Manet Hall kitchen was early eighties—stark white and chrome with a slablike island work counter and blinding white flooring.
The good points were the generous windows, the old and serviceable brick hearth and the pretty coffered ceiling. He liked the enormous pantry, but thought it would serve better as a mudroom. He’d hack down to the original wood flooring, strip off the overly sweet teapot-themed wallpaper, yank out the island in favor of an antique baker’s table or some such thing.
Decorating wasn’t his strong point. He’d left that to Jessica, who’d favored pale colors and classic lines.
And now that he thought about it, he preferred stronger colors and the charm of the fanciful. He liked details and fuss. It was his house, damn it, and he’d do it his way. Top to bottom.
He’d put in some old glass-fronted cabinets where he could display antique kitchen appliances. Cracked, mismatched dishes, bottles and Mason jars. Cluttered.
Good solid surface countertops. Copper faucets. He didn’t care if they tarnished. They’d just look more real.
Big-ass refrigerator. State-of-the-art dishwasher and range. All fronted with distressed wood.
Now, we’re cooking.
He took reams of notes, measured, remeasured. He dragged out his research books and pored over them on the floor of the empty library while he ate half his sandwich and drank enough coffee to make his ears ring.
He could see it, so perfectly. The floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with books, the deep green walls and the soft cream of the plaster ceiling and trim. Thick silver candlesticks on the mantel. He’d have to have all the chimneys checked professionally so he could start building fires, knock the chill out of the air.
The trim would be restored where it needed it, sandedsmooth as satin. The pocket doors here, and the massive ones separating the gentlemen’s and ladies’ parlors, were in excellent shape.
Someone along the way had refinished the library flooring.
He crawled around, running his hands over the wood. Sand it down lightly, slap on a couple coats of clear varnish, and they’d be set. The area rugs had protected it well—the good, thick Aubussons Josephine had ordered from Paris.
He smelled brandy, leather, beeswax and roses, but thought nothing of it. His eyes were cloudy and distant when he stopped at the tiled hearth, flicked his thumb over the chip at the corner. That section would have to be replaced, or if it couldn’t be matched, rounded off. They’d been hand painted and glazed in Italy, at considerable expense.
Julian had knocked the candlestick off the mantel, and it had chipped the tile. Drunk again. Raging again.
The cell phone in his pocket rang and had Declan sitting back on his heels. Blinking, displaced, he gazed around the empty room. What had he been doing? Thinking? He glanced down at his thumb and saw he’d rubbed it raw on the jagged tile. Disoriented, he dragged out his phone.
“Yeah. Hello?”
“There he is. I was about to give you up.” Remy’s cheerful voice jangled in his head as Declan stared at the tile. He’d been thinking about the tile. Something . . .
“I’m, ah, doing a room by room. Measuring. Stuff.”
“How about you get yourself out of there for a while? I got me a late meeting, thought you could meet me for a drink after. Effie, too, if I can drag her out.”
“What time is it?” Declan turned his wrist to check his watch. “Midnight? It’s midnight?”
“Not yet it’s not. You been drinking already?”
“Just coffee.” He frowned at his watch, tapped the face. “Battery must’ve gone.”
“It’s just after six. I should be able to wiggle loose by nine. Why don’t you come on in? I’ll meet you at Et Trois, in the Quarter, on Dauphine about a block off Bourbon.”
“Yeah.” Absently, he shoved at his hair, found his forehead was lightly beaded with sweat. “Yeah, that sounds fine.”
“You need directions, Yankee boy?”
“I’ll find it.”
The good points were the generous windows, the old and serviceable brick hearth and the pretty coffered ceiling. He liked the enormous pantry, but thought it would serve better as a mudroom. He’d hack down to the original wood flooring, strip off the overly sweet teapot-themed wallpaper, yank out the island in favor of an antique baker’s table or some such thing.
Decorating wasn’t his strong point. He’d left that to Jessica, who’d favored pale colors and classic lines.
And now that he thought about it, he preferred stronger colors and the charm of the fanciful. He liked details and fuss. It was his house, damn it, and he’d do it his way. Top to bottom.
He’d put in some old glass-fronted cabinets where he could display antique kitchen appliances. Cracked, mismatched dishes, bottles and Mason jars. Cluttered.
Good solid surface countertops. Copper faucets. He didn’t care if they tarnished. They’d just look more real.
Big-ass refrigerator. State-of-the-art dishwasher and range. All fronted with distressed wood.
Now, we’re cooking.
He took reams of notes, measured, remeasured. He dragged out his research books and pored over them on the floor of the empty library while he ate half his sandwich and drank enough coffee to make his ears ring.
He could see it, so perfectly. The floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with books, the deep green walls and the soft cream of the plaster ceiling and trim. Thick silver candlesticks on the mantel. He’d have to have all the chimneys checked professionally so he could start building fires, knock the chill out of the air.
The trim would be restored where it needed it, sandedsmooth as satin. The pocket doors here, and the massive ones separating the gentlemen’s and ladies’ parlors, were in excellent shape.
Someone along the way had refinished the library flooring.
He crawled around, running his hands over the wood. Sand it down lightly, slap on a couple coats of clear varnish, and they’d be set. The area rugs had protected it well—the good, thick Aubussons Josephine had ordered from Paris.
He smelled brandy, leather, beeswax and roses, but thought nothing of it. His eyes were cloudy and distant when he stopped at the tiled hearth, flicked his thumb over the chip at the corner. That section would have to be replaced, or if it couldn’t be matched, rounded off. They’d been hand painted and glazed in Italy, at considerable expense.
Julian had knocked the candlestick off the mantel, and it had chipped the tile. Drunk again. Raging again.
The cell phone in his pocket rang and had Declan sitting back on his heels. Blinking, displaced, he gazed around the empty room. What had he been doing? Thinking? He glanced down at his thumb and saw he’d rubbed it raw on the jagged tile. Disoriented, he dragged out his phone.
“Yeah. Hello?”
“There he is. I was about to give you up.” Remy’s cheerful voice jangled in his head as Declan stared at the tile. He’d been thinking about the tile. Something . . .
“I’m, ah, doing a room by room. Measuring. Stuff.”
“How about you get yourself out of there for a while? I got me a late meeting, thought you could meet me for a drink after. Effie, too, if I can drag her out.”
“What time is it?” Declan turned his wrist to check his watch. “Midnight? It’s midnight?”
“Not yet it’s not. You been drinking already?”
“Just coffee.” He frowned at his watch, tapped the face. “Battery must’ve gone.”
“It’s just after six. I should be able to wiggle loose by nine. Why don’t you come on in? I’ll meet you at Et Trois, in the Quarter, on Dauphine about a block off Bourbon.”
“Yeah.” Absently, he shoved at his hair, found his forehead was lightly beaded with sweat. “Yeah, that sounds fine.”
“You need directions, Yankee boy?”
“I’ll find it.”
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