Chapter One
“A drill does not belong in a tool belt.”
—Blu Johnson, life lesson #11
Jill Sadler smiled for the camera as she stood posed beside the backyard garden shed, one hand splayed on the rough-hewn cedar planks of the outer walls, the other wrapped around the handle of her heavy-duty cordless drill, and she wondered how she’d ever come to this. How had any of them?
“A half step to your left, Jill.”
She shuffled closer to the building until the photographer quit motioning with her hand. As she moved, she made sure not to glance at either Heather or Trenton. Otherwise, she’d likely catch her foster sisters silently laughing at her. This was the third time she’d had to be repositioned for this shot alone, and every time, she’d have sworn she was in the exact spot she’d been told.
“And don’t forget to smile!” The white of the photographer’s teeth flashed bright.
Jill gripped her drill tighter and decided that she hated the woman. But still, she smiled. Free publicity and all.
At least, that was the company line she’d been feeding herself.
But the thing was, this wasn’t the kind of publicity any of them wanted. Not entirely. They’d take the positive light it would shine on their business—that was always good. And they were more than happy to give back to the community. But what they hadn’t fully thought through when Trenton came to them with the idea for the fund-raiser was how this would also generate the exact opposite outcome from what they’d been working hard to accomplish. Which was to kill their current reputation.
Four and a half years ago, Jill and her two foster sisters had started what they’d thought of as any other construction company in the small town of Red Oak Falls, Texas. They’d planned to take on general maintenance and renovations to start, growing the business by flipping houses as income allowed, and had hoped to scale into new construction before any of them turned thirty—which would be Jill in two short months. Their construction skills had begun to develop when they were teens, thanks to their helping with an addition to their foster mother’s home, and they’d thought the uniqueness of being an all-female crew would intrigue people enough to give them a chance.
Yet business hadn’t exactly gone as planned.
Eighteen months after hanging out their shingle, they’d tossed a Hail Mary by building the shed they were currently being photographed with. Sitting thirty feet outside Blu Johnson’s back door, it had been constructed as a test idea for side projects until the “real work” picked up. A last-ditch effort to keep the company afloat. Only, they never could have predicted the results from raising the walls on this quaint little garden shed. Women now called from all over central Texas wanting their own backyard retreat, and they were willing to pay a pretty penny to get one. Seemed Bluebonnet Construction had developed a reputation for producing one-of-a-kind designs.
All the accolades, however, hadn’t scored them the more substantial renovation projects they’d been hoping for. Instead, it had set them up as being known for doing nothing more than she-sheds. Queens of the She-Sheds, in fact. The local paper had even run an article proclaiming them as such.
But they didn’t want to be women building projects for women. They wanted to compete.
They wanted to prove that they were just as good as their male competition. Or better.
Yet here they were: Jill with a drill held at an angle across her chest, Heather on her haunches, wearing a hard hat and wielding a hammer, and Trenton standing at the opposite corner of the building, circular saw held aloft. As if anyone would willy-nilly slice a board in two in the middle of the air.
Aunt Blu was also in the picture, but she’d been positioned in a rocker inside the open door. The four of them were doing their best to showcase how it had all begun—all the while knowing that the calendar being created to raise money for the elementary school would only garner them more calls. For more she-sheds.
“Got it.” The photographer lowered her camera. Her voice was way too perky for that early on a Sunday morning. “Now let’s do one last shot. Something a little different this time.”
Jill stood quietly, awaiting her next directive and wishing any other photographer could have been chosen for the project. She’d never met the other woman in person before today, but Jill had been aware of her. And she’d certainly seen her around town.
Marci Hammery. The daughter of the senior partner of the town’s largest law firm.
The woman currently dating Jill’s ex.
Jill narrowed her eyes as the other woman puckered her mouth—seeming to contemplate how she wanted to pose them next—and had the thought that lips like Marci’s couldn’t possibly be that naturally full. Though the brunette was several years younger than Jill, surely she’d had work done to get that mouth.
“I want Trenton on the roof,” Marci decided. “A nail gun in hand, straddling the top.”
Jill frowned. “The roof wasn’t installed with a nail gun. It’s aluminum and glass.”
She was ignored.
“And Heather on a step stool. I want you dusting off the plaque with one hand,” Marci told Heather as she moved a rustic-looking stool into the shot and handed over a feather duster, “while holding a watering can over the window box with the other.”
A watering can appeared, and Jill’s blood pressure spiked.
The picture was going to look stupid. And not just because Heather would have her body contorted in two different directions.
They were a construction crew. They shouldn’t be dusting anything.
But as Heather shot a pinched look, first at the duster and then at the plaque hanging above the door christening the shed as “Blu’s Business,” Trenton murmured a sound of agreement and moved a ladder to the side of the building. She grabbed a nail gun and began climbing. The jeans and fitted tee she’d worn for the photos were her norm for work, but she’d let herself be talked into using hot rollers on her hair. Blonde waves fell over her shoulders, giving a softer, more romantic look than the no-frills version Jill had always known Trenton to wear. This wasn’t them.
Nothing about this setup was real.
“And for Jill”—the photographer turned back to her—“I want you standing just inside the building. At Blu’s side.”
Aunt Blu had barely uttered a word throughout the morning, and though she sat in the midst of the starter plants she was known for, Jill knew her foster mother had to hate how the rocker—that had also shown up with Marci—portrayed her as a quiet, soft-spoken “little woman.” Blu was anything but someone’s “little woman.” But she would do anything for her girls.
She also had a weak spot for every child in need, so participating in a fund-raiser for elementary school children was right up her alley.
“Put your left hand on the back of the rocker, feet shoulder-width apart,” Marci instructed Jill as her focus dropped to resetting the dials of her camera, “and tuck the drill into your tool belt. Hold it as if you’re holstering a gun.”
No one said a word.
The instructions, however, finally brought Blu to her feet. Marci looked up at the sound of movement.
“A drill doesn’t go in a tool belt,” Aunt Blu informed her.
Marci blinked. “Pardon?”
“A drill does not go in a tool belt,” Aunt Blu repeated. She stepped onto the cobblestone path that led from the house to the door of the ten-by-twelve building. A drill does not belong in a tool belt had been one of the first lessons they’d learned after arriving at Bluebonnet Farms. Jill had been fourteen, Heather only six months behind her, and Trenton twelve. They’d all shown up within the same week, the first girls Blu had taken in, and their foster mother had wasted no time starting what she called their must-have lessons for life.
Lesson #11 had come about when Jill had snagged a drill and tool belt from the workshop, then had pranced around with the drill hanging through the hammer loop of the tool belt, announcing how “tough” she was.
Aunt Blu had not been amused.
“I just—”
“No,” Aunt Blu interrupted Marci. Her gray eyes were hard as she took the drill out of Jill’s hand and motioned Trenton down off the roof with a quick snap of her fingers. “And as Jill made clear, the glass panels didn’t get nailed in. They were attached with screws. These three ladies won’t be put into a photograph looking as if they don’t have the first clue about what they’re doing.”
Aunt Blu took the water pitcher from Heather’s hand and flung it across the yard. It made a sliding sound as it came to a stop next to Marci’s hybrid. Aunt Blu’s late husband, Gerry, had built the two-story farmhouse on the sprawling one-hundred-fifty-acre farm, and though Blu had never mastered the skills of her construction-company-owner husband, she’d picked up plenty of knowledge along the way. And she got instantly bent out of shape over the illogical use of any tool.
“For this last picture, we’ll stand side by side,” Blu announced. “As one.”
They’d been trussed up like performing monkeys for the last two hours, when their hopes for today had been simple: capture the vision that had started it all, along with the tight-knit bond held between the four of them. This would be the cover shot for the calendar, while eighteen of Bluebonnet Construction’s most original designs would fill the interior pages. Proceeds from the sales would go to fund new playground equipment over the summer, with the Bluebonnets installing the equipment themselves. The previous playground had been decimated by a tornado at the beginning of the year.
But Marci wasn’t ready to give in on the setup of the photo. “As a professional with an eye for—”
“Together.” Aunt Blu didn’t budge.
Marci stared at her a moment longer, but Jill could see the fight go out of her. Her gaze flicked away. “Okay, then.” Marci licked her lips. “You’ll stand together.”
She sounded less than enthused, but after Marci spent a couple of minutes studying the angle of the morning light and considering how best to position the four of them, they ended up in a slight arc off to the left of the shed’s door. Bluebonnet flowers burst with color in the background, while Jill and the others linked together, arms around waists, wearing the kind of smiles that no one would ever have to force. It would make a picture that Jill would hold dear.
The camera whirred as the final shots were snapped, then Marci called it a wrap. She may have ended up annoyed with her subjects, but Jill knew that her photography business would garner as much attention from the fund-raiser as Bluebonnet Construction would. Therefore, Marci couldn’t be too disappointed with the way the morning had turned out.
After the other woman finished loading her car and drove away, the climbing sun slashing bright rays of light through the whirls of dust wafting up behind her vehicle, Aunt Blu ushered the rest of them into the house. Jill and Trenton dropped into the straight-back chairs at the kitchen table, groaning as if they couldn’t stand to be on their feet one second longer, while Heather headed for the marble countertop outlining the other half of the room.
“I’ll pour the coffee,” Heather announced. Jill could smell the freshly brewed, life-sustaining liquid, and practically foamed at the mouth.
“And I’ll sit here and sleep,” Trenton muttered. She folded her arms in front of her, and dropped her head. Neither she nor Jill were what anyone would call morning people, no matter that six days a week they were up before dawn.
Today, however, was Sunday. The day of sleep.
And they were not sleeping.
“No sleeping yet,” Aunt Blu responded. She’d crossed to the rolltop desk and shuffled through a stack of papers.
“You got a new girl coming in?” Jill glanced toward the hallway as she spoke.
The house had been empty since the last two foster girls were returned to their biological mother, but as with everything else, Blu was always prepared to take in more. She always got asked, too. Since opening her doors fifteen years before, Aunt Blu and Bluebonnet Farms had only grown in popularity. Requests now came from as far out as Dallas, and Blu never turned a girl away.
Nor did she look the other way when any of them reached adulthood. She’d proven that when Jill, Heather, and Trenton had shown up back at the farm several years after hightailing it out of there, each dragging their injured pride behind them.
“No girls,” Aunt Blu answered. “But there is something I need to tell you about.” Her voice was tighter than normal, and all three of them looked over at her. Trenton even lifted her head from the table. “I signed you up for something,” Blu told them.
Jill stifled a groan. She was all for volunteering, but after getting to the farm before sunrise that morning, she’d rather lay off the pro bono work for a bit.
“Just say we don’t have to do it today?” she pleaded.
“Not today.” Blu returned to the table. She held a single sheet of paper in one hand and a legal-sized envelope in the other.
“What is it?” Heather asked. She placed steaming mugs in front of Jill and Trenton.
“It’s a contest.”
Aunt Blu slid the paper onto the table, and Jill, Heather, and Trenton all leaned forward, each silently reading the words on the flyer. But it was Heather who reacted first.
“Yes.” Her eyes rounded as she looked back up at Blu. “This is exactly what we need. You signed us up for this?”
Aunt Blu nodded. “A couple of months ago.”
“Do you really think we could get chosen?” Trenton’s gaze remained glued to the paper. The exhaustion that had previously marred her expression had vanished.
Jill was at a loss. “What’s Texas Dream Home?”
“Good grief, Jill.” Heather dropped to a chair and scooped up the flyer, holding it up in front of Jill as if she hadn’t already seen it. Heather then jabbed a finger at the early-twentieth-century home pictured in the middle of it. “It’s only the most popular show on television right now.”
“Which you’d know if you ever bothered to watch television,” Trenton added.
Jill wanted to roll her eyes—and she would have if Aunt Blu hadn’t been in the room. Because they covered this argument at least once a month. Additionally, due to Heather’s rose-colored glasses, she had a habit of claiming anything she was currently enamored with to be “the best” or “the most popular.” But Jill highly doubted that a show about renovating homes in Texas was the most exciting thing on television right now.
“I doubt it’s—”
“The. Most. Popular,” Heather repeated before Jill could finish her protest. Heather gave her a just-try-and-test-me look, her head angled with attitude, and Jill gave in. She rolled her eyes.
But she used her hand to block her foster mother’s view.
“Like she doesn’t know what you’re doing behind your hand.” Heather smirked.
Jill kicked her under the table.
“Girls,” Aunt Blu chastised.
Trenton sat on the other side of the table batting her eyelashes, because for once, it hadn’t been her who got called out, and Heather turned the flyer back around to look at it.
“I’m just saying,” Heather tried again, “that it makes no sense in this day and age to be so unaware of popular culture. How can you stand to live like that?”
“And I’m just saying that having no TV is a perfectly valid life choice,” Jill responded. And it had been her choice since returning to Red Oak Falls. She had a habit of being hardheaded, she knew, but she also had a perfectly good reason for this particular decision.
Not that she’d ever gone into specifics on that reasoning.
Aunt Blu didn’t interrupt their argument again, but Jill could feel her foster mother’s steady gaze on her, so she plucked the paper from between Heather’s fingers and reread the details of the competition. The search for teams would be conducted statewide, two teams, two homes, with renovations to span six weeks.
Which would be fast renovations for an entire house. Not that they couldn’t handle it.
The renovated homes would then be donated back to the community, with town leadership to decide how best to use them.
Jill stared at the words, but she still didn’t get it. Why should they do this?
The donation to the community would be great, sure. For whatever community the chosen houses resided in. But there was no guarantee that would be Red Oak Falls.
Granted, their time and effort wouldn’t be a mere donation. A stipend would be provided for each team so no loss of wages would be incurred. But that didn’t take into account the existing customers already slated for work. And not meeting the deadlines of those paying clients while instead spending six weeks gallivanting around who-knew-what part of Texas—pretending they belonged on some television show—seemed like a death sentence to Jill.
“It’s exposure,” Heather finally said, her voice implying a metaphorical roll of her eyes.
“And exposure is what we need,” Trenton added.
“But we can get exposure with ads,” Jill reminded them. “Radio plugs, billboards.” She took in the others as she fought against her rising heart rate. They’d talked about this. “We don’t have to go on TV.”
“But this would be good exposure, Jilly,” Trenton clarified.
“And a lot of it,” Heather added.
Panic suddenly pierced Jill, a blistering hole threatening to open wide inside her. She refused to let it show, though. She didn’t show fear. Not even to her foster sisters.
She also didn’t want to be on TV. Or think about being on TV.
Or think about all the years she’d once tried to be on TV.
She didn’t say any of that, though, because only Aunt Blu knew that she’d wasted six years of her life attempting to be something she’d never been meant to be.
Jessica Grant.
She almost laughed at the thought—as if she’d ever actually needed a stage name. She’d been a failure from day one. But she was neither an actress nor a wannabe actress these days. She was a grown-up. One-third owner and project manager for Bluebonnet Construction. Not a girl with stars in her eyes.
Forcing herself to visualize the billboard standing in the prime location out on Highway 71, she pulled in a deep breath for a count of five. The advertising they’d tried through their social media accounts hadn’t paid off, so they’d been discussing other options. And that’s what they were going to do. Billboards. With any luck, they’d even outbid We Nail It Contractors, replacing each and every one of their biggest competitor’s ads with giant Bluebonnet ones.
Irritation bloomed at the thought of the other company—and its owner.
Then she wondered if Cal had signed up for the competition, too.
Her heart suddenly thundered. Surely not. We Nail It stayed so busy, they didn’t need the added publicity. They just needed more laborers. And maybe to let someone else in town win a bid or two.
“Everyone in town sees the billboards,” she argued when the others remained silent.
“But everyone in the country would see this.”
Jill stilled at Heather’s words, then she slowly turned to face her foster sister. “The country?”
Was she really that out of touch?
Heather nodded, and Jill swallowed around the lump in her throat. There was a highly popular television show that filmed practically in their backyard, doing the very thing that Jill was now putting her heart and soul into? She refused to think life could be that ironic.
But what if it was?
And what if Heather and Trenton were right about the attention that they could get?
Could they finally show the town that they were more than foster sisters playing construction crew?
She turned to Aunt Blu. “How would we justify spending weeks doing this? Assuming we could even get chosen, of course. We’d have to delay projects that are already lined up. Wouldn’t we risk moving backward instead of forward?”
“Yet that risk could bring in hundreds of jobs for every one project we’d have to delay,” Trenton answered before Aunt Blu could form a response. Trenton reached over and covered Jill’s hand. “This is a good idea, Jilly. I know we like to be unanimous in major decisions, but I think we might need to take this one to a vote.”
“We’re not voting.” The finality in Aunt Blu’s tone brooked no argument.
“Fine.” Trenton made a face. “But if we really want to be known as more than Queens of the She-Sheds, this is our shot.”
“We need the chance to prove what we can do,” Heather supplied. “And this show would do that for us. Even if we didn’t win”—Heather stared at Jill, her gaze as earnest as her words—“I promise you, just being a competitor would boost the company into a new realm. And I am not just talking about being sought after in Red Oak Falls.”
Jill looked from Heather to Trenton. Could they possibly be right?
Even if the show only got Texas viewers . . .
She thought about the size of Texas. About the number of homes that likely did have televisions, even when only considering Red Oak Falls. Many of the locals would watch—if for no other reason than to see if “that little Sadler girl” really had turned out okay. And that’s when she, Heather, and Trenton could win their way inside other people’s homes. Because from the way the flyer read, the teams wouldn’t be stuck building a froufrou she-shed out in a backyard somewhere. They’d be tackling a full-sized renovation.
They’d either prove themselves capable—or they’d know they should give up for good.
Hope replaced the burn of panic. Bluebonnet Construction could finally be heading in the direction they’d worked so hard to attain. While at the same time, she’d get the chance to validate herself in front of the camera once and for all.
She could do this. She was older now. More mature.
She wouldn’t have to do anything “untoward” to get cast on the show.
It would be a win-win for all of them.
But then her gaze landed on the fine print at the bottom of the page, and the optimism that had just begun to glow shriveled like a dried-out twig. She sagged in her chair. “The date for notifying finalists has come and gone, Aunt Blu.” She pointed to the stated date. “We apparently didn’t make the cut.”
Aunt Blu slid the legal-sized envelope onto the table. “Except you did. Interviews start this week.”