“I don’t know. I was kind of hoping we’d figure it out as we go along.” Brock grinned, climbed the slightly unstable stairs, and unlocked the front door.
Thankfully, the outside of the house was worse than the inside.
The hardwood floors were scuffed and scratched, worn away from their original luster after years of sandy abuse. Grime clung to the massive windows, and the few remaining belongings were covered in patchwork blankets and a thick layer of dust. Hideous blue carpet ran up the stairs to the second-floor bedrooms, and some of the balusters along the banister were dented or missing completely. Room by room, they walked through the old house and inspected the flooring, noted holes in the wall or busted fixtures, took pictures of anything they wanted to tear out or replace. All in all, the inside of the home was fixable and livable. It seemed as though the outside had taken the brunt force of neglect.
Those repairs would be costly.
Anders eyed the tall ceilings in the living area. “It’s got good bones.”
“Yeah.” Brock walked through the area, remembering when his grandfather would sit in the wide leather chair and smoke a pipe while his grandmother scolded him from the kitchen, thescent of freshly baked cookies overwhelming the smell of cherry tobacco.
“The inside is easy enough. New flooring. New bathrooms. Update the bedrooms with hardwood and paint.” Anders wrenched open the sliding glass door leading to the back patio. He looked it up and down. “This thing has got to go. It’s complete garbage.”
“Agreed.” Brock added new doors and pavers to the list on his cell.
His gaze lifted to where the deteriorating deck above them stretched its tired legs to the sea. Sparkling blue waves crashed along the shoreline before disappearing in a wash of foam. Afternoon sunlight spilled in through the windows of the first floor, leaving the room in haze and illuminating every fleck of dust and dirt.
He was imagining a bed-and-breakfast. There was plenty of space, but it was almost too much work. He’d have to find someone to manage it, someone to cook and provide for the guests, plus there were all kinds of laws and regulations on the business side. But a private beach would be a plus. Plenty of people out there were willing to pay top dollar for a view like this one.
“We could rent it out weekly,” Anders mused. “Charge peak prices during the summer season and attract a bit of tourism.”
A rental could work. The view and the property were worth it during the winter season as well, when time seemed to slow. Brock should’ve called Juliette and asked her to meet him here. He certainly could’ve used her eye for style. She managed to make everything look good. Years ago, she would spend almost all of her free time sketching and designing, dreaming up the life she wanted, painting it like a picture. He wondered if her life in the city was all she ever imagined, hoped it was at some point,because her current circumstances left him thinking the castle she’d built for herself had all come crumbling down.
Anders’s voice pulled him from his wandering thoughts. “Something on your mind?”
“I was over at Georgina Laurent’s flower shop this morning.” Brock toed the edge of some fraying carpet with his work boot. “Finalizing plans for the renovation of her apartment.”
“Yeah.” Anders’s face remained impassive. “Any issues?”
“No.”
Anders arched one brow.
It would be easier if he just said it. “Juliette was there.”
“Uh-huh. And who’s that?”
Brock had nearly forgotten Anders hadn’t grown up in Mystic Cove. He was so accustomed to him being around, the fact that Anders hadn’t always been there had slipped his mind.
“Juliette is Georgina’s daughter.”
Anders’s eyes widened and he leaned forward. “She’s got another one?”
“Five of them.”
“Wow.” Anders shook his head, running his teeth along his bottom lip. “Five girls. I bet their father was thrilled.”
Brock winced. “He died some years back. Bad car accident.”
“Damn.” Anders’s gaze fell to the dirty floor. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know.”
The death of Marcel Laurent was an uncomfortable subject, most especially around the Laurent women. Rumors surrounded his untimely demise, specifically those regarding his fidelity to Gigi. All Brock remembered from the awful event was Anne-Sophie, the youngest Laurent, had been riding in the back seat at the time. Marcel died at the scene of the accident and Anne-Sophie survived.
Anders broke the heavy silence between them. “So, this Juliette? Are you two friends or something?”
“Or something.” Brock ran a hand along the back of his neck like he could somehow disguise the mortification building there. “We were friends when we were kids. Dated for a while. A long while. Then I went off to boot camp and left her behind.”
No need to go into any of the details. At least not yet. It was not his finest moment, and he sure as hell wasn’t proud of it. But it had been the right decision at the right time. At least he’d consoled himself with that much over the years.
