Page 36 of The Christmas Eve Delivery

“I have a feeling we’re going to need more investors. Maybe if we flash higher buying prices at the homeowners, they’ll be willing to sell.”

“Is throwing more money at Brookdale really the answer? What if we started researching some other towns in the region?” Jackson asked.

“No,” I snapped. “Brookdale. It needs to be Brookdale.”

19

LYDIA

“Do you need anything, Tony?” I asked the handyman I had hired for the week.

I had budgeted carefully and was knocking out as many medium-size projects as could be completed during the week. I focused on smaller issues like making sure all the door locks and keys were functional, while Tony patched drywall and pressure washed the brick walls around the back half of the building. Neither of us thought the decorative shingle siding would withstand pressure washing. I painted a few closets, and he tackled bigger paint jobs like the front and back porches.

He was currently painting all the detailed woodwork with another coat of white. Someday, maybe after one of those grants came in, I could paint Sweet Mountain in all the colors and be a painted lady like the library.

Aunt Ruth had really done the inn, and me, a real disservice by not allowing me to learn how to maintain this place. She had kept the inn limping along on the bare minimum. It broke my heart how much of my mother’s efforts had come undone in the past ten years. Sweet Mountain Inn needed to be brought backup to a certain level of repair, and then regular maintenance would keep her in good shape.

Logically, I knew I wasn’t going to have her back in top condition in less than a year, but in my heart, I really wanted this lovely old place in peak condition immediately. In my business plans, I was looking at five years to undo the past ten years’ worth of damage, and another five after that to get her into showplace quality. If any of the grants I applied for came through, maybe I could get the Sweet Mountain Inn in top shape sooner than ten years.

I was doing as much as I possibly could. Even before I got pregnant, there were tasks I couldn’t manage, and that’s why Tony was here.

“I’m good,” he said.

I watched for a minute as he worked the paintbrush with small taps to get the paint into the filigree areas of the gingerbread woodworking around the edges of the porch roof.

“I made myself a sandwich. Let me know if you change your mind.” I sat on the porch steps and ate my sandwich. It wasn’t anything fancy—bologna, a slice of cheese, mayonnaise, and white bread. It reminded me of my childhood. Once upon a time, a sandwich like this out on the front steps of the inn felt like the best lunch ever. Mom always cut the bread into giant triangles, and if we had potato chips, I would have a handful of those, and maybe a pickle spear or two.

I glanced down at my plate. I had forgotten the chips and pickles.

I pushed up to my feet.

“Hey, Tony, I’m going to go get some chips. Are you certain I can’t make you a sandwich?”

He wiped his brow, smearing a slash of white paint across it. “Yeah, I could use something to eat. What you got, PB and J?”

“Bologna,” I said.

“Can you put yellow mustard on there for me? And a big drink. You got some lemonade or something?”

“I have iced tea,” I mentioned.

“Sounds perfect.”

I returned to the kitchen and put together a few more sandwiches. I made myself a second one, since I was hungry. This time, when I carried lunch out to the porch, I remembered chips and pickles.

I returned to my spot on the stairs. Tony sat a few steps below me. At first, we ate in silence and then he got chatty.

“You know, a few coats of paint aren’t going to fix the problem. Half of this decorative molding is rotted out,” Tony said.

“I know. But it’s not something I can buy at the local hardware store. I would have to custom order it, or make it myself, and my woodworking skills are nonexistent.”

“You’re running the Historical Society. Haven’t you managed to get one of those grants you tell people to apply for?”

I let out a bitter laugh. I hated admitting it, but the entire grant process was a lot harder than I had expected. I couldn’t just write an essay outlining why the Sweet Mountain Inn deserved an infusion of cash. I had to provide data about the history of the building and how many people stayed there on a regular basis. I needed to provide projections regarding the economical impact it made on the town.

“I keep applying, but the process is much more complicated than I expected.”

“Have you talked to that group, the Carlisle people, about selling?” he asked.

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