”

“Did you try Phi—” Froggy started.

“I just came from Phylicia Phillips’s place,” Jamal said, cutting him off. “She’s booked up.”

“Yeah, Phil gets a lot of work. Did you see the job she did on the Rosedale Plantation?” Nathan whistled. “That girl is better with a wood chisel than her daddy was.”

“Do you know of anyone else?” Jamal asked. He didn’t particularly want to hear about how good Phylicia would have been. Dammit, he
knew
how good she would have been. Maybe if he offered her twice whatever the job she was currently working on paid? Would she consider giving it up and coming to work for him?

Jamal winced at the selfish thought. He didn’t know much about Phylicia, but she didn’t seem like someone who would risk damaging her reputation for a few extra bucks. If anyone could respect the notion of integrity and a strong work ethic over money, it was him. He could be making an impressive salary as an architect with his family’s construction business, instead of reallocating money from his savings in order to open a bed-and-breakfast. But he was a helluva lot happier, and no amount of money was worth giving that up.

“If you think of someone else who may be able to help, give me a call,” Jamal told Nathan as he pocketed his change and headed out of the hardware store.

He waved at a couple of folks as he drove down Gauthier’s Main Street. For a city kid, he’d allowed this small town to thoroughly charm him. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with its brightly colored storefronts sporting striped awnings and hand-painted We’re Open signs hanging in the windows. Jamal hadn’t known towns like this still existed, especially with predominately black populations.

Moving to Gauthier had been, without a doubt, one of the best decisions he’d made in his thirty-three years. He had been slowly dying back in Phoenix, but this small town had given him a new start. Having the freedom to live life on his terms instead of being bound by the confines of the Johnson Construction legacy had changed everything. He was finally free to pursue his dreams of opening his own architectural firm, without having to face his father’s derision.

So why was his firm still just an idea on paper?

A jolt of anxiety ricocheted against the walls of Jamal’s chest. The sensation had become commonplace, rearing its head whenever his mind so much as tiptoed in the vicinity of his underdeveloped career plans.

He quieted the unease by picturing the Victorian and what it would mean to Gauthier. The men back at the hardware store had reiterated how appreciative the town was that he was renovating Belle Maison. It would be selfish to think about his architectural firm when so many would benefit from the B&B.

“Yeah, you’re all about the noble self-sacrifice,” Jamal muttered.

Renovating the Victorian was a stalling tactic, and he damn well knew it. Just like the renovations of the Georgian he’d purchased when he moved to Gauthier a year ago.

He didn’t have the time or energy for a mental debate over why he continued to avoid moving forward on his architectural firm. There was too much work to be done, regardless of the true reason he was doing it.

Despite his exhaustion, Jamal drove straight past his house, forfeiting the hot shower and food his body craved in exchange for getting in a few more hours of work on Belle Maison. Now that he had the replacement bulb for his work light, there was no reason for him to call it quits for the day.

* * *

Sitting at the bar in her kitchen after a fitful night of very little sleep, Phil sipped a cup of piping-hot coffee and thumbed through the latest issue of
Antique Abodes.
There was a feature on a Greek Revival in Natchez, Mississippi, that a young couple had spent the past five years restoring. She wondered if she could swing a trip up to Natchez. It was worth the three-hour drive to see the house firsthand.

If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have the time to drive into Mississippi to look at someone else’s restoration project; she would be too busy with her own. The caretaker at Evergreen Plantation had emailed yesterday afternoon, informing Phil that a decision would be made soon on the restoration job she’d bid on. It wasn’t a huge project—a bit of work on some of the plantation’s antique furniture—but it would be welcomed income. She was barely keeping her head above water, and the waterline was gradually creeping further up her neck.

Phil spotted the mail carrier in front of her next-door neighbor’s house. She set her coffee cup down and was waiting outside when Paul Ricard pulled up to her mailbox.

“How you doing, Phil?” he greeted.

“Doing okay,” she answered. “How’s Liza? Baby Number Five make an appearance yet?”

“Any day now,” Paul said, handing her a stack of envelopes and catalogs. “Liza’s at that stage when she’s not talking to me. That usually means we’re close to a delivery.”

“Well, if she still hasn’t figured out what to call the new baby, I think Phylicia is a beautiful name.”

“That it is.” Paul laughed. “See you later, Phil.”

She waved as she turned and headed back toward the house, thumbing through the mail. There were two credit card offers—her current financial state must not have reached those companies yet—the bill for her auto insurance and an advertisement for the grand opening of a dry cleaners in Maplesville.

The fifth envelope caused her heart to sputter and her breathing to escalate. Phil stared at the return address, dread suffusing her bones. A weight settled in her stomach as she reentered the house and went into the kitchen. Stalling, she tossed the mail on the bar and refilled her coffee cup.

Leaning a hip against the counter, Phil eyed the envelope from Mossy Oaks Care Facility. She already knew what it contained. She’d received an envelope just like it about a month ago, with a letter stating that the rising cost of health care was forcing the facility to increase its rates across the board. Even with the money from her dad’s life insurance policy, Phil was still paying nearly a thousand dollars out of her own pocket every month for her mother’s care. She couldn’t afford several hundred more.

But she couldn’t afford not to pay it, either.

It was nothing short of a miracle that one of the South’s most renowned care facilities for dementia patients was located just twenty miles southeast, in Slidell. It was ludicrous to even consider moving her mom from Mossy Oaks.

Phil swallowed the lump of worry that lodged in her throat as she set the cup on the counter and reached for the envelope. She opened it, finding exactly what she knew would be there. The increase had been approved by the facility’s board of directors and would take effect next month.

Where was she going to find this money?

Her cell phone trilled. Phil picked it up and recognized the number from Evergreen Plantation’s caretaker. She glanced up at the ceiling and whispered, “Thank you, Lord,” as she answered it.

But instead of answered prayers, Phil had her heart broken into bite-size chunks. The caretaker’s apologetic tone was nearly as hard to stomach as the words she spoke.

“I’m sorry, Miss Phillips, but Marshall Restoration’s bid was significantly less than yours, even with the cost of shipping the furniture to their California warehouse.”

“But aren’t you afraid the furniture will get damaged in transit?” Phil asked.

“The furniture is insured,” was the woman’s response.

As if that mattered!

It wasn’t about the money, Phil wanted to shout. It was about potentially endangering irreplaceable, centuries-old furniture. There shouldn’t be a price tag on that. But apparently there was, and it was lower than the eight thousand dollars Phil had bid on the work.

Before ending the call she asked that she be kept in mind for other work the plantation might need in the future. Phil slouched over the bar, her head landing with a thump on her forearm. The disappointment was almost too much to bear.

As much as she loved her work, Phil wished she could count on a steady paycheck. When she did get paid it was usually enough to live on for several months, depending on the size of the job. But her last big project had been back in the spring, and repairing an old radio or the occasional antique headboard was not going to cut it. She needed a long-term project, something that would provide enough income to last her until one of the other bids hopefully came through.

She knew of one job that would fit the bill, but Lord knew she did not want to take it.

“No, no,
no,
” she whispered, her whine muffled by her arm.

There had to be another option.

Phil glanced toward the hallway, thinking of the Hepplewhite furniture in her guest bedroom. The set had been passed down in her family for generations. Phil knew if she had it appraised by one of the antique dealers in New Orleans it would fetch a hefty sum, but after losing Belle Maison she couldn’t stomach parting with the few pieces of furniture she’d managed to retain. With her mother’s mind slowly slipping away, they were the only ties she had left to her past.

“Oh, God,” Phil moaned. She would have to accept Jamal’s job offer. She was in no position to turn down work.

She pushed herself up and drained the rest of the coffee from her mug. If it were not still midmorning she would have been tempted to refill the mug with whiskey. But alcohol wouldn’t solve anything. She’d allowed herself to fall into this hole. She would have to be the one to claw herself out.

Phil quickly changed into a pair of jeans. In her never-ending quest to hold fast to her femininity, she donned a pair of tiny butterfly-shaped earrings before scooping her hair into a ponytail. Filling her dad’s old thermos with the remaining coffee, she grabbed her keys and headed out the door.

Fingers of dread crept further up her spine with every mile her tires ate up on the road. By the time she arrived at the stately yellow-and-white Victorian where she grew up, Phil was on the verge of losing her breakfast.

This was going to be torture. Plain and simple.

No, not simple. There was nothing simple about this. It was tragic, an ironic twist of fate that would torment her for years to come. It was bad enough that it was due to her mistakes that the home no longer belonged to her family. The fact that she would now play a part in its ruination sickened her to no end.

“Nothing you can do about it now,” she muttered.

She pulled in behind a jet-black double-cab Ford F-150. Phil couldn’t help but admire the truck’s chrome package; the tire rims and front grille gleamed. That had probably set him back a few thousand dollars, she thought with a disgusted snort.

She knew architects did pretty well, but Phil also knew that Jamal’s seemingly endless flow of cash did not come solely from his profession. According to Mya, Jamal had a trust fund the size of the Louisiana Superdome, and his family owned one of the largest construction firms in Arizona.