Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) by Barbara Raffin Page B
Authors: Barbara Raffin
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ronic that she should find the one man who could reduce her dreams to ashes at Aunt Honey's home; flamboyant Aunt Honey whose example had given Tess the strength to confront her father and leave the firm. Tess could still hear her father's 'the-old-lady's-gone-over-the-edge' tirade when he'd learned Honey had bought an antiquated house in a remote corner of an out of the way state because it was where her Bentley broke down. Like Aunt Honey, she wasn't about to let any man get in the way of her career dreams.
Tess sighed and climbed the grand stairway dividing the house, the new but no doubt water-logged carpeting having been stripped away. The smell of smoke permeated the air, scratching her throat. She'd mortgaged herself deep into debt in order to buy the old place; she had sacrificed six weeks of her life and her fingernails to sanding, varnishing, painting, and repapering.
On the second floor landing, a table and vase she and Honey had found on one of their antiquing forays had been trampled. Like the first floor, the second hummed with fans. A quick tour revealed none of the rooms had been spared the greasy film of soot. It coated furnishings, clung to drapes, and bedding. It stained the hall walls dark where the smoke had been forced down from the attic before finding escape through the burned out roof.
She was tempted to follow the funneling pattern of stains up to the third floor. She'd like to see if any of Aunt Honey's boxes of memorabilia, racks of costumes, or stored furniture had survived the fire. If it had been only Roman St. John barring her from the uppermost level of her house, she'd have gone up there in a heartbeat. No man ordered her about. But the yellow Keep Out tape reminded her a higher authority than Roman barred her admittance.
W ater damage in the master suite left the ceiling sagging over the bed and plaster had collapsed onto her desk and laptop. She brushed the plaster aside and lifted the dented lid of the computer. It didn't look good. Still, she packed it up in its travel case along with her cell phone and several soggy rolls of blueprints. Clothes and toiletries were the next priority.
The concentration of odor-trapping fabric in the walk-in closet made it impossible for her to spend much time in the enclosed space. Everything would have to be laundered. The task seemed overwhelming even with neighbor Kitt's help. There must be professionals she could hire to do the work, even in little Pine Mountain.
She folded a few blouses and her favorite linen slacks into a bag. She added a pair of dress shoes and dumped the drawer of her undies onto the bed for sorting.
Fortunately, her personal belongings consisted primarily of cloth ing. Everything else was still in her Chicago condo. After all, The Castle had been meant only as an investment that was to have provided her a fast turn around and showcase photos for a new portfolio.
No portfolio pictures now.
No return on her investment.
Tess picked up a puzzle box from the nightstand beside he r bed. She had kept this piece close because its enigmatic construction had inspired her and Honey to create endless stories about its use. Like all of Aunt Honey's collected antiques and memorabilia on the lower floors, it was coated with a greasy film. Everything on the top floor was likely a pile of ashes. She should have hired a moving company and put everything in storage. But she'd wanted to go through it all before disposing of it; and there was the matter of expense. Moving everything to the center of the massive space herself so the crew could drywall the "bonus room" had seemed the most reasonable choice at the time.
Regret balled in Tess' throat. Maybe her father was right. Maybe women were sentimental fools.
"Like hell," Tess muttered, carefully setting the piece back on the nightstand. Wanting to check out what if anything of Aunt Honey's attic storage had survived wasn't being sentimental. It was being a property owner who wanted to
Tess sighed and climbed the grand stairway dividing the house, the new but no doubt water-logged carpeting having been stripped away. The smell of smoke permeated the air, scratching her throat. She'd mortgaged herself deep into debt in order to buy the old place; she had sacrificed six weeks of her life and her fingernails to sanding, varnishing, painting, and repapering.
On the second floor landing, a table and vase she and Honey had found on one of their antiquing forays had been trampled. Like the first floor, the second hummed with fans. A quick tour revealed none of the rooms had been spared the greasy film of soot. It coated furnishings, clung to drapes, and bedding. It stained the hall walls dark where the smoke had been forced down from the attic before finding escape through the burned out roof.
She was tempted to follow the funneling pattern of stains up to the third floor. She'd like to see if any of Aunt Honey's boxes of memorabilia, racks of costumes, or stored furniture had survived the fire. If it had been only Roman St. John barring her from the uppermost level of her house, she'd have gone up there in a heartbeat. No man ordered her about. But the yellow Keep Out tape reminded her a higher authority than Roman barred her admittance.
W ater damage in the master suite left the ceiling sagging over the bed and plaster had collapsed onto her desk and laptop. She brushed the plaster aside and lifted the dented lid of the computer. It didn't look good. Still, she packed it up in its travel case along with her cell phone and several soggy rolls of blueprints. Clothes and toiletries were the next priority.
The concentration of odor-trapping fabric in the walk-in closet made it impossible for her to spend much time in the enclosed space. Everything would have to be laundered. The task seemed overwhelming even with neighbor Kitt's help. There must be professionals she could hire to do the work, even in little Pine Mountain.
She folded a few blouses and her favorite linen slacks into a bag. She added a pair of dress shoes and dumped the drawer of her undies onto the bed for sorting.
Fortunately, her personal belongings consisted primarily of cloth ing. Everything else was still in her Chicago condo. After all, The Castle had been meant only as an investment that was to have provided her a fast turn around and showcase photos for a new portfolio.
No portfolio pictures now.
No return on her investment.
Tess picked up a puzzle box from the nightstand beside he r bed. She had kept this piece close because its enigmatic construction had inspired her and Honey to create endless stories about its use. Like all of Aunt Honey's collected antiques and memorabilia on the lower floors, it was coated with a greasy film. Everything on the top floor was likely a pile of ashes. She should have hired a moving company and put everything in storage. But she'd wanted to go through it all before disposing of it; and there was the matter of expense. Moving everything to the center of the massive space herself so the crew could drywall the "bonus room" had seemed the most reasonable choice at the time.
Regret balled in Tess' throat. Maybe her father was right. Maybe women were sentimental fools.
"Like hell," Tess muttered, carefully setting the piece back on the nightstand. Wanting to check out what if anything of Aunt Honey's attic storage had survived wasn't being sentimental. It was being a property owner who wanted to
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