Chapter Two
Daphne
“Listen, Harrison, I have been patient, but there comes a point that you just have to throw in the towel and say… Well, hello hot construction man—” My tongue was nearly hanging out of my mouth. How I formed any words was beyond me.
“What?” Harrison said, cutting me off before I blurted out everything I would like to be doing with the tantalizing man that was exiting a work truck and heading toward my front door.
“Gotta go, Harrison…forget what I said…all of it.” I disconnected before he could even reply. Then headed for a round mirror on the wall of the foyer over a treasured art nouveau cabinet—a housewarming gift from the incredible woman who had owned my home. Checking myself over, thank goodness I had showered and threw on a bit of mascara and lip gloss.
It took every ounce of restraint to keep myself from throwing the door wide open before he even knocked. “Be casual,” I told myself as I waited with my heart going pitter patter in my chest.
There it was, the “thump thump” that allowed me a close-up look and I was pretty sure that my heart was echoing the same sound. I don’t remember a time that I ever felt that way other than the first time I watched The Notebook…that wasn’t real life. On the other side of my door was a living and breathing guy with arms that I could jump into if given the chance. The “thump thump” sounded again and I told myself to pull my shit together.
No silly grin! No jumping! Hands to yourself…he could be taken… That thought wiped the smile right off my face.
However, I admit my face may have been a little goofy as I nervously opened the door and practically attacked him, introducing myself while reaching out to shake his hand. That was one way to get my hands on him. No one could blame me, I was staring into a face that would take any red-blooded woman’s breath away. Grayish blue-green eyes framed by darkish sandy brown hair and lips that moved with perfect precision when he said his name, Caldwell. Not the name I had expected, but it worked for me as long as he was available for the taking.
I was getting way ahead of myself and needed to focus on what I wanted, besides the hunky construction worker. He was there to right so many wrongs that the previous owner’s ex-husband had done to the historic house. Not really giving Caldwell a chance to respond, I moved him right through the entire house pointing out features along with mentioning ones that originally existed according to photos.
The house was a rare find to be treasured, restored, and preserved until the end of time. A little dramatic, but it was truly a part of history being a period house created by known artists…architects. The Streamline Moderne style of my house was mostly used in commercial buildings, however, there were several houses similar to mine scattered about. There were so many different labels for them—I liked to call the houses in my area Hollywood Glam. The French called them Style Paqueboat, a reference to them being modeled after an ocean liner. It was amazing to own one and how I acquired it was unbelievable—something right out of a fiction movie, but it was very real.
In my line of work, I attend many art shows—some big museum events, gallery openings, and even small artist showings in boutiques. I love art and a variety of movements, styles…many elements such as painting, sculpture, and even architecture.
My younger sister Aubree—who people often asked if she was my twin—happened to invite me to a showing at Belle Salon. Once a skincare place, it had been turned into a home decor shop in Sierra Madre and Aubree worked there part time, mainly when it was a spa. The Escape show featured different vibrant paintings of windows with drapery and interiors looking out to recognizable views in Paris. I knew the artist well and often went to her showings, but it was a woman that purchased most of the paintings in this collection that captured my attention.
I had to know what had made her want so many of the paintings and what she was going to do with them. That curiosity was why I called myself a journalist rather than an art critic. Within the blink of an eye, my approach to the article I had planned to write about the showing changed to something totally different. I was lucky that the people I wrote for—mainly a blog site called Fashionista Forward at that time—allowed me that freedom.
The woman reminded me of an artist or a dancer dressed all in black—pencil-leg slacks, turtleneck, and ballerina flats. Think Audrey Hepburn with a beatnik look. She had me imagining her life in an ultra-modern New York apartment with stark white walls featuring bright works of art. I had one part right; she did live in a modern structure, but I had picked the wrong coast.
“I hope you don’t mind…would you be willing to give me an interview?” I didn’t want to beat around the bush—barrage her with questions and then find out that she would not allow me to use her answers.
When I started out, reporting about functions, I quickly found that many art purchasers prefer to remain anonymous.
“I plan to hang them in my new house once I get rid of…gift my old one to the right person. Just the title alone, ‘Escape’ called to me. I love the paintings and the concept behind each one—the artist is brilliant…and I love Paris.” She took a sip of her white wine and looked me over as if she was assessing me. “Are you in the market for a new home?”
“I would love a home of my own someday.” I mean, who didn’t want to own a piece of property, but the prices in California—where I desired and what—were crazy.
“How do you feel about unique architecture? Older homes? Keeping the original or tearing them down in favor of a cookie-cutter mini-McMansion?” She leaned back, putting her weight more on one leg, and folded her arms across her chest—perhaps bracing herself for my answer.
“If I could select any type of home and in any area…I would pick a place that had a variety of homes…I prefer an older home.” She had to be asking about my dream house, so that was how I answered.
I could picture an old neighborhood with great houses, old Hollywood, glamorous with lots of character and I found myself smiling. That smile never left my face as the woman told me about her home that could be mine for only two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That was a chunk of money that could’ve bought me a nice condo in some areas, but not her one point five million dollar house in the Los Feliz area.
It did!
She was in the middle of a nasty divorce and she refused to give her soon-to-be ex-husband a dime more than she had to. Although it was her house to sell and she had purchased it in her name only, because it was during their marriage, he would be getting half of the profit.
Such an amazing deal, I couldn’t afford to not buy it. Unfortunately, the ex-husband did not take kindly to the sale and before the paperwork was final, I received a call from the woman that I needed to come to the house. She told me that she understood if I wanted to back out after I saw the damage. That didn’t sound good, but it wasn’t as bad as I had thought. The ex-husband had gone into the home and took away a lot of its charm—its original elements such as built-in bookcases, banquettes, window benches, and even the kitchen cabinets. It really didn’t hurt the seller or even me, the buyer, it hurt the integrity of the house and the architect who had created such an amazing house.
That was why I had hired Tate & Sons Construction who specialized in old home restoration and unique cabinetry to fix my home. Even with the elements missing, I saw potential to bring it back to life…and at such a steal, I had equity in the house to make repairs. I also saw it as an entry in my future book…my dream book; California Eclectic Style by Daphne Chastain. What I hadn’t seen coming my way was the dreamy man.
He was the epitome of sexy construction worker—wearing well-worn, paint-splattered blue jeans that hugged his ass and a fitted gray-blue t-shirt that nicely showed off his pronounced pecs and arms that stretched out the sleeves. The only thing missing was camel-colored work boots, a tool belt around his narrow waist…and maybe a hard hat. I nearly laughed to myself at my stereotyped Village People construction performer from the disco era. Too bad he wasn’t going to be working outdoors in the heat and need to take his shirt off… Hmmm…maybe I could crank up the heater while he was working.
“So when can you start work?” I had no idea if he wanted the job or could do the job or what he was going to charge me to fit the puzzle pieces back together…but I wanted him! He was the right man for the job which may or may not involve extras on the side. “Is your wife okay with you spending a lot of time on this project?” That may have been a warning sign to him or a clue that I was fishing—I didn’t care—but inquiring minds wanted…needed to know.
“I’m free to begin immediately. And, for the record, I don’t have anyone to be accountable to.”
He grinned and I thought silently to myself, not yet!