I didn’t wait for a response. I walked away fast, not looking back, the echo of her quiet goodnight following me like a persistent ghost.
Back in my kitchen, I found one of the Queen Conch IPAs she’d left. The bottle was icy cold, condensation beading on the glass. I opened it, the hiss a welcome sound, and took a long, deep swallow.
The beer was good. Conch Republic always brewed a good beer, though I’d never admit that in front of Braden. Hoppy, with a clean, citrusy finish. I had to admit she had good taste in beer for a woman who probably thought a depth finder was a philosophical concept.
I fired up the grill on my back patio, the familiar ritual of preparing dinner a welcome distraction. The snapper I’d caught earlier sizzled on the hot grates, the smoky aroma filling the evening air. But even the simple, satisfying task of grilling fish couldn’t quite dislodge the image of Iris, her face smudged with paint, her eyes full of thatunnerving mixture of vulnerability and stubborn hope. Or the memory of her lips. Her body.
The next morning,I was up before dawn. Chase was due at seven-thirty. And for some reason I couldn’t quite articulate, I’d decided I needed to be there. Purely for practical reasons, of course. To make sure nothing got lost in translation. To ensure Chase understood the full extent of the Heron House disaster and how its ongoing renovation might continue to impact my property, my peace. It was just neighborly vigilance. That’s what I told myself as I sent Chase a quick text telling him to meet me at my place.
Chase showed up at my door at seven-twenty, looking remarkably awake and professional for a man with a dozen irons in the fire. “Ready to face the architectural abyss?” There was a knowing glint in his eye I chose to ignore. “Or maybe you don’t think I can handle this tour on my own?”
I scowled. “I need to see how bad it really is. That’s all.”
We walked over to Heron House together. Iris was already on her porch, a travel mug of coffee in one hand as she wiped a palm on her dress. And, of course, after she was done, she picked up a plate covered with a napkin. I introduced the two.
“Good morning!” she said with a smile like a Sunday morning. “I made banana bread. Figured architects and helpful neighbors run on coffee and, uh, baked goods?” She offered the plate with a hopeful, slightly anxious gesture.
My stomach rumbled, betraying me. The banana bread smelled incredible, warm and sweet and laced with cinnamon.
Dammit, woman.
Chase, to his credit, accepted a piece with a gracious smile. “Smells fantastic, Ms. Holloway. Thanks.”
I just grunted, trying to project an aura of detached professionalism.
“Oh, call me Iris. Please. For the love of pelicans, the house is old and stuffy, not me!”
Chase managed to look only slightly bewildered at the Iris-ism, but I had to bite back a smile. The three of us spent the next hour inspecting the property. Chase was all business, his sharp eyes missing nothing, from the precariously attached siding to the worrying sag in one section of the porch roof to the ambitious chalk lines Iris had drawn for her en-suite bathrooms. He asked Iris intelligent questions about her plans, her budget, her timeline. She answered as best she could, her initial nervousness giving way to earnest enthusiasm as she described her vision for Heron House.
I mostly lurked in the background, observing and trying to ignore the way Iris’s hair caught the morning light, turning it to spun gold. Or the determined set of her jaw as she talked about her B&B. Or the fact that her notions made a lot of sense. Some were bordering on practical.
Her ideas of splitting up some of the second and third-floor rooms to ensure the bedrooms had private baths were logical and ambitious. People didn’t want to share. Though when we got up there, the rooms were a wreck and more grand vision than reality.
Back outside and near the half-demolished wall, Chase turned to her. “Well, Mick Riley walking off the job, while incredibly unprofessional and inconvenient for you, might actually be a blessing in disguise. From what I’ve seen just on this initial walk-through, his methods weren’t up to code for a historic renovation of this magnitude.”He gestured toward the problematic siding. “This alone would have caused you major headaches down the line.”
Iris’s face fell slightly at his words, the confirmation of her fears, but then that stubborn chin came up again.
“As I told Austin,” Chase continued, “I’m unfortunately not in a position to take on a project of this size right now. My firm is swamped, and Harper and I are…”—he grinned—“expecting a rather significant personal project to kick off soon. Twins.”
“Oh! Congratulations.” Iris offered another sunny smile.
“But now that I’ve seen the scope, I can make some calls. There are a few reputable local contractors I trust, guys who specialize in old houses. No promises, but I’ll see who might have an opening or be willing to at least consult properly and give you an honest assessment.”
Tears, actual tears, welled in Iris’s eyes. She blinked them back furiously, but not before I saw them. And it gave me an unexpected, unwelcome pang right in the vicinity of my chest.
She’s in way over her head,I thought, the realization hitting me with fresh force.But damn if she isn’t trying with everything she’s got.
“Oh, Chase, thank you,” she said. “That would mean the world to me.”
After Chase left, promising to be in touch as soon as he had any news, an awkward silence descended between Iris and me. She stood there, looking small and vulnerable amidst the grandeur of her decaying mansion, clutching the now-empty banana bread plate.
Yeah, it had been delicious.
“Well, listen,” I said, needing to break the tension, needing to establish some kind of practical boundary. “Ican’t be running back and forth here every time Chase has an update or you have another emergency. It’s inefficient.”
She glanced up, eyes wide.
“I need to put you in my contacts.” I pulled out my phone and tried to make it sound like a command, not a request. “If he gets hold of me first with news, or if… if something else comes up, I’ll text you.”
