Hometown Series Box Set Read online

  Hometown Series Box Set

  Kirsten Fullmer

  Copyright © 2018 by Augustine Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of these books may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  With a blend of wit and charm, Kirsten Fullmer is a modern-day Jane Austen.

  Ben Reed

  Fullmer perfects the art of pulling you into a fictional world where you feel completely at home

  Sripurna

  Kirsten Fullmer is going directly to the top of my favorite author list!

  Chelci Hone

  Contents

  Hometown Girl at Heart

  Hometown Girl After All

  Hometown Girl Forever

  Christmas in Smithville

  Hometown Girl Again

  Hometown Girl Memories

  Also by Kirsten Fullmer

  Hometown Girl at Heart

  Copyright © 2019 by Kirsten Fullmer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter One

  Tara swabbed the back of her wrist across her forehead. Cocking one hip against the wall, she evaluated her work. Sweat trickled down her back, crawling between her shoulder blades, and floating sawdust settled in the oppressive humidity, sticking to her face and arms. She sucked down a long drink from her bottle of water, savoring the chill as it slid down her throat. Tipping the bottle up again, drops of condensation fell onto her tank top, leaving small, dark circles in the dust.

  Careful not to trip on the bulging black trash bags she’d piled near the door, Tara backed across the room to get a different point of view. Her nose crinkled in concern. The partially-sanded shelving unit covering one wall of the living room looked even more dismal than when she’d started.

  She pulled her hand from her filthy leather glove and smoothed her fingertip along the molding, pausing to tap on the beveled glass door. The glass was firm – no sagging. At least that won’t need to be replaced. She appreciated craftsmanship that held up for almost a hundred years.

  The cabinetry was grimy and abused, but at one time it had been planned for this room, designed not for electronics and cords, but to display cherished family Bibles, precious photos, and heirlooms. Her mind wandered to fairytale domestic images from the room’s past– contented children, loving parents.

  She took another long swallow from her water bottle and wandered to the window of the old house, hoping for a breeze. No such luck. Only one window was open, the other was painted shut. Or maybe it was jammed, but either way, it wasn’t going to open until they jacked that end of the house up. Sunlight burned through the filthy windowpanes, showing no mercy to the many imperfections of the house.

  The view out the window wasn’t much better. Paint peeled from the wood siding, fascia boards hung at all angles like crooked and missing teeth, and the overgrown yard was beyond thirsty. As a matter of fact, the opulent green of the Pennsylvania hills stopped abruptly at the edge of the yard. Following a sunbeam that landed on the floor next to her, Tara looked up at the corner of the room where daylight shone through the ceiling. The house was a mess, but it was hers. The papers had been signed that morning.

  The sound of a pickup truck pulling up the long drive caught her attention. The bright yellow truck was new and flashy, but the bling didn’t keep it from rattling down the washboard drive like a jalopy. Dust wafted up behind the truck like a parachute.

  Tara turned away from the window to greet the soul brave enough to cross the smashed culvert at the end of the driveway. She wasn’t expecting anyone today – the roofer and plumber were scheduled to show up tomorrow and the electrician on Thursday. Unfortunately, the culvert wouldn’t be repaired until Friday, so any one of the army of workers coming in the next few days could drive right into the low ditch and get stuck. That fact irritated her too, because this project had to be completed and resold within eight weeks. She had to begin work on her next project, the big resort, on time; and so far, the broken culvert was the only kink in her plan.

  She picked her way around the trash bags, over the broken boards of the porch, and into the shabby yard. Distractedly, she readjusted her ponytail and brushed dirt and cobwebs from the front of her damp tank top.

  The truck came to a stop and the accompanying dust cloud caught up, hung in the air around it, then settled onto the bright yellow paint and silver chrome. The windows were tinted dark, but Tara could hear faint rock music thumping from inside the truck as it clicked and cooled. She waited, her gloved hand shading her eyes, the other hand fisted on her hip.

  * * *

  Justin unclenched his teeth and rolled his head from one shoulder to the other. He’d been stuck in the broken culvert at the bottom of the driveway for ten minutes.

  Surveying the property with an investor’s eye, he’d noticed the natural water supply back down the drive. Trees dotted the landscape around the dilapidated house, which was obviously a complete loss, but one or two of the outbuildings might be salvageable. The fence certainly had to go. The property, as a whole, would be adequate, he decided as he slipped his sunglasses into the velvet bag and placed them in the console. Once the wreckage and old buildings were cleared and this property resold, the proceeds would give him the head start he needed to move on with the resort project.

  As he collected his portfolio and phone from the passenger seat, he wondered how much it would cost him to repair his truck. It had only 146 miles on it, and now it had a nasty dent in the front fender. At least he knew the four-wheel drive worked, because he’d needed it to back out of the ditch. “The owner must not care who gets injured on this property,” he grumbled.

  He should have been here a week ago to buy the property, as he’d planned, but moving had taken longer than expected.

  He climbed from the truck, waving away the dust, and reached down to run his hand along the shallow dent in the front fender. He’d worked long and hard to buy this truck, and he was heartsick to see it dented on the first day. Taking a step back to get a better look, he sensed a movement on the porch of the broken-down house.

  “Your culvert over the ditch back there is broken,” he called out, gesturing over his shoulder. “It’s dangerous. Put a nasty dent in my truck.”

  Then, taken aback that he was yelling at a young woman with long, tan legs, he did a double take. She was young and wearing only cut off shorts and a sweaty tank top that clung to every curve.

  * * *

  “What on earth is this?” Tara muttered to herself, her hand dropping from her eyes. Any idiot could see that the culvert was broken. Who is he to pull into my yard and start yapping at me?

  She watched the man as he headed toward her. His crisp, linen trousers and leather loafers collected dust with each step, and his fancy city hairdo had probably taken an hour to style. She disliked him. He was obviously a snooty city boy.

  “Hello. Fine day, isn’t it?” The man smiled but she offered no response. He faltered and his grin faded. “Would you happen to know where I could find the owner of this property?”

  A long uncomfortable pause ensued. “Yeah,” she finally muttered as she turned away. What is he going to do, sue me for having a broken culvert? She turned without further comment and headed back into the house.

  Tara bent to collect the trash bags of debris
she had gathered inside the front door to make room for the man to pass. It was her first day on the property, and she always took time to walk through her houses and examine them carefully before anyone else came on the property. She’d only been able to see the surface of the place prior to the purchase, and oftentimes the past owners left behind long-forgotten treasures in their trash and debris. Now, however, she was embarrassed that she was sweaty and covered in dirt, cobwebs, and sawdust. The place looked a fright and so did she.

  The man followed her into the old house, his mouth agape in disgust.

  He isn’t a building inspector, Tara speculated. I know all the inspectors in the county. He’s tall, well over six feet, has a strong chin, and his upper arms fill out that polo shirt. Yup, a rich, pretty boy, complete with gym muscles and a spray-on tan.

  She dropped the last trash bag on the pile and turned toward the man. “I’m Tara,” she began in a no-nonsense manner, pulling off her one filthy leather glove. She searched the room for something to wipe her hand on, gave up, and swabbed it across her stomach before extending it toward the man.

  He shook her hand, but his gaze was fixed on the hole in the living room ceiling. “I’m Justin,” he said distractedly, squinting at the stringy, paper insulation falling through the hole. “This place is in bad shape.” He scrutinized the trash bags, then Tara. “Why are they having you clean up before demolition?”

  Tara was taken completely by surprise. “Demolition? This house isn’t going anywhere.”

  “This place?” He snorted. “Right, it’s not like the whole house leans to one side. So…where is the owner? I was told the he’d be here today.”

  Tara frowned. Who does he think I am? Silently, she watched him meander into the kitchen and lift a board in the pile of rough oak she’d stacked earlier. His nose wrinkled and he dropped the board to stroll back into the living room. He noticed the sander and the smooth, clean spot on the wall unit.

  “Were you sanding this? Are you one of those reclaimer people who salvage stuff from old houses? I hear that’s big around here, but… this is a built-in. How do they plan to get it out of here in one piece?”

  In no frame of mind to answer, and growing more and more irritated by his attitude, Tara let him speculate about what she was doing. She supposed that considering her a salvage person was a step up from seeing her as the cleaning lady. Yet, he’d been told the owner would be here and here she was, the only person on site, and he kept asking for the owner. She really hated being underestimated. Sure, she looked young, but this city boy and his disdain for all the things she valued irked her to the core

  With a grunt she hefted three of the trash bags by the door. “This property is owned by a real estate company in town,” she grumbled as she struggled to fit the bags through the doorway.

  “Let me help you with that,” he replied, hurrying to her side to take a lumpy bag. The smell of his aftershave wafted toward her, making her feel even filthier.

  “I’ve got it. You’ll get all dirty,” Tara snapped as she marched onto the porch and directly onto a rotted board. Her foot broke through the wood and she lost her balance, landing hard on her backside. Embarrassed, she struggled to get up, but her leg was stuck up to the calf in the broken porch boards. Slivers and shards of rotten wood dug into her bare skin with each try to free her foot.

  “Whoa, let me help you.” Justin bent to survey the damage. “Just stop for a minute and let me get your ankle loose.” His voice was calm and reassuring as he slipped his hands between her ankle and the jagged porch boards.

  The tenderness of his touch made Tara cease struggling, and her gaze came up to meet his eye. He was handsome – she had to admit. Hot tears of humiliation and pain popped into her eyes. She hated feeling vulnerable. Blinking, she allowed him to help her pull her foot loose from the porch boards, then she stood and shrugged, collecting her broken pride.

  * * *

  Justin understood that Tara needed a minute to regroup, so he lightly gripped her elbow as she tried putting weight on her foot. She really was a pretty, little thing, under all that indignation and grime. He watched as she blinked back tears, and a dimple played on one cheek when her teeth clamped her bottom lip.

  “These wrecked old places can be a real death trap,” he assured her, hoping he sounded sympathetic. Much to his shock, her spine stiffened.

  Glaring up at him, she tore her elbow from his grasp. “Well then let’s get you away from here!” She slammed the front door of the house, snatched up the trash bags, and limped indignantly to her old truck, where she tossed the bag into the back.

  Justin stood in stunned silence as Tara hobbled round the front of the truck and threw him one last him dagger look. She climbed in the truck, slammed the door, and drove away in a cloud of dust.

  * * *

  Justin’s GPS directed him to an old Victorian house back in town. Precious time had been wasted finding the real estate company that owned the property, and that cleaning girl, Tara, hadn’t been much help. Then again, she must have been all of 19 and she’d looked exhausted.

  She definitely hadn’t liked him; that much had been obvious. But he couldn’t understand why. Back home women liked him – as a matter of fact, they chased him. He shrugged and collected his paperwork.

  Painted in scrolling, swooping script, the sign in front of the Victorian house read: “Hometown Real Estate. Your neighbor – Your friend.”

  As Justin headed to the front door, he noted flowerbeds overflowing with blossoms lining the walks. Craning his neck, he counted seven colors of paint on the gingerbread trim of the stately home. What a waste of paint and time for an office building. The manpower and funds it must take to keep up the building could have paid for an entirely new property.

  He didn’t understand people who wasted time and money. Then again, things were different here. He was glad he worked with corporate clients -- big business money and the people who spent it. His wealthy clients in DC wanted weekend retreats and summer homes. Their interest was ultra-modern, flashy, vacation getaways – locations away from town to entertain. He’d found a lucrative niche in the real estate market with those people.

  An inviting whoosh of cool air met him as he opened the front office door. To his surprise, the house was set up as a home more so than an office. Fine antique furniture filled the front parlor. A few sample catalogs on the coffee table were the only sign this wasn’t a home. Framed watercolor paintings of old houses covered the walls. Delicious smells wafted toward him from a plate on a side table stacked with steaming chocolate chip cookies.

  “Come on back!” called a cheery female voice. Justin didn’t know where back was, but he followed the voice to a fully appointed and beautifully restored kitchen. An old woman was pulling a pan of cookies from the replica turn-of-the-century oven. Justin wondered again if he’d walked into someone’s home by accident.

  “The coffee is fresh dear, help yourself,” the woman said as she scooped the cookies, one at a time, onto a cooling rack. Justin glanced over his shoulder to see who she was calling dear, but he was the only other person in the room.

  “Ma’am?”

  The woman set the cookie sheet in the sink to cool, then placed a cookie from the rack onto a china dish and handed it to him. She wiped her gnarled hands on her apron and a smile lit her face. “I’m Mrs. Wynn,” she said, extending her hand, “but you can call me Winnie. And you are…?”

  He fumbled to find his voice as he shoved his portfolio under one arm. Balancing the cookie plate, he extended his hand and replied with his name.

  Mrs. Wynn sighed at his response but tried again. “The coffee is right over here, or if you’d rather, I have tea…”

  Justin stared blankly at the coffee pot she indicated.

  She tried again. “Iced tea, sweet tea maybe?” She opened the enormous, wood-paneled fridge and pointed to a glass pitcher with lemon wedges bobbing on the surface.

  He shook his head.

  “Okay, I
see.” She lost the neighborly vibe and removed her apron, hanging it on a hook by the door. “Come this way please.”

  Justin set the cookie plate on the counter and followed her back to the living room. Mrs. Wynn perched daintily on the edge of an antique sofa, adjusted her hankie under her watchband, and tucked her feet under her, crossed at the ankle. She smoothed her skirt and looked up at Justin, expecting him to speak.

  He was at a loss.

  Her eyebrows rose. “You must be looking for a home?”

  He felt rude and awkward, as if his hands were too large. Her warmth was gone, stamped out by his awkwardness. He had not been tongue-tied for years. His business manners were flawless. He charmed people on a daily basis. He was a consummate smooth talker, yet twice in one day he had alienated local women, and he had no idea what he should have done differently.

  He perched on the edge of the sofa near Winnie.

  “You’re clearly new here,” she whispered, placing a wrinkled hand on his knee.

  “Is it that obvious? What gave me away?”

  “Your shoes, dear.” She glanced at his loafers as if they were an embarrassment. “Now about that home…”

  He’d paid a $152 for those shoes. “I came to ask about a property that sold yesterday, out on the west end of town? Past the river.”

  “Oh yes, the Harrison place.” She paused with a knowing smile. “It will be beautiful.” She spread her hands in front of her, enjoying a vista in her mind as she spoke. “We have such lovely plans for it.” Her hands returned to her lap and she looked back to Justin, “It will be ready in about eight weeks.”