* * *
WHEN THEY EMERGED from the building a while later, looking like guilty teenagers, no doubt, Connor took her hand again. This time, it didn’t make Jess feel so strange.
It made her feel...wonderful.
“You look rather flushed, Jess. I should get you home to bed. My bed, I mean.”
“I can’t,” she said. “Ned has a date.”
They turned onto Putney Street, walking slowly. This was one of her favorite streets, just a few down from the green, on the opposite side of the Village from Connor’s house. Connor’s street had grander houses, bigger yards. Here, though, it was more quaint. The houses were small but graceful, and trees lined the street. Birds swooped and sang, getting ready for the night, and the sky over the lake was lavender and pink.
Then she lurched to a stop.
There was a for-sale sign in front of #34. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, then ran up the street.
It was a brick Victorian with a porch. A porch! She knew the house, of course; she knew every house in the Village, but she hadn’t known this had gone on the market. It was small, and the front yard was tiny, but hydrangeas bloomed along the porch, their flowers so blue it made her heart ache. “It’s for sale!” she said to Connor. “Come on! It’s empty. Let’s peek inside.”
When had this happened? She peered in the window and almost swooned. Dark-stained hardwood floors, original. Big iron radiator. A fireplace edged with green ceramic tile, and wooden cabinets and built-in bookcases with lead-paned doors. And speaking of doors, the front door was gorgeous, oak with a big long oval and brass doorknob.
“Great porch,” Connor commented.
The front door was locked, but Jess peered through one of the glass panels into the entryway, the mark of a gentler time. You could put a little table along the little wall, and have a beautiful glass bowl for your keys and phone. A carved staircase turned ninety degrees. There was a stained-glass window on the landing. “You see that stained glass? Isn’t it gorgeous? And that woodwork is amazing.”
“Very pretty,” he agreed, looking in, as well.
She couldn’t see any more from the door, so she went in the side yard, which was lined with hostas and some kind of low-growing blue flower. A little statue of St. Francis with his hand outstretched. It looked like a fairy lived here, it was so beautiful. In the back, the yard was small and neat and bursting with potential... She could put in flower beds along one side, maybe a shade garden on the other.
There was even a sturdy maple tree Davey and she could climb. Jess would bet that tree turned the most beautiful colors come fall. She could replace the chain-link fence with bamboo, maybe; they used it all the time on HGTV, and it could be a little treasure of a garden back here, and Chico Three would be fenced in and safe. She could ask Faith for help, maybe. Or just do it herself, even better.
There was a garage in the back, too. Imagine that. Imagine parking inside and not having to scrape off the car every time it snowed or iced.
The windows on the side of the house were too high for her to peek in.
“You want to look inside?” Connor asked. Without waiting for an answer, he crouched down and put his head between her thighs. “Hello again,” he murmured, kissing one, then lifted her onto his shoulders.
“Oh, my God, Connor, it’s so pretty,” she said, cupping her hands around her eyes to see better. It was the dining room, with a built-in china cabinet and sideboard. A chandelier that, if it wasn’t original Victorian, sure looked that way.
This was her house. This was exactly what she wanted. It needed work, sure, but it was mostly cosmetic, she’d guess. Maybe a new furnace, given the age of the house.
“Put me down, okay?” she asked.
“Yes, my queen,” he said.
She barely heard him. Pulling out her phone, she entered the address into Google.
There it was, listed on Realtor.com, 34 Putney Street. Three bedrooms, one bath—she could fix that, maybe, someday. Living room, dining room, kitchen, walk-in pantry—pantry! Full cellar.
She almost couldn’t look at the price.
Then she did.
Her heart stopped.In a bit of a daze, she wandered back to the front porch. Sat down.
“You okay, babe?” Connor asked.
“I can afford this,” she said.
“You—you want to buy this place?” he asked.
“Yes! It’s perfect! I should call the real estate agent right now.” She did just that. “Damn, they’re closed.” The beep of the answering machine sounded. “Hi, my name is Jessica Dunn. I’m very, very interested in 34 Putney Street. If you could call me as soon as you can, I’d really love to see the inside of the house.” She recited her phone number, aware that her hands were shaking. “Talk to you soon. Thank you so much.”
Her heart was racing. She looked at Connor and smiled.
He didn’t smile back.
Oh. Oh, shit. Right.
He sat next to her. A goldfinch fluttered past, a flash of yellow and black. “At the risk of pointing out the obvious,” he said quietly, “I have a pretty nice house already. It also has stained-glass windows and amazing woodwork.”
She was twisting her ring again. “Yes. You do. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to own my own place,” she said.
“Right.”
She looked at the hydrangeas, the little walk out to the sidewalk. “I don’t think you understand,” she said carefully. “My parents didn’t even own the trailer where we grew up. We were evicted twice. The place I’m in now is a house, at least, but it’s not mine, and it’s pretty ugly, and the landlord won’t replace the floor in the kitchen, and—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he said.
“It feels like I do.”
He looked down for the longest minute of her life. “No,” he said, looking at her. “You don’t.” Then he kissed her hand and smiled. “Let me get you home.”
And even though he didn’t say another word, she had that horrible feeling that she’d just chipped off a piece of his heart.
Again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“GRUMPY AGAIN,” RAFE SIGHED.
“And holding a very sharp knife,” Connor said.
“I’m holding your heart in my hands, Connor darling. Tell Uncle Rafe what the problem is.”
“Can’t you just make the coconut cake, Rafe? Please? Just do your job?”
The sous-chef sighed a Catholic sigh—Colleen had taught him—and turned on the mixer.
Coconut cake with a dollop of homemade key-lime ice cream was the dessert special. The burger of the day was buffalo with a kale, mango, jalapeño and mint chutney served with a side of truffle fries. Soup du jour—a cold asparagus.
“What is this? These aren’t the greens I asked for,” he said, staring at the iceberg in the fridge. “Who the hell ordered iceberg? It’s fake lettuce.”
“Connor, for the love of God, stop yelling,” Colleen said.
“I’m not yelling. And why are you sitting on the counter? Why, Colleen? Why? You’re making more work for me. I have to clean that now.”
“Stop looking at me as if you’re planning to pick your teeth with my bones.” Colleen shifted and winced a little. “What did Jessica do now?”