The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,51

motioned to a table by the window. I took a seat.

“I see you’ve already started the renovation,” he said.

“As best we can,” I said. “The building permits finally came through, so things should go more quickly now.”

He nodded, deeply, as if he found this terribly interesting. “Well. It’s quite a project you’re undertaking. I’ve been in the business a long time; started out doing historical restorations but I gave it up a few years ago,” he said, flapping his hand and shaking his head. “Something always goes wrong with these big old houses. They always end up being more trouble and costing more money than they’re worth. But”—he shrugged—“you’re probably starting to realize that.”

I sipped my coffee and said nothing. Subtlety wasn’t exactly Cabot’s strong suit, and I knew where he was trying to steer the conversation. I also knew there wasn’t much point in trying to explain to him that it’s impossible to put a price tag on history, especially when it’s yours. Cabot sniffed and cleared his throat.

“So. Miss Fairchild, now that you’ve realized what you’ve gotten yourself into, I’d like you to reconsider my offer. In consideration for the work that’s already been done,” he said, flashing his shark teeth, “I’m willing to add another four thousand to my original offer.”

“Thank you, but no.”

“All right, six thousand.” The shark smile hardened into a grimace. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Fairchild.”

“No, thank you, Mr. James. I’m going to finish the restoration and live in the house.”

“Why?” he asked, scowling. His scowl was so much more genuine than his smile. “Why would you want to live in a big house all alone?”

That really wasn’t any of his business. But I’d met men like Cabot James before, men who hated anybody or anything that got in the way of their plans and profits. And so, because I wanted him to understand that I wasn’t being coy or trying to negotiate for better terms, I explained why I was undertaking the restoration. Not all the details, mind you, just that I was hoping to adopt a child and that the restoration of the house, which needed to be completed before the home visit, was integral to making that happen.

His expression seemed to soften and he actually seemed to be listening to what I had to say. I reconsidered my initial opinion of him, thinking he might not be as bad as I’d first thought. He was bobbing his head in agreement as I neared the end of my story and sat in silence for a moment when I was finished, head still bobbing but more slowly, apparently mulling things over.

“Okay,” he said, looking down at his big hands. “But . . . what if there was a way we could both get what we wanted? Some way that I could build my project and you could have a home for your kid.” He lifted his head, giving me an expectant look.

“I already had some initial meetings with an architect,” he said when I didn’t respond. “He figures we can build six condos on the property, two baths, two or three bedrooms each, fourteen hundred to sixteen hundred square feet with one off-street parking space for each unit. Here, let me show you.”

He pulled a black-and-white rendering from his pocket and laid it on the table. The sketches were simple but gave a good idea what the project would look like when it was finished. The condos were modern-looking with clean lines and plenty of windows.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Pretty nice, huh?”

“They are,” I said truthfully. “But they don’t really fit in with the rest of the neighborhood, do they? Do you really think the city would approve your design?”

“You just let me worry about that,” he said, and folded the drawing in half. “The approvals won’t be a problem. All I need is the land.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said, clasping his hands and rubbing them together. “You sell me the property at the price I offered originally. I’ll let you move into one of my other properties rent-free while the condos are under construction. When they’re done, I’ll sell you one of the two-bedroom units at my cost, which should run about . . .”

He took out a pen and wrote a figure on the back of the drawing. I’d been back in Charleston long enough to know that it was far below market value.

“I’m even willing to protect you against cost overruns,” he said. “You’ll know