Tomorrow's Sun Read Free Page A

almost always misinterpreted. He still hadn’t recovered from the last mistake.
     
    With dark blond hair pulled straight back and no makeup, he’d guess her to be an accountant or lawyer. Something dry and bookish. She’d told him on the phone this was her first house flip. He didn’t like the way she’d said it. But then, he didn’t like the term
flip
anyway. It sounded like something fast, cheap. Flippant. She wouldn’t get fast or cheap out of him if he took the job.
     
    If
he took the job.
     
    He waited a respectful few minutes, gazing down at trees bursting with new, bright green leaves. Skinny branches arched over the river like hundreds of fishing poles. The water was as high as he’d ever seen it. If he found a spare minute he’d get out the kayak. Another big if.
     
    He was walking out the door when he heard her. Slow, halting steps up the stairs. He backtracked to the window and pretended to be absorbed in the flight of a fat robin toting a strip of blue plastic.
     
    “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Emily Foster stopped in the doorway. “I think I mentioned on the phone that I had the house thoroughly inspected before I bought it. The roof was replaced nine years ago. I’ve hired painters for the exterior and I plan on sanding the porch myself. The foundation is sound. So”—she nodded toward the wall between the two north bedrooms—“why don’t we start up here? I’m thinking these two rooms, with a bath in between, will be the master suite.”
     
    Jake’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the row of old hooks in a small, open closet. Knocking out that closet would be nothing short of criminal. He grunted for her to continue the torture.
     
    “This is a weight-bearing wall.” She tapped it with the tip of her cane. A triangle chunk of plaster landed between them. “But with a header, I think it’ll work. If we—”
     
    “Can we back up a sec?” Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “First of all”—he stretched out his hand—“maybe we should actually meet. Jake Braden.”
     
    “Yes. You’re right.” She held out a pale hand and shook his. “Nice to meet you face-to-face.”
     
    He’d seen more enthusiasm in a smoked trout.
     
    He planted his hands on his belt. “Before we get started, tell me what you already know about the history of the house so I don’t bore you with stories you’ve already heard.”
     
    The girl blinked. Twice, then again. Did she not understand the request?
     
    “Most of the wiring was replaced in the seventies and, like I said, the roof—”
     
    “I mean
history
. Like what happened here, who lived here.”
     
    “Oh.” That expression could only be labeled annoyance. “It was built in the 1840s and it was a little over a hundred years old when the Ostermanns bought it. Grace’s great-granddaughter told me legend has it that the man who built this house served with Abraham Lincoln in the Blackhawk War, and Lincoln stopped here once for a visit. That tidbit could come in handy as a selling point.”
     
    Selling point?
The greatest president this country ever knew could have slept in this very room and she called it a
tidbit?
Jake exhaled and almost forgot to take another breath.
     
    “The main floor was redone at some point, but the second story here is all original lath and plaster.” She tapped the toe of her sandal on the chunk of plaster between them. “I’ve drawn up plans to open up both floors. The place pretty much needs a complete overhaul.”
     
    Overhaul?
Jake’s sentimental soul writhed. Her word choice summoned visions of steamrollers and wrecking balls. “It needs some cosmetics, but—”
     
    “The layout is boxy.”
     
    Jake folded his arms to stop his elbows from jutting out like a frilled-neck lizard.
It’s a Greek Revival house, lady
. He counted the boards from the door to her cane. “You’re planning on selling as soon as it’s done, right?”
     
    She gave him an of-course look. “Yes. I’m hoping to