Chapter 1
The soulful strainsof Irvin Mayfield’s “7th Ward Blues” streaming from the iPod speakers were drowned out by the buzz saw as Jamal Johnson split a panel of Sheetrock lengthwise down the middle. He stacked the two pieces together and propped them against his truck’s lowered tailgate, then placed another board on the saw table and repeated the process.
Jamal snatched the rag from his back pocket and mopped sweat from his brow. He’d lived in the small town of Gauthier, Louisiana, for over a year now, and he still wasn’t used to this oppressive heat. Arizona saw its share of triple-digit highs, but the added humidity made the air here thick enough to choke on.
He hauled the drywall up the back porch steps of the 1870s Victorian he’d purchased a few months earlier, careful not to drag it. He gingerly navigated through the narrow hallway and, when he reached the dining room, fitted the board against the exposed wall stud and positioned a nail. He slid the hammer from the holder on his tool belt, but it slipped from his fingers, crashing to the floor and tearing through the protective plastic sheeting.
“Dammit,” Jamal bit out when he noticed the chip left in the hardwood flooring underneath. He tried to balance the drywall with one hand while stooping for the hammer, but his hand slipped and the Sheetrock fell forward. He hopped out of the way just before it could crash on top of him.
Jamal’s head slumped in frustrated defeat as a puff of powdery dust floated up from where the drywall lay in a crumbly mess at his feet.
“Damn.” He kneaded the bridge of his nose, praying the headache that had instantly sprouted behind his eyes would subside. But Jamal knew his troubles were far more complicated than the throbbing in his skull.
He was in over his head.Wayover his head.
“Jamal?” called a voice from just beyond the doorway.
“Oh, great,” Jamal muttered as his best friend’s wife, Mya Dubois-Anderson, crossed the threshold. He forced a smile, hoping the strain of this latest debacle didn’t show on his face.
“How’s it”—Mya stopped short, eyeing the crumbled drywall—”going?”
“It’s going great,” Jamal lied. “I was just about to get another piece of drywall. This one had a crack in it.”
“Just one crack?” she asked, arching a skeptical brow in inquiry.
Jamal disregarded the mess on the floor with a nonchalant wave and motioned for Mya to follow him outside. He dusted off the porch step and aided her as she took a seat, taking care not to bump her very pregnant belly.
“So, how are things going with preparations for Christmas in Gauthier?” he asked.
“It is going to be amazing,” Mya said with the enthusiasm of a child who’d just won a shopping spree at a toy store. “That article inEssencemagazine about the Louisiana African American Heritage Trail was the best publicity we could have ever asked for. The new city of Gauthier website is averaging five hundred hits a day. When do you think you’ll have the website for Belle Maison up and running?”
The website? He was more concerned with making sure thehousewould be up and running.
“The website should be done any day now,” Jamal assured her, making a mental note to check with his web designer. “Although not having a website hasn’t stopped anyone from finding us. Belle Maison is already booked solid for the entire monthlong celebration.”
Mya visibly relaxed. “That is awesome news, Jamal. This bed-and-breakfast is vital to the civic association’s long-term strategy for revitalizing the town.” She winked at him. “Gauthier is lucky to have a world-class architect as a resident.”
“World class, huh? I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I do.” She gave his forearm a gentle squeeze. “Seriously, Jamal. I cannot thank you enough. The one thing Gauthier is missing is lodging for visitors. Once this B&B opens, I just know the town is going to see a spike in tourists.
“I don’t want to keep you away from work any longer,” she said, rising from the porch step. “Now, you’re sure Belle Maison will be ready by the start of the Christmas in Gauthier celebration, right?”
Jamal held his hand over his heart. “You have my word.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Mya said, her smile bright and airy.
Jamal walked her to her car and waited until she’d backed out of the driveway before heading back to the disaster that awaited him in the dining room.
As he eyed the crumbled mess, he grudgingly acknowledged that this stately home had gotten the better of him. His forte was designing homes; he wasn’t used to the hammer-and-nails side of things. During the course of the past year, he’d gained new respect for the laborers who’d worked for his family’s company back in Arizona.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to linger over this rebuild, as he’d done with the house on Pecan Drive that he’d bought when he moved to Gauthier last year. If the slew of reservations wasn’t enough to light a fire under his ass, the hope and excitement he’d just witnessed in Mya’s eyes certainly was.
“You can’t do this on your own.” He sighed.
He needed help. Pronto.
Jamal rubbed a distracted hand along the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension quickly building there. He knew whom he had to call, but God, he didn’t want to call her. Phylicia Phillips was thelastperson he wanted to bring in on this project. She was bossy and opinionated.
