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You Are the Reason

By Mary A. Felkins

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If ever there was a house that could make a widow out
of a girl, it’d be Moreland. And if ever there was a girl
least likely to embrace the inheritance of said house, it’d
be Everley Scott.
A widow.
Why invite trouble?
The elevator to the third floor of Vance and O’Connor,
Certified Public Accountants, pinged and opened,
ushering Everley past two potted plants clinging to life
near a distressed credenza and down a long hardwood
hallway. The scent of heated air roused her senses. Seated
at her mahogany desk, she sipped her coffee, cringing at
the acrid taste.
Everley craved order and logic like a cup of creamy,
French roast coffee and beignets from the renowned Café
du Monde in her hometown of New Orleans. It had been
five years since she left and moved to Chicago, a city
boasting its own unique flavors, but she still desired the
familiar—the known.
That which was predictable. Manageable.
She awakened her laptop. First order of business,
check email before scheduling a site visit to a new client.
Her cell buzzed.
Serenity.
Hands paused over the keyboard—anxiety surged. This
could only mean an emergency. Her sister knew never
to disrupt a workday. Particularly a Monday morning
when emails in her inbox spilled like blue ink down the
computer screen.
“What’s wrong?”
“Moreland.”
Okay, next subject.
“How’s business in the French Quarter?”
“My bakery is thriving. Which is more than I can say
for Moreland.”
Disquiet finger-tapped along Everley’s skin. “Clarify.”
“There’s talk about having it razed, Evers. To suffer
the fate of others like Belle Grove.”
“Old as it is, that house is mine. No one has the legal
right to demolish it.”
“They most certainly can if you still haven’t secured a
deed restriction prohibiting its destruction.”
“I thought Mom was going to take care of that.”
“She was. But she didn’t. And being that you’ve all but
abandoned her generous gift, it’s vulnerable, working its
way back toward being an eyesore, destroying all Mom’s
progress.”
Not a far stretch.
“I’ve kept utilities going.” Defense soaked her tone.
“So, you’re letting it die a slow death. Putting the house
on life support.”
“For someone named Serenity, you sure aren’t eliciting
any of it on my account.”
Memories of Mom’s sobs over the insurmountable
challenge of restoring Moreland began to taunt. An icy
chill slithered down her spine to rival the winter air.
Releasing a rescue breath, she spun in her chair, gaze
landing on Moreland’s enlarged photo on the wall behind
her. The lush landscape and gleaming shutters set like
black buttons on a crisp white tuxedo shirt. Intricately
carved, gold-washed wood framed its historic charm. Only
proper for what was, admittedly, an architectural marvel.
The Polaroid Dad had taken of their impulsive ‘as
is’ purchase—a Greek revival which sold for well below
market value—managed to find its way onto Everley’s
nightstand. Mom’s denial was never convincing.
“The grass is overgrown, and weeds have pretty much
swallowed the azalea bushes,” Serenity continued. “And
you know how much color they add come March.”
Back to routine.
Tap, tap, tap. Delete, delete, delete.
The subject line from the new client caught Everley’s
eye. Documents attached. Finally.
“I hear typing. Are you even listening, Evers?”
“Yes, yes.” With upward of 75 percent of her brain on
numbers, the remainder given to the antebellum house
strategically tucked in a gentle bend of Bayou Lefourche
edged by sugar cane fields. “How would you know the
condition of the lawn?”
“I stop by at least once a week. It’s still … special and
worth restoring.”
“Good that someone’s got their eye on the place.”
“Heaven help us if the good Lord ever blesses you
with a child. Moreland needs more than a weekly nod.”
Serenity’s demands clawed at Everley’s insides.
Virtual images flashed of Serenity on Moreland’s
massive porch watering limp, thirsty shrubbery—
picnicking beneath the mossy, great oak dominating
the front lawn. Establishing a forever bond with an
undesirable estate.
Upholding Mom’s whimsical dream.
No, her oversized art project … now left to Everley.
Crazy. Nonsensical. Wasteful.
Everley propped her elbow on the armrest, fingers
clenching her cell. “I’m already paying the utilities and
several thousands in property tax, due by year’s end.
I don’t need the added burden of restoring thirteen
thousand square feet of trouble, bearing one hundred fifty
years of who knows what behind its walls.” A fixer-upper
on steroids. “What was Mom thinking leaving Moreland
to me?”
“I’ve been asking the same question since she died six
months ago.”
Her younger—and only—sister still smarted at the fact
she’d not been Mom’s choice, though Serenity’d managed
to command Dad’s attention for eight years before he died.
“I mean, I am the one who wants to champion the
place.” Serenity jabbed. “And have the geographical
upper hand to do it.”
Unhindered and fearless, Serenity had marched
confidently in the direction of her dreams and opened
The Pear Tree Bakery and Coffee Shop in the heart of the
French Quarter. And therein lay the difference—Serenity
fed her imagination while Everley, a young war widow
after only two years of marriage, had starved hers.
Serenity’s world of vibrant color held no appeal to
Everley, a woman who viewed life through a monochromatic
lens.
The mere fact that Serenity thought nothing of
conducting baking wars in college with Owen Walker,
today a defensive end for the New Orleans Commanders,
testified to her frolic through life.
Serenity’s ‘Go big or go home’ mantra suited her like
frosting on a cupcake.
Anyway, Everley had her eye on another prize—making
partner in the firm of Vance and O’Connor. A logical next
step in her career and, now, a means to maintain distance
from the burden of Moreland Manor.
“What crazy person takes on a project like this?”
Everley took a swallow of her now cold, stale coffee.
“Mom did. Dad agreed.”
Right. Mom had help. Until she didn’t.
“Mom let her dreams get ahead of common sense, the
cost more than she could bear.”
More than I can bear.
Like the cost Everley had borne seven years ago,
marrying Kyle Scott, a guy who’d chosen to enlist in the
Marines and chase after bad guys in Afghanistan. She
never saw the career shift coming. And Kyle hadn’t seen
the IED.
The heartbreaking but predictable fate of a dream
chaser.
Computer now dozing, another of Moreland’s grainy
images intruded—this one in black and white. Dwarfed at
the base of a column stood a woman in a high-waisted
dress, hair swept inside a tilted slouch hat. A house of such
magnitude—one left without consistent homeowners for
over one hundred fifty years—wouldn’t be ignored easily.
The spectacle stirred recall, a documentary created
several years ago by a band of exuberant, stargazing
historians. Emotive music accompanied the narration.
She graces the property like a priceless pearl adorning
a lady’s neck, and her interior chambers hold a wealth of
mystery. Stories pulse behind those windows that stir the
soul and heal the heart.
“Or crushes it to dust.”
A practical solution rose to prominence. “Why can’t
Lettie keep the place up?”
“You fired her.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” Serenity growled low. “Mom’s faithful house
manager of how many years? Cast out. And the sole reason
Moreland’s pear trees produced fruit year after year.”
Delete, delete, delete.
The scent of Lettie’s fresh-baked, sugar-crusted
pear and cinnamon muffins worked its way through her
memory. She drew in a breath, tasting them again.
“Okay. So, poor decision.”
“Among others.”
Everley huffed. “Such as?”
“Taking a job in Chicago, leaving Moreland to fend for
itself.”
“It’s a house, Serenity. A house.” A widow-maker.“You
refer to Moreland like it’s a living, breathing … organic
thing, capable of feeling.”
“It does. All houses are memory keepers.”
“Moreland wins top prize on that account.”
Born to and raised by the same two people, Everley and
Serenity shared a love for warm, sunny skies, antiques,
art, coffee, and pastries, but the similarities ended there.
One who worked to forget. One who reveled in
remembering.
Sisters Rational and Dreamer.
“It was an accident, Evers.” Serenity’s voice swooped
low, turned granite.
The past shuddered through and made her dizzy.
Delete, delete, delete.
“Avoidable,” she bit back.
“Not everything in life fits into neat little columns and
balances out.”
“I get paid to see that it does. Look, I’ve got deadlines
to meet, clients to contact, site visits to schedule.”
“You’re obligated to take care of it. Mom said so in her
letter.”
Stooping to sisterly childishness now.
And the letter mention. Not like Everley could ever
forget the booming tone of Mom’s lawyer as he read her
dying plea, inked on Dazzle Me Art Gallery letterhead.
Wrinkled in places as though Mom wept while detailing
her sentiments.
A weighty sigh streamed out. “All right, Serenity. I’ll
get in touch with Lettie, figure something out.”
“Don’t bother. Lettie works for me now. And, lest you
forget, you have to hire that restoration guy Mom specified.”
Everley’s cheeks quirked into a forced grin. “Right.
That guy.”
Audits stockpiled in her brain. End of the month. Need
to close the books for Mason Family Practice, be precise,
timely. Secure her position as a partner.
“I anticipated pushback,” Serenity said. “So I have a
solution to save the place.”
No doubt she did. A lemonade stand, perhaps?
Serenity’s voice lifted to a dizzying altitude, jet-fueled
by optimism. Somehow making others believe two plus
two equaled five, tossing logic and reason to the wind.
“I follow MidDay Media on social media, the film
production company for Fixed Up Right.”
Where was she going with this? Breaths thickened in
Everley’s throat as Serenity’s solution unfolded.
“In response to their publicized interest in a historic
house project, I shared your story … you know, Mom’s
letter, the reno specialist, and guess what?”
“They laughed out loud, deemed the place a hot mess,
and politely refused.”
Please, please?
And where was that critical email Phillip Vance had
mentioned? A client to make a girl in pursuit of becoming
a partner shine like the noonday sun.
“The Senior Director of Development at MidDay, Don
Barnhart, is interested in filming the restoration to pitch a
pilot to H2H network for a series idea.” Serenity squeaked
excitement through the phone. “With strong viewer
interest in their favor, MidDay is seeking houses rich in
history and architectural charm. Stories over projects.”
Moreland had a story, all right. It just wasn’t one Everley
cared to tell. Leave it to a dreamer to pull strings behind
the scenes, disrupt the status quo, and flip predictability
on its head.
Words scrambled to form a sentence. “There is no
restoration … this is far too—”
“Evers, admit it. Your story—and it is yours—has
intrinsic value, creates a compelling reason to invest in
the house, and adds to viewer appeal.”
The dreamer in Serenity was like a horse inside the gate.
At the sound of the starting bell, she was unstoppable.
“We could use this opportunity to benefit a local
charity—something like what the NFL does for food banks
and stuff. Or to help Walker’s Kids Sports Camps. Mom
and Dad would love that.”
Everley worked tease into her tone. “Owen, huh?”
“Don’t read into it, Evers. Walker has done a lot of
charitable things over the past year. His foundation has
poured millions into various philanthropic projects. If
you had even one social media account, you’d know
this. But this conversation isn’t about me … or Owen, for
that matter. It’s about what you’re going to do when Don
Barnhart contacts you and wants to film on location.”
The weight of responsibility scooped air from Everley’s
lungs. On her top-ten list of things she hated, exposure
ranked number three—right behind surprises and tardiness.
“How do you expect me to take on something of this
magnitude when I don’t even have a contractor?”
“Wrong. You’ve got the contractor.”
Gabriel Michael Bellevue.
In her letter, Mom claimed he’d been named after
angels. When she died, the secret as to how she’d come
across that little tidbit died too.
Tension rumbled over her forehead. “Serenity, I need
to oversee Moreland’s restoration like I need a migraine.”
“Call him.”
Agenda: Restore that albatross to its former glory.
And be rid of it.
# # #
Amid the mimicking songs of mockingbirds in the
sprawling oak, Gabe Bellevue stood inside the meager
shade cast by the gables of Mrs. Beasley’s nineteenthcentury,
cottage-style, clapboard house. Not exactly the
contract of a lifetime, but demand for historic restoration
had slowed to a crawl in the last year, and he was in no
position to be selective.
From the start, attention to detail, zero tolerance
for mistakes, and a client-comes-first mantra built his
business, G&R Historic Restoration Specialists. Allowed
him to escape the plague of repeated paternal failure and
bring honor to the Bellevue name. Some history wasn’t
worth repeating.
One boot propped on the bottom step at the base of
the porch, Gabe tipped a water bottle to his mouth, an eye
lasered on Randy who claimed a plank of wood and was
hovering the saw’s teeth over it like a surgeon prepped for
open-heart surgery.
“You sure you’ve measured accurately?” Gabe said.
Face shaded, Randy stilled his grip on the saw. He
straightened slightly, slung a labored gaze at Gabe. “Ten
years in business together, and you still doubt my ability
to accurately measure a piece of wood.”
“It’s special-ordered for this job.”
A blustery exhale left Randy’s lungs. “I know.”
Sweat beaded along Gabriel’s back. “Just making sure
this gets done right. Wrong cuts lead to failure, and that’s
not an option.”
“Well aware, Bellevue. You’ve been telling me that
since high school. And we’ve yet to have a dissatisfied
client.”
“There’s still Mrs. Beasley.”
A puzzled stare clouded Randy’s face as he brought
his wrist in a swipe across his forehead. “Who’s that?”
Frustration fumed. “You’re standing in front of her
house.”
Randy glided his stare along the property. “I thought
she said ‘Measly’ as in the insufficient sum of money she
wanted to dish out for all the work we’re doing to this
place.”
“Until she hands me a chilled glass of fresh lemonade,
served with a satisfied smile, I’m not convinced she’ll
offer a stellar review.”
Gabe tugged a waded red bandana from his back
pocket, swiped it across his forehead then stuffed it back
in. The last plank fit snug along the edge of the porch.
Galvanized nails secured it flush against neighboring
planks. He stood and pressed his boots against it, bounced
on the balls of his feet. No movement. Silent.
Perfect.
Gabe clapped Randy a high-five. “Success!”
The crunch of tires on gravel turned Gabe’s attention
toward the drive shaded by a cluster of arching oaks.
Mrs. Beasley’s driver exited the town car, flashed a smile
beneath his chauffeur cap. Dressed in a black suit, he
strode to the passenger side and eased her to standing.
Gabe followed her scrutinizing gaze as she scraped
it over the symmetrical façade, tracing the triangular
pediments surmounting a four-bay porch enclosed by a
white-washed railing.
A wicked shimmy surged beneath his skin at her tongue
cluck, uncertainty curdling his stomach.
“Everything all right, Mrs. Beasley?”
Please, God, say yes.
In a calculated turn, she stuffed her fists inside the
pockets of her sweater and fixed a piercing, gray gaze.
“Why, I should say not.”
Disquiet seared Gabe’s lungs, landed in his throat,
scorched it dry.
So long, lemonade.
Her palms floated in an upward sweep as though
pronouncing a benediction. Or his last rites. “I only wish
…” Her voice rang bright, crinkle lines deepening around
her mouth. “I’d called you sooner.”
Satisfaction rose on her face to match the sun’s
brilliance dribbling over a partially shaded lawn.
A steady stream of restrained air blew past Gabe’s lips.
Her cheeks rounded. “What a fine job you’ve done.”
A breeze whisked past, cooled the last of his simmering
angst. “Pleasure’s ours,” Gabe added, his breathing
slowed to healthy rhythm to suit his thirty-one years.
“Can I interest you men in some lemonade?”
An exaggerated grin inched across Gabe’s cheek,
which he promptly slung at Randy, who then turned to
nod at Mrs. Beasley. “Yes’m, Mrs. Meas—er, Beasley. We’d
love some.”
Good save.
Her driver escorted his charge along the steps to the
front door. The faint smell of mothballs, aged wood, and
fresh paint wafted over the lawn.
“All right, King Midas,” Randy said. “We got accolades
and an offer for lemonade, but the project took too long.
We went over budget. And you can’t seem to find it in your
heart to let the good lady … who’s not hurting for money
… know she owes us two days extra labor.”
The rebuke spit like rusty nails and poked holes in his
ego. Because people came first.
A stiff breeze chilled the sweat along his arms. “If too
long gets it done right, then so be it.”
“This was our last job, boss. The Cantrell House at the
university is still in the discussion stages, and we need a
solid deal now. If that means speeding things up, taking
modern projects, I say, we do it.”
“The deals we’ve landed are due to quality
craftsmanship, my charm, and business savvy.” Hand to
his chest, Gabe dipped his chin.
“Too bad your pride can’t be cashed in.”
Brandishing his bandana, Gabe snapped it across
Randy’s arm, added a hard glare.
“No one’s arguing with your ability to bring in
business,” Randy said, nursing his arm. “As for charm,
I’ll leave that to the ladies to determine. We’ve got to work
on efficiency. Maybe add to our crew.”
“Big Ben, Charlie, and Ryan are plenty enough.”
“Whom you let go early today. Just to be nice.”
“They were tired.”
“And I’m not?” he shot back. “We can’t afford to turn
business away for lack of muscle. And I, for one, don’t relish
working twelve-plus hour days like we’ve been doing.”
Disquiet screeched inside Gabe’s brain, clawed at his
ribs.
“I’m missing family time with Summer and the girls,
and no doubt you’re missing Jill. Or, no, wait. I got this.”
He raised a palm and then pointed at Gabe. “Ashleigh.”
“Neither.”
A disgruntled laugh spilled out. “What happened to
Ashleigh? Or Jill, for that matter?”
“We broke up.” No, Gabe ended it. Both times.
“Ah, man. They were lookers, too.”
“Yeah, well, outward beauty fades. I need depth.”
A woman of strength, unshakable.
Someone to believe in me.
“Yeah, but you cast a girl off like a pair of worn-out
shoes.”
A deafening rumble quaked inside his brain, struck a
match behind his eyes. He turned a hard stare at Randy.
“If the shoes don’t fit, a guy needs to find himself a pair
that do.”
Randy collapsed one of two worktables, hefted it into
the company van, and turned to Gabe, expression granite.
“According to Summer, Jill was pretty busted up when you
broke up with her.”
Slam.
“She left the Children’s Advocacy Center board meeting
to go bawl her eyes out in the bathroom.”
That stung.
“She didn’t pass the Champ test. Neither did Ashleigh.”
Or … well, names of previous girls had faded to nothing,
buried in history. “At first growl, it’s over.” Gabe hefted
another worktable, hands clamped at each side. Since
taking in Champ, the yellow Labrador—a hurricane
rescue— several years ago, no woman had succeeded in
evoking anything milder than a canine snarl. “Anyway,
I’ve got Carmen.”
One hip cocked beside the van, arms tightly crossed,
Randy tilted his head. A deep notch formed at his brow.
“Um, who?”
“Carmen Murdock.”
“Tell me she’s no relation to financier Warren Murdock,
CEO of Murdock Enterprises?”
“His daughter.”
Murdock’s only daughter and prized possession.
Randy clapped a palm to his forehead, squeezed his
eyes shut.
“Just hear me out.” Gabe flipped palms up, defense
coloring his tone. “I met her in Jackson Square a few
months back, outside the entrance to St. Louis Cathedral.
She was alone and crying.”
“So?”
“Score a minus five for compassion, partner.”
“At least I exercise discretion. I don’t think there’s
anyone you wouldn’t pick up off the street.”
Fair assessment. But this providential encounter came
with her daddy’s promise of financial backing … endless
opportunities … maybe the coercion to give marriage to
Carmen serious consideration. It had never been his
character to put a girl’s heart at risk to save his hide. But
the mighty Warren Murdock had a sizable project in the
works—refurbishing a neglected low-rent district for use
by business professionals—and suggested Gabe’s company
would be awarded the job. Truth was, he genuinely cared
for Carmen.
“Carmen was on a riverboat when her date tried to
take advantage of her,” Gabe said. “When she refused, he
stole her purse and left her stranded at the pier. Murdock
had the guy charged with larceny, got him fired. Basically,
ruined him.”
Randy shook his head slowly. “How quickly one bad
decision can take a man down.”
The reality inched far too close.
“While I’m all about networking with someone of
Murdock’s prominence, did you consider the risk to us if
you make a wrong move with her?” Randy pressed his tone
prickly. “You’ll incinerate our business if Daddy Murdock
retaliates.”
The unsolicited warning shredded Gabe’s reasoning.
Fear snatched a response.
Randy’s brows hitched in challenge. “A thousand
bucks says you haven’t introduced Carmen to Champ.”
Without question, his beloved dog would seal Carmen’s
fate by way of raised hackles and menacing growl. Not
entirely the kind of girl a guy brings home to his momma
… even if his own had been no prize, walking out on
Gabe and Dad back in high school, fed up with Dad’s
shortcomings. Mom had scattered family unity across the
front lawn of their mobile home. Before that had to be
sold off, too.
Randy’s level stare, rife with judgment, singed Gabe’s
cheeks. “Is it that you don’t believe you can snag a girl
with character?”
Anger widened the divide between them. In tandem
with the growth of Gabe’s business, scads of women
had been in hot pursuit. All too eager to please. Not that
he would allow things to enter the red zone anymore.
Overcome by a fit of conscience last year, rumblings had
surfaced from Adam Carmichael, Gabe’s spiritual mentor.
Prompted him to crush sexual carelessness and resolve to
hold off until marriage.
He gave the van door a robust slam. A chortle rumbled
in his throat.
“I didn’t have to go dumpster diving to find Summer.
We met at—”
“I know. Church.” Gabe drew a haughty gaze to the
sky. “But that won’t guarantee a heavenly matchup either.
And a man shouldn’t have to go through hoops to capture
the heart of a beautiful, God-fearing woman.”
Randy’s nod of understanding thinned the wall of
defense. “The real question is, where’s your faith? Once
you and God are walking in step, he’ll bring the woman of
his choosing in good time.” His tone softened like butter
on the front porch of a Louisiana farmhouse, the wisdom
equally rich. “You aren’t likely to discover what you have
no intention to find.”
Doubt burned inside his chest. “Not sure this divinely
appointed woman you speak of would attach herself to
someone hauling generations of father failure.” The ache
in his heart bled into his tone, rendering it tenuous at
best.
“We’ve all got wounds, boss. Junk in the trunk. God’s
grace cleans it out.”
The words rippled across his soul like a pebble over
still water. Only sorry excuses explained why he’d stiffarmed
God, allowed his heart to gather dust. Carmen’s
sultry gaze emerged in his brain. Good woman enough,
undaunted by an undesirable family story. What little
he’d shared.
“While we’re on the subject of fathers, how’s your dad
doing?”
“Dunno.”
The front door whined. Gabe turned to see Mrs. Beasley
handling a beverage tray, two tall, ice-filled glasses
balanced on top.
Mounting the steps, he took the glasses. “Thanks,
much, ma’am.” Sticky liquid dribbled over his fingers.
The scent of sugar-sweet lemonade soothed his soul.
Pale sunbeams broke through paunchy clouds and
branches, caressed the lawn. Her twinkling eyes drew into
half-moons. No greater payback than a satisfied customer.
One who’d referenced Gabe as the can-do man. Nothing
like Dad.
His cell rang. Unfamiliar area code. Not unusual,
though. Potential clients inquired from all over. “Yep?”
And then the low, delicious laugh of a feminine voice.
“I must have the wrong number. I was looking for house
restoration specialists.”
“That’d be me.”
“Historicals, specifically. Really old ones—pre–Civil
War.”
Intrigue had Gabe pressing the phone to his ear. Randy
stepped close, leaned in.
“You’ve got one that needs restoration?”
Please?
“I do, actually. My name is Everley Scott.”
Gabe’s breath caught in his lungs. That name. Oncein-
a-lifetime, refreshingly unique and assigned to … the
numbers girl.
High school crush.
And you answered with … yep?
Loser.
“I’m calling from Chicago. I own a house. Quite large,
actually. It’s near Bayou Lafourche and was left to me by
my mother, Marigold Lewis, and doggone if she didn’t
insist I employ your company to complete its restoration.
Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing?”
The derisive laugh gnawed at him a bit.
Still, it was her. The girl who did crazy things to his
seventeen-year-old brain. The reason he believed in love
ever after. The shy, smart girl who needed someone to tell
her how truly wonderful she was.
Because now, it seemed, she’d taken the name Scott.
If only he’d mustered the courage back then.

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