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Unfinished Business. Home · Unfinished Business Author: Roberts Nora. 2 downloads 64 Views KB Size Report. DOWNLOAD EPUB. Nora Roberts released Going Home: Unfinished Business on. It has on any format you want such as PDF, Epub, Kindle, doc or other format. Read "Unfinished Business" by Nora Roberts available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. Don't miss this fan-favorite tale of.
Owen continued the updates as they crossed to the lobby door, and the coffee woke up Beckett's brain. The noise level spiked, but now that Beckett had some sugar and caffeine in his system, it sounded like music. He exchanged greetings with a couple of the crew hanging insulation, then followed Owen through the side arch and into what would be the laundry, and currently served as an on-site office.
Ryder stood scowling down at blueprints spread over a table of plywood on sawhorses. Dumbass, his homely and purehearted mutt--and constant companion--sprawled snoring at his feet.
Until a whiff of donut had his eyes popping open, his scruffy tail thumping. Beckett broke off a bite of donut, tossed it, and the dog nipped it neatly out of the air. He concentrated his skills on fielding food of any kind. Little tweaks, Beckett thought, that wouldn't hurt and would probably improve. Ryder was, after all, the one of them who lived most intimately with the building.
But when Ryder moved to eliminating the coffered dining room ceiling--a thin bone of contention between them--Beckett dug in. It makes a statement. The dining room makes one with--among other things, a coffered ceiling.
It suits the room, plays off the panels we're making for the side of the windows. The depth of the windows, the ceiling, the arch of stone on the back wall. He didn't so much as glance toward the madly thumping tail as he tore off the end, flipped it into the air. His hair, a deep dense brown that edged toward black, sprang out from under his paint-stained MFC gimme cap.
His eyebrows lifted over eyes of gold-flecked green. I never even saw her. So I'm bunked down in Drew's spare room trying to pretend I can't hear him and Jen fighting every damn night, and listening to him complain how she's making his life hell every damn day.
She wants you to draw it up. How fast can she shop? They're talking fabrics, so she wants to see if and how what she's got going fits ASAP. You're the one who took off a couple days hoping to get laid," Owen reminded him. It's looking good. Ry, the drywaller's got a question up in five. Go on and order. I want to get the front porch framed in. Do you need me around here this morning? What do you think? While it chomped the beans, he went through the mail Owen had stacked on the kitchen counter.
Owen had also left sticky notes, Beckett thought with a shake of his head, listing the times he'd watered the plants. Though he hadn't asked Owen--or anyone--to deal with those little chores while he'd been gone, it didn't surprise him to find them done. If you were dealing with a flat tire or a nuclear holocaust, you could depend on Owen.
Beckett dumped the junk mail in the recycle bin, took what mail needed attention and the coffee through to his office. He liked the space, which he'd designed himself when the Montgomery family bought the building a few years before. He had the old desk--a flea market find he'd refinished--facing Main Street. Sitting there, he could study the inn.
He had land just outside of town, and plans for a house he'd designed, barely started, and kept fiddling with. But other projects always bumped it down the line. He couldn't see the hurry, in any case. He was happy enough with his Main Street perch over Vesta. Plus it added the convenience of calling down if he wanted a slice while he worked, or just going downstairs if he wanted food and company.
He could walk to the bank, the barber, to Crawford's if he wanted a hot breakfast or a burger, to the bookstore, the post office.
He knew his neighbors, the merchants, the rhythm in Boonsboro. No, no reason to hurry. He glanced at the file Owen had given him. It was tempting to start right there, see what his mother and aunt had come up with.
But he had other work to clear up first. He spent the next hour paying bills, updating other projects, answering emails he'd neglected when in Richmond. He checked Ryder's job schedule. Owen insisted they each have an updated copy every week, even though they saw or spoke to each other all the damn time. Mostly on schedule, which, considering the scope of the project, equaled a not-so-minor miracle. He glanced at his thick white binder, filled with cut sheets, computer copies, schematics--all arranged by room--of the heating and air-conditioning system, the sprinkler system, every tub, toilet, sink, faucet, the lighting, tile patterns, appliances--and the furniture and accessories already selected and approved.
It would be thicker before they were done, so he'd better see what his mother had her eye on. He opened the file, spread out the cut sheets. On each, his mother listed the room the piece was intended for by initials. His mother's concept, and one he liked a lot, had been to name the rooms for romantic couples in literature--with happy endings. She'd done so for all but the front-facing suite she'd decided to dub The Penthouse.
He studied the bed she wanted, and decided the wooden canopy style would've fit nicely into Thornfield Hall. Then he grinned at the curvy sofa, the fainting couch she'd noted should stand at the foot of the bed. She'd picked out a dresser, but had listed the alternative of a secretary with drawers. More unique, he decided, more interesting.
He scanned the other sheets; she'd been busy. Then turned to his computer. He spent the next two hours with CAD, arranging, adjusting, angling.
From time to time, he opened the binder, refreshed himself on the feel and layout of the baths, or took another look at the electrical, the cable for the flatscreens in each bedroom. When he was satisfied, he sent his mother the file, with copies to his brothers, and gave her the maximum dimensions for any night tables, occasional chairs.
He wanted a break, and more coffee. Iced coffee, he decided. Iced cappuccino, even better. No reason not to walk down to Turn The Page and get one.
They had good coffee at the bookstore, and he'd stretch his legs a little on the short walk down Main. He ignored the fact that the coffee machine he'd indulged himself in could make cappuccino--and that he had ice. And he told himself he took the time to shave because it was too damn hot for the scruff. He went out, headed down Main, stopped outside of Sherry's Beauty Salon to talk to Dick while the barber took a break. See you later. He lifted a hand in salute to Laurie as the bookseller rang up a sale for a customer.
While he waited he wandered to the front-facing stand of bestsellers and new arrivals. He took down the latest John Sandford in paperback--how had he missed that one?
The shop had an easy, relaxed walk-around feel with its rooms flowing into one another, with the curve of the creaky steps to the second-floor office and storerooms.
Trinkets, cards, a few local crafts, some of this, a little of that--and, most of all, books and more books filled shelves, tables, cases in a way that encouraged just browsing around. Another old building, it had seen war, change, the lean and the fat. Now with its soft colors and old wood floors, it managed to hold on to the sense of the town house it had once been.
It always smelled, to him, of books and women, which made sense since the owner had a fully female staff of full- and part-timers. He found a just-released Walter Mosley and picked that up as well. Then glancing toward the stairs to the second-floor office, Beckett strolled through the open doorway to the back section of the store.
He heard voices, but realized quickly they came from a little girl and a woman she called Mommy. Clare had boys--three boys now, he thought. Maybe she wasn't even in today, or not coming in until later. Besides, he'd come for coffee, not to see Clare Murphy.
Clare Brewster, he reminded himself. She'd been Clare Brewster for ten years, so he ought to be used to it. Clare Murphy Brewster, he mused, mother of three, bookstore proprietor. Just an old high school friend who'd come home after an Iraqi sniper shattered her life and left her a widow. He hadn't come to see her, except in passing if she happened to be around. He'd have no business making a point to see the widow of a boy he'd gone to school with, had liked, had envied.
How's it going, Beck? Found some books. I hope they're as good for me getting an iced cappuccino. Iced everything's the order of the day this summer. Pretty little thing, Beckett mused. She'd worked for Clare since the beginning, shuffling work and school. Five years, maybe six? Could it be that long already? And especially when you're going to take down that tarp so we can all see for ourselves. He looked over as she came down the curve of the steps, one hand trailing along the banister.
When his heart jumped, he thought, Oh well. But then, Clare had been making his heart jump since he'd been sixteen.
I thought I heard you down here. She always reminded him of a sunflower, tall and bright and cheerful. Her gray eyes held hints of green that gave them a sparkle whenever her mouth, with its deep center dip, curved up. Somebody stole the garden gnome out of Carol Tecker's yard. A crime spree. I know it's going to be beautiful. And I heard a rumor there's going to be a copper tub.
Her eyes widened; the green deepened in the smoky gray. He'd need oxygen any minute. Where do you find these things? Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher. Similar Items. Breath of Scandal. Mean Streak. Our First Christmas.
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