Always Friday (6 page)

“Daniel liked the potato soup I prepared so well,” Ivan
announced, “that he came in for a second helping.”

She leaned against the counter and, with a slight twitch of
her lips, said, “Oh, really?”

Daniel didn’t glance up from his plate, but Tess could have
sworn that she saw his shoulders shaking. Shoulders, she noted, nicely encased
in the peach pullover she’d bought for him. With it he wore a pair of chinos
and the deck shoes she’d chosen as well. When his spoon scraped the bottom of
the bowl, he looked up and grinned. “My compliments, Ivan. I believe this
tasted even better than the first.”

Ivan’s chest swelled noticeably.

Tess rolled her eyes but didn’t give him away. “Are you
ready?”

Dan stood. “Ready.”

“Why don’t we walk? It’s a beautiful day and it’s less than
a dozen blocks to the Strand.”

They went out the back door, and he stuck his hands in his
pockets as they ambled along the street lined with a mixture of live oak,
pecan, and palm trees. As they walked through the East End Historical District,
Tess pointed out turn-of-the-century houses in various states of repair, typical
of the Galveston she had come to love. Some, sporting flower boxes full of
geraniums, had been restored to their former Victorian splendor. They were
interspersed with others that had been ignored and were succumbing to the
ravages of time and the salty island dampness.

Usually Tess reminisced about the houses and their colorful
histories as she passed; today her attention was focused on the man who walked
beside her. Since his outburst earlier, he seemed less morose, less hostile.
Maybe it had been good for him to let out a little of the anger he’d been
bottling up.

When he caught her watching him, he smiled. “What new
adventure do you have planned today?”

“I promised Nancy Vaughn that I’d help hang paintings for
this weekend’s exhibition at the Sea Song Gallery. Are you any good with a
hammer and nails?”

Dan looked affronted. “Are you kidding? You’re looking at
the first place winner of the fifth grade birdhouse building contest.”

“That good, huh?”

“Actually, as I recall, it was a pretty sorry-looking
birdhouse, but I slaved over it. I built it from scraps I scavenged from the
building sites I was always hanging around and painted it with shoe polish. I
thought it was grand until I got to school and saw the other entries. Beside
them, mine looked rather pathetic.”

“Yet you won first place?”

He nodded. “It was obvious to the judge, who was an architect,
that the other kids’ fathers had built theirs. He told me I’d done a fine job,
pinned the blue ribbon to my shirt, and shook my hand. It was the proudest
moment of my life. I think it was then I decided to be an architect. I still
have the ribbon somewhere.”

Tess felt a lump in her throat as he recounted the story.
There was a poignancy to his words, a wistfulness to his gaze as he remembered
the events of long ago. And it touched her. Beneath Dan’s stoic facade she
sensed both passion and sensitivity aching to be expressed—she’d glimpsed the
potential a few times. Something deep inside her desperately wanted to draw him
into her arms and hold him close, but she struggled against the urge.

Aunt Martha had told her about Dan’s aborted dream to become
an architect, but Tess suspected that with his pride, he wouldn’t appreciate
knowing that they had discussed intimate details of his life. From the things
Aunt Martha had told her, it seemed that Dan was a very private person.

“But you never followed up on your interest in architecture?”
she asked, hoping he would confide in her.

“I did. I have a degree in architecture. Graduated summa cum
laude.”

“Then why . . .”

“Why am I—correction—
was
I the president of Friday
Elevators?” There was the faintest tinge of bitterness in his voice.

She nodded.

He shrugged. “Things happen. Priorities change.” Dan stopped
in front of a large old house that had once been a grand residence. He leaned
against its magnificent cast-iron fence, now pocked and rusting from neglect,
and stared at the vacant wooden structure that was on the verge of collapse. “How
sad,” he said. “It must have been beautiful in its day.”

Knowing that Dan had closed the door to any more personal
disclosures, Tess sighed and reminded herself that she must be patient. She
leaned against the fence and turned her attention to the decaying two-story
house with its ornate towers, curlicued cupola, and “For Sale” sign in front.
Most of the windows were boarded up, and only raw lumber props kept the second
floor’s sagging portico from crashing down on its Greek Revival twin below.

“It was. I have pictures at home. As I recall, it was built
in 1886 by one of Galveston’s leading citizens. Or rebuilt, I should say, when
the two smaller houses that were joined together and enhanced. Looking at it
now, it’s hard to believe that it once housed a wealthy family who gave grand
formal balls. Until it became uninhabitable a few years ago, it had declined to
a rather shabby apartment house with wash hanging from the top gallery.”

“Doesn’t Galveston have a historical society to save
wonderful houses like this one?”

“Of course,” Tess said. “An excellent one, but the island is
filled with magnificent old homes going to seed, some even listed in the
National Registry. They do as much as they can, but finances are limited. This
one survived the great hurricane and the grade-raising, but it can’t survive
neglect. It’s a miracle some of these houses survived Hurricane Ike in 2008.
That storm devastated a lot of the island’s real estate.”

“I heard about it. Were you here when it hit?”

She shook her head. “No, but Aunt Olivia was. She and Hook
evacuated early to Austin and stayed until the all clear. Luckily, she didn’t
have any major damage.”

“You mentioned the grade-raising. What’s a grade raising?”

“Galveston used to be much lower,” Tess explained. “After
the hurricane of 1900 killed thousands of people and almost leveled the town,
the stalwart citizens who decided to stay built the seawall and raised the
level of the island. Some of the buildings were jacked up and fill was put
underneath. Others, like our house and this one, lost most of their basements.
My ancestors, the Prophets, decided to fill in their ground floor—to turn it
into the house’s basement—rather than risk structural damage by raising the
house. Our yard was originally three feet lower, and this one was about the
same.”

Dan shook his head and his face betrayed his pain as his gaze
swept over the deteriorating, once-elegant residence. “Such a waste. It almost
cries out to be saved. I wish there was something I could do. Once I
considered—” His words trailed off as he turned abruptly from the house. “Hadn’t
we better be going if we’re going to hang paintings?”

Tess waved a hand dismissively. “We have plenty of time.”
Cocking her head and narrowing her eyes as a thought occurred to her, she said,
“Do you really like old houses?”

“Sure. Is that so strange? I told you I studied architecture.”

“I guess IVe always associated modern architects with
split-level houses or those giant smoked-glass phallic symbols that spring up
in the cities and rape the sky.”

Dan laughed. “I take it you don’t approve of skyscrapers?”

Tess made a derisive sound. “Hate them. Come on,” she said,
grabbing his hand. “I want to show you something special. It’s only a couple of
blocks out of the way. You’ll love it.”

He matched his long stride with hers as she took off down
the intersection. “Where are we going now?”

“I’m going to show you my house.”

“But I’ve seen your house. I’m staying there, remember?”

“That’s Aunt Olivia’s house. Oh, I suppose it’s half mine
since my grandmother left me her share, but I’ve never been comfortable with
all those gilt chairs and gold chandeliers. I’ve always wanted something . . .
bolder. Something with more personality. Character. The one I want to show you
is going to be all mine. You’ve heard of The House of the Seven Gables’? Well,
mine has nine.”

A few minutes later they were standing in front of the
strangest house Daniel had ever seen. No, this imposing structure was not a
house, he thought as he studied it carefully. It was a small palace, a peculiar
hybrid of Moorish and Victorian Gothic with a battlement tower and an assortment
of dormers and elaborately sculpted gables along the gray slate-covered roof.

The shrubbery in the small front garden area was badly
overgrown, and tangles of vines almost covered the iron fence. More vines
climbed upward through the dilapidated storm shutters, crawled over boarded
windows, and clung to the rusticated cement stucco of the walls.

It certainly had character. But for the life of him, Daniel
couldn’t decide if this complexity of voluptuously carved corbels, lintels, and
cornices was ugly or beautiful.

Until he glanced at Tess.

She was gazing up at the pseudo-stone house as if
transfixed. Her lovely lips were curled into one of those smiles that made him
want to follow her like a lapdog. She glowed.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Her husky voice curled around him
and drew him into the magic that seemed to surround her like an aura.

“Magnificent,” he said, not taking his eyes off her.
Anything that could spark such fire in her eyes, such a rapt expression on her
face, must be beautiful.

His gaze swept over her from the shock of full dark hair to
the rubber soles of her leather sport shoes, then zeroed in on the green glass
eyes of the lion painted on the front of her shirt. One of the emerald eyes,
which caught the sun and glittered with her every breath, rested just above the
crest of her right breast. It fascinated him, teased him, tempted him to reach
out and touch it.

Its shimmer increased and he looked up to find her watching
him. Her lips parted; her eyes seemed to smolder, to sear right through to his
core. Sensuality pulsated from her lithe body, wrapped around him, and tugged
at him with invisible fingers.

He took a step toward her. Then another. Oblivious to
everything except Tess Cameron, he would have taken her in his arms if an SUV
hadn’t pulled alongside of them at that moment.

A middle-aged woman poked her head out the window. “Excuse
me. Which way to the Railroad Museum?”

The moment was lost.

Daniel wanted to curse.

Tess turned to the woman and smiled. “Straight ahead for
seven blocks. Turn left on Strand and you’ll run right into it.”

“Thanks,” the woman said, waving as the SUV drove away.

Tess stood on the curb and returned the wave. It was not so
much a friendly gesture as an opportunity to gather her wits and give her heart
time to slow down. One look from the depths of Dan Friday’s blue-gray eyes and
she had almost attacked him in the middle of the East End Historical District
at two o’clock in the afternoon.

If she’d ever had any doubt about Dan’s potential for
passion, it was gone now. She felt as if she’d been inside a bottle rocket. She
took a deep breath, puffed her cheeks and blew it out.

Pasting a bright smile on her face, Tess turned and said, “Would
you like a look inside? I have a key.”

Not waiting for an answer, she grabbed his hand and dragged
him past the “For Sale” sign and up the eighteen steps to the front entry. Her
fingers were trembling so badly that even after three stabs at it, she couldn’t
get the key in the lock.

Dan took the key from her and opened it on the first try.
When he held the door for her, she flounced past him, irked to no end that his
hands were steady. Obviously she hadn’t had the effect on him that he had had
on her.

“It’s pretty grim inside,” she said, her voice echoing
through the darkened house. “At some time or another it was chopped up into
apartments. Walls will have to be knocked out and the entire inside redone, but
I think it’s structurally sound. Isn’t that flowered wallpaper ghastly?” She
detoured around some mouse droppings. “Looks like I’ll need an exterminator,
too.”

“Mmmm.” Dan stepped over a rotting section of the floor and
followed her through the rooms.

“Isn’t the staircase fantastic? It only needs a couple of
spindles replaced. Stripped and refinished, it will be beautiful. And the fireplaces
are all in fairly good shape. Italian marble, most of them. Can you imagine how
beautiful it can be with everything done in bright colors and a comfortable
eclectic look? I want Russian samovars and Persian rugs and big cushy couches.
Can you imagine the possibilities?”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. Daniel grinned. “Yes, I
believe I can.”

“Of course you can. I forgot you’re an architect.” Her eyes
widened. “I have an idea. Would you help me restore it?”

His grin widened. “For room and board?”

“If you like, but I’ll be happy to pay your fee.”

Daniel crammed his hands in his pockets and looked around.
It would be a challenge. An exciting one. Then he frowned. “Most of the
interior would have to be gutted. I’m sure it would need new wiring and new plumbing.
Do you have any idea how expensive such a project would be?”

Tess shrugged. “I figure that the cost of the house,
restoration, and refurnishing would be about two million—plus the ten thousand
dollars earnest money I’ve put down to hold it for sixty days.”

Dan’s eyebrows raised. “And you can afford to lay out that
much cash?”

She laughed. “Hardly. Although I did very well when I quit
my job and got out of the stock market after I came to Galveston, most of the
capital is invested in my businesses.”

“Your businesses? I thought you just worked part time at the
Mermaid. What happened to  your kick back and enjoy life attitude?”

“Oh, I did. I do. I’m a lazy entrepreneur. When I decided to
stay after Aunt Olivia broke her hip, I planned to do nothing more than enjoy
all the things I’d never had time for before. But I love Galveston and I wanted
to do my part to help restore the grand old dame to at least a part of her
former glory.” She leaned against the black walnut banister and her hand
absently stroked the fine, neglected wood. “So I bought a half block of the Strand
and provided the cash for my partners’ businesses. They’re excellent
investments like the Mermaid, Sea Song Gallery, a couple of boutiques. And,
though, it’s not on the Strand, Luis’s Custom Conversions. My partners in each
business provide the skills and management in exchange for forty-nine percent
of the profits. I simply lend a hand now and then for fun.