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Notfor the first time, I looked around and wished I’d called Chris before he died. Maybe he would’ve told me about it. Maybe we would’ve had a single conversation that I could’ve pulled from in moments like this.
I walked into the drawing room, following the same path we’d taken when Charlotte showed the builders around. Unrolling the plans onto the floor, I crouched down to study them.
The wall placement stayed the same, but as I flipped through some of the pages, I could see where they’d made notes about countertop placement. The addition of larger appliances to accommodate more food. An island where there never would’ve been in the original house. The upstairs bathroom layout was going to change to allow for a larger shower.
Without Charlotte standing over my shoulder—waiting to spew her encyclopedia of knowledge at me—I was able to think a little bit more clearly as I walked through the house again.
I walked the main floor twice, something percolating in the back of my head.
It would come with a hefty price tag, and the moment I spoke it out loud to Charlotte, she’d probably hit me with a dozen reasons why it wasn’t a historically accurate decision.
But, for the first time, I could see what living in this house might look like.
For someone.
I still wasn’t sure who.
Indecision clawed at my insides like the worst kinds of hunger pangs I’d ever imagined.
An inn, she’d mentioned once.
A rental property.
Or, I thought, someone’s home. If I could find the right person for it.
When I walked back to the carriage house, Charlotte was pacing again. This time, the phone was aimed at her face.
“Oooh, no, I like that other one. The colors flow better with what you’re putting in the kitchen, and because those tiles are such a bold choice, you’re better off going subtle on the walls.”
“Did we hear back about those tiles? From the estate in Italy?” a distorted voice said from the other end of her phone.
Charlotte paused her pacing, stopping at a stack of books on the kitchen table. “Hang on, I had a note back on that.” She shuffled through some papers, eyes snapping quickly in my direction when I set the house plans in the corner. Her forehead wrinkled briefly, but she pivoted back to the phone call. “Right here. They can ship them next week. The freight they’re charging is astronomical, but if you want something that’s actually vintage for the floor in the back room, I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
“Tell them to go ahead. Thank you, Charlotte. You’re a miracle worker.”
The woman in question grinned.
The dimple popped out.
I turned on the TV, locking my eyes on the screen instead of on her.
“I’ll let you know when I have a tracking number. Let me know if you need anything else, okay? I think you’re good, though. Everything is coming together perfectly.”
They said their goodbyes, and Charlotte disconnected the call, tucking her paperwork back into a file folder next to her laptop and all the books. “What did you need the plans for?” she asked.
“What was your meeting about? Your next job?”
She sighed heavily at my evasion. “No, I do consultations for virtual clients when my schedule allows. Usually word of mouth, or they find me on social media and want someone to make sure their design is going in the right direction for whatever time period they’re working with.” Charlotte tapped the file. “This couple lives in California; they bought a Tudor Revival from the ’30s.”
Despite all the reasons I shouldn’t ask, or allow that seed of interest to grow any further, I didn’t seem to be able to stop myself.
“Your aunt lives here, and you lived here when you were younger, right?” I asked.
She nodded, eyes wary. Her hands wrapped around her mug—still inexplicably half-full of coffee, even though she’d poured her first helping hours earlier.
“So why do you need the carriage house?”
Charlotte was raising the mug up to her face to take a sip, and she set it back down.
