Hometown Series Box Set Read online

  “Ready?”

  “Ready to sell, dear, when it’s finished.”

  “Finished?” He was puzzled. “I’d like to put in an offer on it now – as is.”

  She looked bemused. “As is? No, dear. I don’t think so. That’s not what we do.”

  “What do you do?” He was almost afraid to ask. None of this was the way real estate should be sold.

  “Well, as you know, we buy sad old homes and restore them using all local salvage items, then sell them at reasonable prices to families. How old are your children?”

  “Children? I don’t have children, Mrs. Wynn—”

  She interrupted him with her hand up between them, “It’s Winnie, dear. And if you don’t have children yet, what a wonderful place to plan your family! You will be so comfortable in that sweet home when it’s finished. Gail and Denny Harrison were wonderful people and it was so sad to see their place fall into disrepair. Reminds me of the Lawson home.” She pointed a crooked finger toward a watercolor of a white farmhouse on a nearby wall. “I think it was even more beautiful after we were finished than it was when Mildred lived there. But oh, it was a mess when we got it.” She clucked and fussed.

  He was baffled. “You remodeled all these houses?” He glanced from painting to painting.

  She nodded and smiled serenely.

  “So, the property is not available, is that right? Even though the house and maybe the barn need to be demolished, and I’m willing to pay well over the asking price? Are you telling me that it will be restored in eight weeks, then resold?” He motioned with his hand. “In eight weeks, someone will want to live in that house? It’s leaning to one side!” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end. “And do you actually make a profit doing this?”

  “I know, dear. When we first started, no one believed we could do it, but now…” She indicated the pictures lining the walls and stood. “You come back in about a month and we’ll do a walkthrough with you, and you can pick out paint colors.”

  “Mrs. Wy—” He stood.

  Her hand came up. “Winnie.”

  “Winnie, I’m sorry but I don’t want to buy the house.”

  He was immediately interrupted. She clutched his elbows and led him to the door. “Dearie, I know it’s not in shape for a bride just yet, but you come back here in a month and you won’t believe your eyes. I promise you. Don’t you doubt me now, it’s the truth.” She shook her bent finger under his nose.

  Justin felt as if anything he said at that point would be a personal slight, so he thanked Winnie and left. As he climbed back into his dirty, dented truck, he realized he’d blown most of the day and hadn’t accomplished a thing. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time – he needed to get back on his groove.

  Winnie watched him drive away as she picked up the phone. When Tara answered, she said, “We’ve got a new investor in town, dear.”

  Chapter Two

  Early the next morning, Tara was back out at the Harrison house to oversee the plumbers and the roofing crew. Halfway through removing cabinet doors of the cupboards she intended to keep, Steve, the contractor arrived. Clipboard in hand, he and Tara walked through each room, tallying the walls where they could patch the plaster and the areas where the plaster was beyond repair and would need more extensive work.

  He and Tara spread out the blueprints on the kitchen counter and talked budget. When they were finished, the contractor began a conversation with Mac, the electrician and plumber, about the repairs that would be needed once they moved the gas lines for the stove. Tara went to work scrubbing cupboards, all the while figuring a timeline for construction as she listened in on their conversation.

  Justin wandered into the kitchen and everyone stopped to stare.

  Mac stuck his pencil behind one ear and doubtfully perused Justin up and down; finally, his gaze settled on Justin’s dusty loafers. “Careful of stepping on nails, young man.”

  * * *

  Justin glanced from the contractor to the plumber, then to his loafers. He could only wonder what everyone had against his shoes. But he was in no mood for the locals to give him crap. When he’d returned to the real estate office that morning, he hadn’t gotten any further with Winnie than he had the day before. Frustrated, he’d looked up three other properties in the area, only to find offers pending from Hometown Realty. It was obvious that he was being shut out by the locals and he was ticked. The only way he could get started would be to find and talk to the owner of the real estate company.

  “Is one of you the owner of this house?” he asked, looking from the plumber to the contractor.

  “Well, no.” Steve glanced at Tara from the corner of his eye. She shook her head, more like a negative twitch really.

  “Do you know where I could find him?” Justin asked, then bit the inside of his cheek, in an attempt to appear calm and unemotional.

  “Uh, T.J. should be around here somewhere.” Steve scratched his head, tilting his hardhat.

  At this point, Justin knew they weren’t going to be much help. He turned to the plumber. “Can you please at least tell me what he looks like?”

  Mac frowned and his bewhiskered chin raised a notch. “Well – uh, let’s see here. I’d say thinish, with longer dark hair.” The plumber’s hand smoothed over his drooping mustache as his eyes darted to Tara.

  Justin noticed her for the first time. “Hi.” He raised his hand in greeting, his anger dissipating. A grin spread across his face. He felt reasonably confident that Tara was a friend – more so than the workmen staring him down, anyway.

  She nodded in greeting, her face blank.

  His confidence nose dived.

  The plumber continued, “Uh, drives an old white pickup, I think it’s outside.”

  Justin sighed. “Okay, thanks. I’ll look around if that’s all right.”

  Steve shrugged, and Mac pointed to his loafers. “Watch yourself,” he warned.

  Justin nodded farewell to Tara and left the room.

  The three stood silent for a moment, listening to Justin wander from room to room, calling out.

  Tara whispered behind her hand, “Investor.”

  Mac and Steve nodded and picked up their conversation about moving the gas line.

  * * *

  Justin looked through every room in the house and even the outbuildings but couldn’t find TJ Thornberry. The truck was there so he figured the man had to be there somewhere. As a matter of fact, TJ must have loaned the truck to Tara the day before, because the only white pickup on site was the one she had been driving.

  As Justin strode from room to room, his frustration grew. He wanted to be personally invested in the community he would build, and he’d sunk every dime of his hard- earned money into this venture, and he’d be dammed if he’d let a bunch of hillbillies ruin it for him.

  Giving up, he returned to his truck, yanked open the door, and climbed in. As the engine roared to life, he pounded his fist on the steering wheel.

  * * *

  In a snit, Justin drove directly to the county courthouse – as directly as the roads could go, anyway. There wasn’t a straight road in the county as far as he could tell. As he pulled into the parking lot of the two-story, brick courthouse, bells rang in the tower. He glanced at his watch. It was already noon.

  Climbing from his truck, he noted a sign in front of the parking spot next to his. Distractedly, he scanned the sign as he walked, then came to an abrupt halt.

  The sign read: “This parking spot is reserved for Elizabeth Stanford Marley in appreciation for 62 years of devotion and ongoing employment for Monongalia County.”

  Justin’s mouth fell open. Sixty-two years? She must be well into her 80s by now!

  * * *

  A two-hour search of handwritten records and microfilm rolls turned up multiple land sale records.

  “Who still uses microfilm for heaven’s sake?” Justin muttered in exasperation, glancing up in disgust at the ancient crone peering at him fr
om behind the information desk. Her knitting needles clicked rhythmically as her beady eyes examined Justin over her reading glasses. The old lady hadn’t uttered a word since he walked in, not even when he’d asked politely for help.

  Finally, he found recent records, and he wasn’t too shocked to read that T. Jean Thornberry and Hometown Real Estate owned half of the county. He was surprised, however, to see that most of Thornberry’s acquisition of the county had taken place over the last five years, when the market had been dead.

  This T.J. guy had managed to buy the properties for a song, not all that amazing considering the market, and that the properties were dilapidated, but his resale prices were low, far too low. Thornberry had barely made a profit! The guy was obviously a fool, because he was sitting on a gold mine and didn’t even know it.

  * * *

  The next morning, Tara came downstairs looking for the origin of the coffee aroma that had wrenched her out of bed.

  Winnie was busy in the kitchen, breaking eggs into a frying pan on the huge gas stove. “Good morning. Sleep well, dear?”

  Tara nodded.

  “I hear that new investor boy was out at the Harrison property yesterday.” Winnie glanced over her shoulder as she stacked eggshells.

  Tara grunted and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  Winnie wiped her hands on her apron. “I tried to head him off here, but he seems determined. Whoever is signing his paycheck must have offered him a big bonus to snap up properties here.”

  Tara glanced over the papers that Winnie had placed on the kitchen island, along with her laptop. Winnie always had Tara’s business day started first thing out of the chute. Emails were printed and highlighted, with corresponding attachments from the county courthouse. Beth, bless her old heart, had written yesterday afternoon, alerting Tara that a handsome city man had been there looking up real estate sales.

  Sipping from her steaming coffee mug, Tara booted up her laptop. She loved living upstairs from the office – it saved so much time and complication. Besides, the house was beautiful. Well, it is now, she corrected herself. It was hard to believe this was the same house where she and Winnie had struggled for so many years.

  “I know we’ve been through this before, Tara, dear, but it seems to be happening more often these days. I guess it’s true that the market is picking back up.” Winnie whipped eggs in the flying pan. “I’m not sure how long we will be able to subsist in our happy situation before some conglomerate bursts our bubble.” She scooped steaming eggs onto a plate and turned to Tara. “I know I don’t have to keep telling you this, but maybe it’s time—”

  “One day at a time, Winnie, one day at a time.” Tara mumbled as she reread the email on her laptop. That Justin guy would know by now how large her holdings were, but he still didn’t know she was TJ. Thornberry. If he did, she was certain he’d be beating down the door by now, thinking he could ride roughshod over her. Big city investors always did.

  “I wonder what his goal is?” she muttered and scooted the laptop over, to make room for the plate of eggs.

  “Same as the rest, I’d imagine.” Winnie replied as she wiped the stovetop and rinsed the frying pan in the sink. “Buy cheap, bulldoze our history, and slam up slipshod modern buildings – then leave.”

  Tara sighed and pulled her hair over one shoulder. Running her fingers through it absently with one hand, she tapped her fork rhythmically on the edge of her plate with the other. “He doesn’t seem so tough. We’ll get through this. Remember your blood pressure.”

  Winnie snorted and clattered dishes in the sink. “I don’t know, dear, he’s too sharp for my liking. He saw through me quick enough.”

  Tara scraped the last of her eggs from the plate, then stood and placed her empty dish in the sink and kissed Winnie’s withered cheek. “One day…”

  “At a time, I know.” Winnie closed her eyes and leaned into Tara.

  * * *

  Justin woke and rolled from the half-deflated air mattress onto the floor. On his hands and knees, he groaned and arched his back toward the ceiling to work out the kinks. With a frustrated grunt, he glared at the air mattress and the sweaty twisted sheet. He stood and stretched his arms over his head, and the air swooshed from his lungs.

  Nothing was going right. It had taken him three days longer than he’d planned to leave DC, and his old truck had died on the way. On top of that, the property he’d searched and planned as his first investment had sold out from under him as a cash sale, the day before he arrived.

  He wandered to the bare bedroom window to stare out at the unkempt, overgrown yard. The house was a disappointment, that was for sure. Paint was peeling around the windows, and the roof needed new shingles. The kitchen hadn’t been remodeled since sometime in the 50s or maybe before that. Modern appliances certainly hadn’t been invented yet, because a pea-green fridge was on the back screened-porch, and the 40-year-old mustard-yellow oven sat in the center of the room. If it weren’t for the filthy sink along the far wall, he wouldn’t have even known the room was the kitchen.

  On paper, the house had looked like a good starter home – something he could live in temporarily and turn over once he got settled. But in person, it was flat-out depressing. Why hadn’t the pictures on the listing been up to date?

  Justin rubbed his lower back, attempting to regain some perspective. He was only 90 minutes from Pittsburgh after all, and he’d be back on track soon. He just needed to find Thornberry and get a grip on the situation. Property in the area had sold to investment groups in the years before the economy had tanked. Surely the locals would be happy to see cash flowing back into the community.

  Shrugging off business, he decided he’d take a walk down Main Street and experience firsthand the township he’d be calling home. Maybe he could find some breakfast and better assess the place, maybe meet some locals. One of them was bound to know Thornberry.

  Downtown Smithville stretched all of two blocks on either side of the highway, with old, two-story brick storefronts on the ground floor and offices or apartments above. The street had seen better days, but recent signs of improvement were obvious. A small café, with a sandwich board on the sidewalk, boasted fresh coffee and eggs with ham.

  He wandered inside and seated himself. The waitress shuffled to the table and plopped down a menu and silverware wrapped in a napkin. Justin was immediately taken with her ‘50s style-- pink uniform dress and bouffant hairdo. A grin reached his tired eyes as he met her steely gaze.

  “Hey there, I’m Marge. What can I get for you?” She tapped her pencil on the order pad. “The special today is Bud’s corned beef hash.” Behind her hand she whispered, “But I wouldn’t suggest you go that route.”

  He flipped over the worn menu with a cursory glance.

  Her pencil hovered over the order pad and she cocked one hip, evaluating him over her reading glasses.

  “I think I’ll just have a few eggs, over easy, and coffee, black,” he said, handing her the menu. “But I could use some friendly advice.”

  “Shoot, handsome.”

  “Could you possibly tell me where I could find TJ Thornberry?”

  Marge snapped to attention and hastily grabbed the menu. “I should-a known by your shoes,” she snapped, then turned and stomped away.

  In shock, Justin watched her retreating back. He glanced down at his loafers. I’m batting a thousand with the women of this town.

  * * *

  With his half-empty plate forgotten, Justin sat lost in thought. His elbows were propped on the table, and his blank gaze stared over the coffee mug in his hands as he pondered how to break into the tight-knit community. Obviously, they don’t like outsiders; these people have hated me from the second I pulled into town. What would make me more relatable, so I can get an inside track? His brow arched. New boots?

  He snorted, took one last sip of the coffee, then pushed his plate back, and stretched his legs under the table. Marge offered only a hostile glance from behind the counter.
He tossed her a grin as he stood and tossed a $10 bill on the table, then exited the café to continue his tour of the town.

  Two doors down, brightly-colored vintage furniture crowded the sidewalk. Lighting accessories made from industrial objects were propped against stacked wire baskets overflowing with odds and ends, ranging from faucet knobs to handmade greeting cards. A rusty sign advertising RC Cola leaned against two wooden school chairs.

  Justin glanced through the store window and spotted an old card catalog chest with the legs cut short to make an entertainment center. As he leaned forward for a better look, his knee bumped a headboard, similar to the one he’d owned as a kid, except this one had been made into a garden bench. The bench nearly toppled two flowerpots that had been stacked and fastened together to create a fountain flowing with blooms.

  Sidestepping, he steadied the bench and glanced back into the store window stuffed with out-of-date furniture. Most of the items had been reupholstered with a bright mix of fabrics. Throw pillows and floor rugs gave the furniture a homey feel, and chandeliers created from a mix of inconceivable items crowded the ceiling. Recognizing the boutique as shabby chic style, he knew the movement of flea market finds and vintage junk was popular, but he’d never taken the time to check out the boutiques popping up around the fringes of DC. It wasn’t his thing.

  A bulky, bright-blue dresser with scuffed paint, bumped haltingly into the window. Next to the dresser appeared the back of a very attractive woman. Her dark hair swung to the hips of her sundress, and bracelets made from unusual beads sparkled on her wrists.

  Justin spared a moment to enjoy the view. He’d been so busy the last year and so drained from high maintenance women, that he’d put his love life on indefinite hold. Evidently, he’d been out of commission a day too long, because his libido raged to life.