The Number 94 Project E-Book

Cheyenne Blue

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 500

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Renovation takes a sexy turn when a cute country girl rocks up with a tool belt and plans that throw the whole gay neighbourhood into disarray in this light-hearted lesbian romance. When handywoman Jorgie's uncle leaves her an old house in Melbourne, it's a dream come true. Sure, 94 Gaylord Street is falling apart, and she has to deal with her uncle Bruce's eccentric friends thanks to his unusual will. But that's okay. She'll fire up her power tools and turn the dilapidated terrace house into a desirable inner-city pad. Then she'll sell up and head home to the country. Jorgie hasn't counted on falling for cute neighbour Marta, who's found her heart-home among the tight queer-community of Gaylord Street. Between mugs of too-strong tea and Jorgie's lack of a working shower, the two forge a surprising connection. But what happens when the renovation's complete? Can Jorgie really just toss aside her tool belt and saunter away?

Leseprobe

Table Of Contents

Other Books by Cheyenne Blue

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

About Cheyenne Blue

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www.ylva-publishing.com

Other Books by Cheyenne Blue

All at Sea

A Heart This Big

Code of Conduct

Party Wall

Girl Meets Girl Series:

Never-Tied Nora

Not-So-Straight Sue

Fenced-In Felix

The Girl Meets Girl Collection (box set)

Acknowledgements

My 2020, as for so many people, ended up running off the rails. 2020 was to be the year I moved from Queensland back to Melbourne to renovate a tumbledown, dilapidated house. It didn’t happen, of course. COVID-19, Melbourne’s strict lockdowns, and general insecurity in the world saw to that.

So I did the next best thing and wrote a book about renovating a house in the inner city. I enjoyed vicariously living the Melbourne life in a world where there was no COVID. The Number 94 in this story is not a real house, and while some of the places mentioned are real, the community of Gaylord Street and its people are from my imagination.

Once again, I give heartfelt thanks to the team at Ylva Publishing: my fantastic editor Alissa, Astrid and her team of content editors, copy editors, proof readers, cover designers, formatters, distributors, media gurus, blurb writers, accounts and admin, and all the people who play a role in getting any book out.

A huge thanks to my beta readers, Sophie, Erin, and Laure, who gave me such great feedback, and importantly don’t pull their punches. You all helped to make this a better story. Thanks to K.D. who did a sensitivity read on a short section, and to Sandra who passed opinion on a passage about a psychologist. And thanks to my stalwart workmate, Marg, who not only keeps my alter ego a secret in the workplace but has a legal-eagle eye when it comes to a typo.

Thank you to D for doing all the work when we’re out camping, so that all I have to do is drink coffee and get the words down. Everything is better with love.

Cheyenne Blue

Queensland, Australia

Chapter 1

The Nosy Neighbours

“Pssst.”

Marta glanced around. The voice was Coral’s husky ex-smoker’s croak, but although Marta had stopped outside Coral’s house, her friend was nowhere in sight.

“Over here.” Coral’s pale, age-spotted hand waved from behind the giant rosemary bush at the front of her yard. “Don’t keep walking.”

Marta pushed open the sagging front gate and spied Coral stooped behind the rosemary, peering down the street. “What’s up?”

“Bruce’s niece is here.” Coral’s scarlet chiffon scarf caught on the bush and she twitched it free. Her bright-red nail varnish flashed in the sun. “You would have walked into her if you’d kept going.”

Marta switched the litre of milk she carried to her other hand and pushed a pair of secateurs out of the way with her toe. “I need to get this milk into the fridge before it turns into sour cream. Since when has Melbourne been this hot in March?”

“You can drink your coffee black if the milk goes off. This, darling, is hot news. What do you think? Look quickly and tell me.”

Marta looked where Coral pointed.

A slender, white woman stood in the middle of Gaylord Street, hands on hips, scrutinising the row of terrace houses on the opposite side of the street to Coral’s. Her brief white singlet revealed tanned shoulders, and even from twenty metres away it was obvious her faded khaki shorts had seen better days. Lean legs ended in heavy workboots. A tool belt with hammers and a blocky tape measure hung low on her hips.

Something heavy plummeted from Marta’s chest to her stomach. “Oh. It must be her.”

“That’s what I said. Try to sound a little excited.” Coral tugged at Marta’s T-shirt. “Get down. She’ll see you.”

“She’ll spot me in about two minutes when I get home. She’s my new neighbour.” She scrutinised Coral. “Why aren’t you already in her face saying hello as you do to everyone who even pauses outside your gate?”

“I’m doing my reconnaissance first. Once I’ve got a feel for her, then I’ll be over there borrowing a cup of sugar and pumping her for information.” Coral peered at Marta through heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

“Did ASIO recruit you overnight to spy for them?” Marta heaved a sigh and put the milk down in the shade. She’d thought she was doing better. But seeing Bruce’s niece—for who else could it be prowling around outside his house—stirred up a longing for her old friend. She ducked her head momentarily to hide her damp eyes.

“Hey.” Coral rested a motherly hand on Marta’s shoulder. A quick squeeze and then she ran her hand down Marta’s arm to clasp her fingers. “It’s okay to be upset. I miss him too. And it’s only been six weeks.”

“I always thought Bruce would be around forever.” She blinked fast and managed a wobbly smile.

“Ssh.” Coral rubbed the back of Marta’s hand. “His niece is probably lovely. She has his genes after all, so she’s probably as funny and delightful as our Brucie was. And we don’t know what she’s going to do with the house—although she’ll have to do something. It will crumble into the ground if she doesn’t.”

Marta bobbed her head and dashed at her eyes with the back of her hands. A deep breath. Another.

“Okay?” Coral tipped her head to one side and regarded her.

“Yeah.” Marta’s voice cracked, and she switched her attention back to the street. “Bruce ordered me not to be sad when he passed, but I’ve never been good at following orders.”

Coral’s scarlet lips parted in a grin. “I know, darling. We’ll get through.” She inclined her head at Bruce’s niece. “And she could be just the woman to hold your hand as you do.”

Marta flicked Coral’s scarf away from the rosemary once more. “Not everyone who comes to Gaylord Street is queer. Bruce’s niece probably has a handsome husband and three mischievous but adorable kidlets.”

Coral made a rude sound. “Use your eyes. She’s wearing a tool belt. And she has a fine pair of hammers hanging from it. When did you last see a woman with a tool belt who didn’t like other women?”

“The last time I went to Bunnings and couldn’t find silicone sealant. The aisles were full of women with tool belts, and if they were all queer, then the ten-percent theory is well and truly smashed.”

Coral puffed out her cheeks. “And don’t we wish that it was.” She peered down the street again toward Number 94.

Bruce’s niece took a couple of paces toward the house.

Marta knew what she was seeing: a tiny, overgrown yard in front of a shabby red-brick house with a black-painted door and a single front window. For the most part, the tightly packed houses along Gaylord Street were the long, narrow Victorian workers’ cottages dating to the early 1900s. With a layout and plumbing to match.

Coral grabbed her arm and ducked behind the rosemary again. “She’s looking this way.”

Marta got an impression of chin-length brown curls, but she was too far away to see the woman’s expression. Marta waved, and received a half-wave in return. “See, she’s friendly. No need to hide.”

Coral bobbed up with the secateurs in her hand and made some vague passes at the overgrown rosemary. Fragrant clippings fell to the ground. “Is she still looking?”

“Not anymore. You can stop pretending. You haven’t trimmed this bush in ten years.”

“Time to start then.” Coral picked up some of the clippings and handed them to Marta. “Add these to your risotto, or whatever you’re cooking tonight.” She peered up the street again. “Look, she’s going in.”

The woman pulled something from her pocket, opened the rusty gate, and walked the three paces to the front door of Number 94.

The same wash of sorrow pushed into Marta’s throat. Bruce was gone. His niece was here, and times were changing. She needed to accept that.

The woman disappeared into Bruce’s house.

“I wonder if she’s ever seen inside before.” Coral, too, looked down the street. “For all that we loved Bruce, he was the world’s worst housekeeper. She could be in for a hell of a shock.”

The woman exited the house and went to a rather battered white truck parked outside. She pulled out a sports bag and returned to the house.

“If that’s all she’s brought, it doesn’t look as if she’ll be staying long.” Coral switched her gaze to Marta. “Have you still got a key?”

Marta nodded. “Another reason I should say hello—to give her the key.” She picked up the milk.

“Don’t forget to report back. Find out what she’s going to do with the house.”

“I will.”

“Bruce said…” Coral’s gaze fixed on the peeling purple paint on the gate. “That he’d remembered some of us in his will. He said I was one. And while he didn’t say any names, I’m betting you are too. Of all of us, you were closest to him.”

Marta nodded. “Yeah, he said the same to me. A keepsake, I imagine. Maybe he’s left me his souvenir teaspoons.”

Coral laughed. “Just what you need. Kitschy tourist spoons. But you’re probably right; that’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do. Me, I’m hoping for a couple of his china cats. Remember how, after every dinner party, when we’d all overeaten as usual and were awash with wine, he’d hold up that ugly figurine of a kitten, the one with bright-red protruding eyes and a pink bow around its neck and say—”

“Pussy’s bow, darlings. I’m stuffed to pussy’s bow,” they said together, and then dissolved into laughter.

Marta fancied she could hear Bruce’s great booming laugh honking along with them. She looked up to the sky and smiled, then glanced over at Number 94. The front door stood ajar. Bruce’s niece was probably walking around the cluttered interior, eyes wide with disbelief at his bad taste. “It will be strange having a neighbour again.”

“Don’t be too sure.” Coral nodded in the direction of Number 94. “She’s leaving already.”

The woman opened the door of her truck, but instead of driving off, she pulled out a couple more bags and a toolbox and took them inside.

Marta rested her hand on the gatepost. “I should go and say hello. See if she needs anything.”

“Go.” Coral gave her a push in the small of the back.

Marta stepped onto the narrow footpath and squeezed through the parked cars to cross the street.

Bruce’s niece had disappeared, and the door was now closed.

Marta entered her own yard. Her wooden fence was painted the same mint-green as the door, and the tiny yard boasted a tangle of herbs and native Australian shrubs: grevillea, correa, and pink heath. They spilled over the uneven brick paving in a riot of colour. Marta paused and let the pleasure of arriving home warm her once again, before she glanced over the low brick wall that separated her house from Number 94. The truck was still there but there was no sign of anyone. She opened her door and went inside. For a second, she paused to listen, but no noise came through the wall. Bruce’s niece didn’t seem to have inherited his rowdiness along with his house.

What was she like? Bruce had barely mentioned her, and his solicitor hadn’t given her name. There was only the impression of a lanky body and bobbed curly brown hair. Her clothes suggested she was a tradesperson of some sort. Well, that would be just the thing for Number 94.

No doubt Marta would find out about her new neighbour soon enough.

Chapter 2

The Niece from the Outback

How had Bruce lived in this clutter? Jorgie edged her way along the hallway. Her tool belt caught on a spindly table, tilting it alarmingly. Some china ornaments slid along the dusty surface, and a couple of them crashed to the floor.

Shit. When Jorgie stooped to brush the pieces into a pile, her toe collided with one of the table legs. The leg collapsed, and the rest of the figurines crashed to the ground in a melee of colourful china. Colourful, broken china.

Jorgie blew out a frustrated breath and stepped over the pieces. “Sorry, Bruce,” she said to the dust motes in the hallway. “I hope they weren’t your favourites.”

She’d clear it up later; right now, she was curious to see the rest of the house. Her house. She shook her head in disbelief. Who’d a thunk it?

Two doors opened off the long hallway. Bedrooms, she presumed. She pushed open the first door, and a long cobweb trailed over her face and hair. Ugh. She shivered and brushed it away, trying not to wonder where the web’s occupant was.

A wrought-iron queen bed and railings of clothing made the small room appear even tinier. It had to be Bruce’s bedroom.

A tweed jacket hung next to a rose-pink crushed velvet blazer, as if Bruce hadn’t been able to decide between Oxford scholar and camp, inner-city gay. A memory of Bruce wearing the blazer with a lime-green shirt edged into Jorgie’s mind. The two of them, eating in an African restaurant somewhere nearby. It was the last time she’d seen him, but he’d done so much for her in that one visit. It must have been most of thirteen years ago, yet he still had the blazer. She pressed it to her cheek, catching her breath as the memory pulsed in her throat and a familiar guilt weighted her gut. Carefully, she rehung the blazer and smoothed the collar.

Jorgie pressed a hand to the bed. It was firm. Good. Once she’d cleaned up, vacuumed the dust from the room, and found some fresh sheets, she could sleep here. She returned to her truck to grab her sports bag and put it on the bed.

She left the bedroom and eased her way down the hallway, careful not to knock anything else. The polished floorboards sagged alarmingly as she stepped into the second bedroom, which was laid out as an office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined most of the walls, and extra books were stacked in haphazard towers on the floor. A sleek, silver laptop looked out of place on the dark wooden desk.

The hallway opened into a cramped kitchen. Jorgie turned a slow circle. The appliances looked older than she was. Hell, even her mother would turn up her nose at them, but at least they were clean. The ancient microwave would probably suck more power than the national grid had to offer—if it worked at all. The tiny living room off the kitchen had cracks in the wall and a huge wooden table pushed to one side but otherwise didn’t look too bad.

Where was the bathroom? Jorgie frowned and retraced her steps. No bathroom. That left the door from the kitchen. It took some tugging and jiggling of the rusty lock before she could open it. Outside, a covered concrete walkway led down the side of the house. Jorgie walked to where she could see two more doors leading back into the rear of the house.

She opened the first door. A pale-blue bathtub with a shower head dominated the room. Jorgie’s lips twitched in a rueful smile. At least it wasn’t avocado-green.

The final door led to a laundry area and toilet, and beyond that the passageway ended at the tiny backyard.

She blew out a breath. This wasn’t the sleek, modern cottage she’d imagined when the solicitor had called. She’d dreamed of a light-filled, airy space of plate glass and polished timber, with racy modern art on the walls. The reality was rundown. But that was okay; it was hers.

Sort of.

A twitch of something she couldn’t immediately identify beat in her stomach. The house was shabby. Bruce had had money—his will was proof of that—but he obviously hadn’t cared to spend much on home maintenance. The twitch grew to a flutter. My house. She went out into the backyard, where rusty gutters and a sagging fence weighed down by creeper greeted her. The house was awful. But it was hers.

Jorgie threw back her head and laughed to the cloudy sky. She was a homeowner. She spun in a circle, arms outstretched, twirling and spinning with a delirious joy until she was dizzy and staggering. She collapsed on a wooden bench by the rear door and rested her head back on the wall.

What should she do?

The house needed a lot of work. Repairs to the walls and floorboards, and a new roof. The bones of it had to be made strong before she considered anything else. To make it liveable, desirable even, the house had to be brought into the twenty-first century. A modern bathroom. A kitchen that didn’t look like it belonged in a museum with a sign reading The 1950s housewife’s daily duties were easy in a modern kitchen like this one.

She worried her front teeth with her tongue. Decisions, decisions.

Jorgie returned to the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, bracing herself for a sour smell. But the fridge was clean and empty. There was a neighbour who’d written to her and Cilla offering condolences. What was her name? Marta? She must have cleaned out the fridge.

The two women who’d stared at her from across the road leaped into her mind. Stalking her more like—she’d seen them ducking behind the bush. Jorgie grinned. Maybe one of them was Marta. She’d have to find out.

Jorgie pressed her hands to her stomach. How long since she’d last eaten? Hours ago, and only a rather tired sausage roll she’d bought from a servo when she’d stopped for fuel. She’d bring in the rest of her gear then go grab a sandwich and takeaway food she could reheat later. Maybe she’d sit on the veranda and listen to the sounds of the city. Try to sort through the conflicting ideas and emotions in her head and figure out what she was going to do.

When she went out to her truck, the two women were still in the front yard a few doors up on the opposite side of the street.

Jorgie took her toolbox and remaining two bags from the truck and carried them inside, past the ornate metal plaque proclaiming Number 94.

The house next door had pale-green paintwork and a cared-for appearance. It oozed charm. That must be where Marta lived, since Bruce’s house—her house—was the end of the terrace.

The email from the solicitor leaped into her head. It was all very well deciding what she wanted to do, but it wasn’t entirely up to her what happened to the house. Her stomach turned an uncomfortable circle. First, she had to decide what she was able to do.

Then, she’d have a talk with Marta and the others.

Chapter 3

A Fishing Expedition

When Marta watered the herbs a short while later, her new neighbour’s battered white truck was still outside Number 94. She stared at it as she waved the hose over the array of pots and cursed when the spray wet her feet.

She could knock on the door and introduce herself. After all, she’d sent a condolence card to Bruce’s sister—the new owner’s mother.

The spray from the hose soaked her sandals as she remembered Bruce’s last days.

He’d clutched Marta’s hand and told her things he wanted her to know: that his only regret was not returning to Thailand to seek out the young man with pansy eyes he’d fallen for when he, too, was young. That Marta should get a cat once he was gone, as he knew she hadn’t out of consideration for his allergies. And then he told her his house was going to his niece as she would have need of it most of all.

“Our little gay village in the heart of the city,” he’d said, his voice so faint Marta had to bend close to hear the words. “How I have loved living here.” His eyes opened and pierced Marta with their gaze. “Don’t be sad for me, Marta. Celebrate life, celebrate living. Enjoy every moment and remember me fondly.”

“I will,” Marta replied. “I’ll remember your fondness for pre-dinner martinis and after-dinner port, that terrible pink blazer of yours with moth holes in the collar, and those wonderful dinner parties that went on until morning.”

“We had good times, didn’t we?” His voice fluttered, so barely there for such a larger-than-life man.

“We did,” she said. “I love you, dear friend.”

Bruce’s soft sigh had been her only answer.

And now Bruce’s niece was here, and Marta should go and say hello rather than dithering and drowning her sandals. Should she call Coral and ask her to come too? But it was cocktail hour, and Coral would be filling her wide, old-fashioned champagne glass before settling onto her front porch to hold court for anyone who passed by.

Marta turned off the hose and squelched back inside. She put a couple of the cranberry muffins she’d made that morning in a paper bag and checked her hair in the mirror in the hallway, smoothing some strands that stuck out from her short bob and fluffing the back so it didn’t look so flat. Then she walked the few steps from her gate to Number 94.

The bell didn’t work, so Marta banged on the door as she always used to do. After a minute, the tread of feet echoed on the wooden floor and the door swung open. Up close, Bruce’s niece appeared older than Marta had guessed, maybe late twenties. Her white skin was tanned golden, as if she spent most of her time outdoors. A trail of cobwebs festooned her curly hair, probably from poking around in the house. She didn’t look much like Bruce: her cheekbones were higher, her nose thinner, her lips fuller, her neck longer—but her eyes were the same, warm and brown, with faint laugh lines at the corners. Wow. Marta shuffled her feet in the damp sandals. The woman was arresting, with her direct gaze and regal, almost haughty expression. But then her face broke into a friendly grin and a dimple winked in her right cheek. The standoffish first impression vanished like champagne from Coral’s glass. It was impossible not to smile back.

A dimple. Don’t look at it. Marta averted her eyes. Kryptonite.

“Hi,” the woman said. “I think I saw you in the street earlier?”

“You did,” Marta said. “I live next door though. I’m Marta, Bruce’s—” She caught herself. “Your neighbour.”

“I wondered if you were. I’m Jorgie, Bruce’s niece. My mother Cilla was Bruce’s sister.” Her gaze moved from the top of Marta’s head, across her face, and down her body to end at her still damp feet.

Marta’s toes curled in her sandals. Jorgie’s gaze wasn’t predatory; it seemed more curiosity, a cataloguing of her uncle’s friend, but it was still unexpected—and somewhat flattering.

“Thank you for your card. It was kind of you. Cilla and Bruce weren’t close. But you probably know that as you were his friend.”

“Bruce never talked much about his family,” Marta admitted.

Jorgie’s lips twisted. “Yeah. Well. I’m not surprised.” She glanced back along the hallway. “I was about to sit on the veranda for a while. Maybe have a beer. Would you like one?”

Marta hesitated. Would she be interrupting? But Coral’s voice echoed in her mind: Find out what she’s going to do with the house. And they were going to be neighbours, for however long. “Sure. Beer is always good. If you’re not rushing off anywhere?”

“I’m not,” Jorgie said. “I was going to reheat the takeaway I bought earlier and have an early night.” Her thousand-watt smile flashed again. “I’d really like it if you’d stay.”

Warmth trickled down Marta’s spine. That smile was dynamite. “Then I’d love one.”

“I’ll go grab them. It’s VB brand; nothing special.”

“That’s fine.” Belatedly, Marta held out the bag. “These are for you. They don’t really go with beer, but you might enjoy them for breakfast.”

Jorgie took the bag. “Thanks. I haven’t dared look much at the kitchen yet, except to wonder if the microwave works.”

“It does. But it makes twice as much noise and takes three times as long as you’d expect.”

“Sit.” Jorgie gestured to the wicker seats on the veranda. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Marta sat, shedding her sandals and curling onto the seat as she’d always done, thinking of the times she’d sat here with Bruce—him with his customary martini, her with a beer or a mug of green tea. They’d sat and watched the world of Gaylord Street pass by, their friends and neighbours, people heading to the Retreat Hotel on the next corner or to stroll along the Yarra River.

Jorgie returned with two small bottles of beer and handed one to Marta. For a moment there was silence.

Thoughts swirled in Marta’s mind, possible conversation openings, but none seemed quite right. She could hardly come straight out and ask what Jorgie intended to do. Maybe she should start babbling about the neighbourhood, or the weather. She pulled her knee up, rested her arm on it, and slid a sideways glance at Jorgie.

“I had a look around Abbotsford this afternoon,” Jorgie said. “I’ve only been here once before, and it was a long time ago, when I was fifteen. Cilla and I were living in South Australia then. I had some of the usual teenage drama, and I stormed out and came here to Bruce. I remember we walked by the river and went out to eat. Then he paid my coach fare home. I never saw the house.”

“It’s probably more dilapidated now, but it’s basically the same. Same paint, same kitchen and bathroom. Same dust.” She rolled her eyes. “Bruce wasn’t the handiest with the vacuum.”

“Mm. I’ve learned that.” Jorgie’s lips twitched.

Marta’s glance fixed on them. Up close, Jorgie’s lips were fascinating. Full, and with a delightful bow to them. They looked as if their owner smiled a lot. And the dimple, oh God, the dimple. She’d never been able to resist those cheeky little indentations. She was getting as bad as Coral, checking out every woman she talked with.

“I’m trying to decide what to do with the house.” Jorgie switched her direct gaze to Marta. “I’m sure you’ve heard I’ve inherited it?”

“Bruce told me before he passed.” Marta’s stomach roiled with anxiety. What was Jorgie going to do? Sell? Move in? What if she rented it to a gaggle of noisy college students? It was possible.

“It was a total surprise, to be honest.” Jorgie rolled the bottle between her palms and stared out at the street.

A couple walking past with a French bulldog gave a wave. Marta waved back, and after a second, Jorgie lifted a hand.

“It’s kinda nice here. I drove around for a while and then took a walk along the river,” Jorgie continued. “I didn’t expect such green space in the heart of Melbourne. There’s a huge brick building right on the river, surrounded by gardens. What’s that?”

“Abbotsford Convent,” Marta said. “It hasn’t been a convent for decades, of course. Now the rooms are offices and spaces for practitioners and artists. There’s a couple of restaurants and a bar in the courtyard. It’s a great place.”

“I’ll have to explore more.” Jorgie flashed her a smile.

Marta’s stomach churned a little less. The smile made her neighbour seem more approachable—less the niece no one knew and more like Bruce whom everyone knew. She returned the smile with one of her own. “I have a studio at the convent. I’m a potter. Well, part-time potter, part-time social worker.” She pointed to a row of bright flowerpots in the alcove in the veranda wall. “Those are my work.”

“They’re gorgeous. I love the colours.” Jorgie reached out and touched the trailing vine that hung from one of them. “Someone must have been watering these. You?”

Marta nodded. “No point letting them die.” Was Jorgie ever going to turn the conversation back to what she was going to do with the house? She wished Coral was with her. Coral would know what to say. She’d look Jorgie square in the face, bray her big horse laugh, call her “darling”, and ask outright if she was going to live in her inheritance, sell it, rent it, or demolish it. If only Marta had a quarter of Coral’s confidence with small talk, she’d have been fine. It was easy enough to talk with her clients: straightforward words about housing affordability and where to get assistance. But social chit-chat? Always hard with a new person.

“I expect you’re wondering what I’m going to do with the house.” Jorgie settled back in the wicker chair.

Marta itched to brush the trail of cobwebs away from Jorgie’s hair. Instead, she set down her beer and clasped her hands in her lap as if she were on the tram to St Kilda. “Yes. We’re all…that is, Bruce’s friends, are curious as to what will happen to Number 94. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re going to sell.”

“This is all new to me.” Jorgie waved a hand at the street. “I live in a tiny town—Worrock—in outback New South Wales. The population is only a few hundred.”

“Cilla lives there too. I remember the name.”

“Yeah.” Jorgie’s lips compressed. “I can’t leave her alone for long. She’s one reason I shouldn’t move here. And there are others. I should sell.” One tanned shoulder lifted in a shrug.

Marta nodded. Jorgie didn’t sound as if the decision was done and dusted. There were probably a hundred reasons why a move was impractical. No doubt Jorgie had work, commitments—maybe she did have the handsome husband and the pack of kids. Marta bit her lip. Jorgie might consider her options—which sounded like a Victorian marriage proposal—but Marta was sure she’d sell.

She swallowed the lump in her throat at the thought of Bruce’s house under the auctioneer’s hammer. It would be the end of an era when new people took over. When there were people who weren’t Bruce holding court on his veranda.

“This street is tightly held. Very little comes up for sale, or even for rent. Especially in this stretch, between Weatherby and Bright Streets. Bruce always used to call it our little gay village.” She shut her mouth with a snap, afraid she’d said too much. She shot a glance at Jorgie. Surely it wasn’t news to her that her uncle had been gay? And, by implication, she’d outed herself as well.

Jorgie nodded and regarded Marta with a slight smile. She didn’t seem perturbed by what Marta had said; indeed, her smile was a knowing one. Marta tried to breathe quietly. A gorgeous woman with a dimple. That was it; she might as well rip her clothes off and throw herself at Jorgie’s feet right now.

“Then, hopefully, the house would sell easily. I have a few decisions to make first though. It’s not as straightforward as it seems.”

Marta stared out at the street. What did Jorgie mean by that? Probably something complicated to do with probate. She wouldn’t have a clue.

“Tell me about Bruce’s life here,” Jorgie said. “If you don’t mind, that is. I didn’t know him, not really. One visit, Christmas cards, an occasional email. Our family are lousy communicators, and Cilla’s the worst of the lot. I know he was a philosophy professor at Melbourne Uni, but what about his friends? I don’t even know if he had a boyfriend.”

Marta let out a slow breath. So Jorgie knew Bruce was gay. That made it easier. “Bruce was talking about retirement when he got sick. He said he wanted to spend more time on his hedonistic lifestyle, but that was a joke. His friends on Gaylord Street were his family— Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Marta stared down at the dusty tiles. Tactless idiot!

“Hey, that’s okay.” Jorgie rested a hand on Marta’s arm briefly. “Found families are special, and I’m glad Bruce had that.”

“He always said we were one big happy family here. And then he’d laugh his great booming laugh and argue with Coral for the millionth time about the best way to make kimchi. Shrimp paste or no shrimp paste—that was the debate.” Marta smiled up at the rusty veranda roof. “He never had a boyfriend as long as I’ve known him. He tended to remain within the circle of close friends.”

“You, of course,” Jorgie said. “Who else?”

“Coral. She lives at Number 69. That was her I was with when we waved earlier. She and Bruce were around the same age—early sixties—and they were forever reminiscing about the good old days, and the good old gay scene around inner Melbourne.”

“Was there one?”

“To hear them talk, yes. I never did sort fact from fiction when they got to reminiscing. But it was quite different back in the seventies—a lot more underground.” Marta took another sip of her beer. “Then there’s Leo. He bought his place about five years ago.” Marta pointed at the double-fronted weatherboard directly opposite. “Leo’s lovely. You won’t miss him when he walks past. He’s ripped and bulky, and wears muscle tees. But he’s the sweetest person. He does carpentry and labouring work from time to time, so if you need a hand, he’s your man. Leo organises our street get-togethers. We all bring food and booze and hang out in the middle of the street.” Her gaze flicked toward Jorgie. “Stay around long enough—a week or so—and you’ll get an invite. Accept, as long as you’re not easily shocked.”

“I’m not.” A smile tinged Jorgie’s voice. “So you, Coral, and Leo, you were Bruce’s family in Gaylord Street?” Jorgie tilted her head and regarded Marta. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re a lot younger than Bruce.”

“Maybe I’m an old soul.” Marta shot her a smile. “I’m a homebody really. And like Bruce, I found my family in Gaylord Street. My parents both died when I was in my late teens, and I’ve been here pretty much ever since. I rented for a while, then bought my house about eleven years ago when it was as cheap as chips. Not like now.” She pushed her hair behind her ears. “You’ll do well if you sell it. But for me, I don’t see myself living anywhere else. My friends are here, and my studio’s nearby. My social-work clients are all in the inner city. What else is there?”

“When you put it like that, it makes sense.”

“Bruce had younger friends, apart from me. Leo’s the same age as me—mid-thirties, and then there’s Elfin. She’s nineteen and has lived here for a couple of years. She shares a house with Lulu. They’re a few doors up on this side. Bruce and Elfin got along well. He was always very protective of her.” Did Jorgie think it strange that Bruce was closer to neighbours than his actual relations? If she did, she wasn’t showing it.

Marta snuck a glance at Jorgie’s profile. It reminded her of something that should be in the National Portrait Gallery: an aristocratic profile with a determined jaw and high cheekbones. Her lips, though, were anything but severe. The full curve of the lower one made Marta think she appreciated the sensual things in life. And the dimple. She’d like to touch it with the tip of her tongue. She shook herself. Where had that thought come from?

“There’s a heap of things I should ask you.” Jorgie turned to face Marta. “About Bruce. About this house. Whether I’m going to fall through the floorboards in the bedroom, what day the bins get collected, but I think they’ll have to wait.”

“The first two will take a while. The floorboards in the north east corner by the window are rotten. And bin day is Tuesday.” Marta’s beer was finished, and from the way Jorgie was twisting the bottle, so was hers. Marta stood. “Thanks for the beer. Please drop around if you need anything. You know where to find me.”

Jorgie stood as well. “I will. And thanks for the muffins.” She suppressed a yawn. “I’m sorry, I’m not being very welcoming, but it’s been a long day.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Still Marta stood, watching the arm muscles revealed by the singlet Jorgie wore. A mental shake, then she took the three paces to the gate. “Bye.”

“See you.”

Jorgie’s gaze made her neck prickle as she rounded her own gatepost and took the three equivalent steps to the front door.

Once inside, she went down the hall to her open-plan kitchen and living area. Light flooded the warm, welcoming space, with its polished floorboards and green plants dotted around. Her own pottery provided touches of bright colour.

Marta opened the fridge and pulled out vegetables for a stir-fry. Maybe she could invite Jorgie over for dinner one night. Bruce’s kitchen was a bit outdated. It was one reason Bruce’s dinner parties were all catered. And he used to have dinner at least one night a week with Marta, another night with Coral, and frequently with Leo.

It was a pity Jorgie wasn’t intending to stay. She’d have been a connection to Bruce. Maybe she’d change her mind. There were so many maybes. Marta sighed. Whoever said change was a good thing obviously hadn’t known about Gaylord Street.

Chapter 4

Parenting the Parent

Jorgie retreated to the main bedroom. She’d already made up the bed and found places for her clothes. It was a few minutes past eight—early evening for city people, but not for her.

She glanced out the front window at the street. Two teenagers on skateboards slalomed their way down the middle, and somewhere a couple of people were having a shouted conversation with a lot of laughter. Jorgie pressed both hands to her ears, but she could still hear the rumble of traffic and the rise and fall of voices. A pang of longing for her quiet veranda in Worrock shot through her, and she drew the curtains to muffle the noise.

The floorboards bounced as she crossed the room. Marta was right; they were spongier than a Country Women’s Association bake sale.

For a moment, she considered her options: another beer, reheat her dinner, call Cilla. Jorgie sat on the bed, swung her legs up, and rested her back against the headboard.

Best to get it over with.

Without thinking further, she pressed Cilla’s number and counted the rings. At six, she figured Cilla wasn’t going to answer—again—but then her mother’s soft tones came over the line.

“Jorgie?”

Why was Cilla always so diffident? She knew full well it was Jorgie; her name would be on the screen.

“Yeah, it’s me. How are you?”

A long sigh. “I’m okay, I suppose. A bit lonely without you.”

“It’s only for a couple of weeks. Then I’ll be home.” She pushed aside the thought that it might be longer. She’d meet that issue if it happened.

A silence on the line.

“Have you had dinner yet? Taken your tablets?” Jorgie asked.

“I’m not hungry. Not really.”

“You need to take your tablets with food. There are some ready-prepared meals in the freezer. Put one of those in the microwave.”

“I’ll do that.”

Jorgie gripped the phone tightly. Maybe Cilla would eat, but most likely she wouldn’t. “How about I ask Deb to look in on you?”

“No.” A flash of spirit lit Cilla’s voice. “She nags me to do things. I’m happy here with the TV.”

“What else are you doing? Will you go to the Stump Inn for bingo night?”

“Not this week. I’ll wait until you’re back for that. Jorgie…I don’t suppose you can transfer me some money? I’ve run out, and pension day is still four days away.”

Jorgie counted to seven. She shouldn’t ask why Cilla needed it. Her mother could make her own decisions—but that should include managing her own finances. The pension wasn’t much, but she didn’t have any rent or bills to pay—thanks to Jorgie. “Is there a particular reason you need it?”

“No. I just need it. If you can’t send me some, I’m sure I’ll manage. Forget I asked.”

She should. She should simply say “Okay then” and change the subject. But Cilla was her mother, and she asked for so little, and in the past, she had given Jorgie so much. “How much do you need?”

“A hundred will be enough.”

“I’ll transfer it later tonight.”

“Thank you, Jorgie. You’re my best daughter.”

“I’m your only daughter.” The lame joke fell flat between them. “I have to go. Look after yourself, Cilla. Take care and call me if you want to.”

“Bye, love.” The call clicked off.

Jorgie threw the phone on the bed. She could worry about Cilla until the cows not only came home but died of old age, but it wouldn’t change anything. She opened her banking app and transferred the money. Maybe she should call Deb anyway—ask her to come up with an excuse to stop by. Just to make sure Cilla was okay.

Her stomach rumbled, and she pushed herself off the bed. First dinner, and then it was time to make some serious decisions. She’d put it off long enough, and it wasn’t fair to the others to make them wait. Tonight, she’d decide, and then tomorrow, she’d set things in motion.

Would they be surprised? The news she had to share was maybe not life-changing, but it would make a big difference for these people. Good people, from the little Marta had told her.

Marta. She was rather interesting with her messy cap of hair and quiet manner. Not conventionally attractive—her nose was too long and thin, her eyes too large and dark to go with her translucent skin and ash-blonde hair. Her chin too pointed, her mouth too big. It was as if her features were crammed into too small a face. But her mouth was one that looked as if it smiled a lot, and her brown eyes were warm and guileless.

Her hesitation to out Bruce had been rather sweet. Jorgie’s lips twitched. Marta had outed herself too. She smiled. It would be no hardship having Marta next door for the next couple of weeks. Or longer.

Jorgie put her Thai curry and rice in Bruce’s ancient microwave. It made a strange grinding noise, way louder than any normal microwave should, and took nearly seven minutes to heat the food. Jorgie took the curry, grabbed another beer, and went to the backyard to eat. It was more appealing than the dreary kitchen or living area, and she wanted to think without any more of Bruce’s friends stopping to chat.

She ran through the names: Coral, Leo, Elfin, and Marta of course.

Things began to settle in her mind. Ideas, dreams, possibilities. It wasn’t what she’d intended when she’d first heard about the house, and it would make life difficult for the next few months, mainly as far as Cilla was concerned. But the opportunity that Bruce had given her was coming more clearly into focus. A financial windfall, sure, although that wasn’t all of it. It was a chance. Jorgie sucked a breath. A chance to be more than Jorgie-the-handywoman who assembled raised veggie beds, painted bedrooms, or did any number of small jobs for people. It was a chance to get her teeth into a large project. And Bruce’s house would pay back that commitment in spades, she was sure of it.

A pulse of excitement beat in her chest. This was her opportunity to prove that she was capable of greater things. It would be the start of a portfolio that may lead to more satisfying projects, more creative work. Her mind buzzing, she thrust the unfinished curry aside and went into the house. A quick rummage in Bruce’s desk turned up a pad and a bunch of pens. The third pen worked. She returned to the yard and started jotting down figures.

She would manage a longer time here—Cilla would have to understand her reasons. And the rewards would be worth it.

But she first had to convince the others.

Chapter 5

You’ve Got Mail

Marta pushed open the gate, set down her work satchel, then retrieved her mail from the box. She’d been longer than expected with a client, dealing with housing agencies trying to find somewhere for Lara to live. She’d managed it—eventually—and Lara had been tearily grateful. Another day, another client whose life was now a lot better. The glow in her stomach from that success still burned bright and made up for the lack of breakfast. She’d grab an early lunch, then spend the afternoon in her studio. Her fingers tingled with the need to be buried in soft clay.

“Marta, wait up.” Coral approached at a fast clip. Coffee splashed out of her mug with every step. She came close and whispered, “Did you get one?”

“Get what? And why are you whispering?”

“A letter.” Coral jerked her head to Number 94, and more coffee spilled from her mug.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. At least come inside so you can talk louder than a mutter.” She opened the door and preceded Coral to the kitchen.

Coral perched on a stool at the kitchen bench while Marta flicked the switch on the coffee machine. Coral could exist for days on coffee and champagne, and it was still the caffeine time of day.

“Now, what’s up?” She put a couple of cranberry muffins on a plate between them.

Coral riffled through the mail Marta had brought in. She pushed the junk mail and bills to one side and held up a white envelope with Marta Jansson handwritten on it in blocky letters. “This. Open it.”

Marta tore it open and removed the single sheet of paper.

Dear Marta. Please can you come to 94 Gaylord Street this evening, 24 March, at 7.00pm to discuss Bruce’s will. I’ve invited you and Bruce’s other friends in the street who are affected by what I have to say. I hope to see you later. Jorgie Anderson

“Oh.” Marta frowned. “I wonder what that’s about.”

“She didn’t give any hint when you were around there last night? Leo saw you sitting on the veranda like a pair of owls on a fence, all cosy-looking.”

“No. Not really. I think she’s going to sell, but I don’t see how that affects us.” The coffee finished brewing with a splutter, and she topped up Coral’s mug and poured one for herself.

Coral reached for a muffin and took a bite. “These are great, by the way. They’d be out of this world if you put chocolate chips in too.”

“I’ll add them to the next batch.” The contents of Jorgie’s letter rattled around in her head. It seemed a formal summoning for a distribution of teaspoons and porcelain cats—but what else could it be?

“Leo got a letter too. I don’t know if anyone else did.”

“There’s so much stuff in the house, maybe she’s going to ask us to select our keepsakes before she gets rid of the rest.”

“If it’s all going, then I want dibs on the dining table. It’s solid oak, y’know.”

“Jorgie will probably want to keep that, at least for now. She’ll have to eat somewhere.”

“So how long is she staying around? Did she say?” Coral smoothed out Marta’s letter and studied it again as if the words were a code she could decipher if only she stared long enough.

“A couple of weeks. She seems to be looking forward to returning to New South Wales. And her mother apparently needs some sort of care.”

“Cilla?” At Marta’s nod, Coral continued, “Bruce used to say she was ‘delicate’, whatever that means.”

“Maybe we’ll find out this evening. You’ll be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything. I’m agog with anticipation. Those china pussies are calling my name.”

* * *

Marta knocked on the door of Number 94 at five minutes past seven.

“Hi.” Jorgie stood aside so Marta could enter. “Those muffins you gave me. A-ma-zing.”

“Do you think I should add chocolate chips?”

Jorgie’s eyes crinkled as she thought, and her luscious lips curved into a smile. “Is there anything that isn’t better with chocolate chips?”

Marta pretended to consider. “Kimchi. But don’t say that to Coral or she’ll experiment to prove me wrong.”

Jorgie laughed, preceding Marta down the narrow hallway to the living area past the kitchen. “You’re nearly the last.”

Marta dragged her eyes away from Jorgie’s boyish figure and looked around the room. Coral gave her a wave, and Leo offered a smile. His blond hair was clipped shorter than usual, making his thick neck and bulky shoulders seem even bigger.

Another bang sounded on the front door, and Jorgie disappeared to answer it.

Marta squashed up next to Coral on the rattan lounge. “Does anyone know why we’re here yet?”

Leo shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“I’m about to expire with curiosity, darling,” Coral said.

Jorgie returned accompanied by a tiny teenager wearing a tutu, ripped tights, and Doc Martens.

“Elfin, honeybun.” Coral wiggled her fingers.

Elfin’s gaze flitted like a swallow as she took in the others. Her maroon hair appeared nearly black in the dim lighting above her pale face. “Hi, everyone.” She perched on the arm of Leo’s chair.

Marta shot her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Elfin had only been living on Gaylord Street for the last couple of years, but she fit right in as if she was everyone’s favourite little sister. She helped Leo with his backyard veggies, often dropped by to chat with Marta in her studio, and she’d helped nurse Bruce in his final weeks.

Jorgie stood in the doorway. “Can I get anyone anything? Wine, beer, tea?”

Voices answered her, and she disappeared to return with a bottle of red wine and some beers. Coral produced her ever-present champagne glass and poured a glass of sparkling wine from the bottle at her feet.

When everyone had a drink, Jorgie moved in front of them and rested her butt against the oak table. She twisted the beer bottle in her hands. “Thank you all for coming. I’m sure you’re wondering what this is about.”

Her gaze rested on each of them in turn before lingering on Marta for a long moment.

Goosebumps popped on Marta’s skin. Jorgie’s glance was intense, really studying her, more than the others.

“I think you all know Bruce left this house to me. But there’s a condition. While the title is now in my name, if I sell the house, fifty percent of the sale price is mine. The other fifty percent is to be split equally among the four of you. If I choose not to sell and live here myself, then I must get the house valued, and pay each of you 12.5 percent of the valuation price.”

Jorgie’s words flickered over Marta’s skin, as charged as the moment before lightning hits. She scrunched her forehead. Surely she’d heard that wrong. Maybe it was 2.5 percent, or 0.25 percent. Not 12.5 percent. That had to be tens of thousands.

“You mean,” Coral said hesitantly, “that either way, each of us gets 12.5 percent of the value of this house? It’s worth a lot of money.”

Jorgie nodded.

“It’s worth maybe $600,000, even in this rundown condition,” Leo said in hushed tones.

“I can’t believe it.” Elfin’s voice wobbled. “I just can’t believe it.”

Marta was silent as the news sank in. 12.5 percent of that, split four ways would be around $75,000 each. Not a fortune, but a serious windfall. She rubbed her suddenly cold hands together. “Thank you, Bruce,” she whispered to the air. “I had no idea.”

“I was expecting a bottle of his 1978 vintage port,” Leo said. “Bruce and I enjoyed a few good ports together over the years. It’s the sort of thing he’d do—leave me a bottle. But a share of his house…”

“I thought I was here to pick out an ugly china ornament.” Coral set her champagne glass at her feet and clasped her hands together. “Nothing more. A keepsake of my friend.”

Voices murmured around the room. Marta stared down at her glass, tears pricking the back of her eyes. $75,000. The sort of money that would make a huge difference to all of them.

Coral met her eyes. She had blanched the whiter shade of pale that normally came after a long, dark winter. “Seventy-five grand,” she mouthed at Marta. “Seventy-five-fucking-grand.” She picked up her glass again and refilled it.

Various uses for the money ran through Marta’s mind: expand her pottery studio, a new and better kitchen, a holiday overseas. She swallowed away the lump in her throat and looked at Jorgie, who still rested against the table, a slight smile warming her face as she watched their reactions.

Marta caught her eye. “What are you going to do, Jorgie? Are you going to sell…or maybe you plan on living here?”

One side of Jorgie’s mouth twitched up.

Marta stared at her full lower lip in fascination. The curling smile made her seem younger, less remote, and damn it all, the dimple was back. Warmth trickled through Marta’s chest, heading lower. She fixed her gaze on Jorgie’s eyes, her wild hair, the ceiling. Anywhere except that dimple.

“That depends,” Jorgie said.

Marta tilted her head in silent invitation to continue.

Coral stopped chattering about china frogs, and Leo put down his phone where he’d been googling local real estate prices.

“I’ve got a proposition for you. All of you,” Jorgie said. “I didn’t expect this either. I had no idea Bruce was leaving me—and you all—the house. And while it’s tempting to put the house on the market, take whatever it fetches, and run back to the outback, I think I can do better than that. I think we can do better.”

Everyone stared at Jorgie—except Elfin, who studied her feet in the clumpy Doc Martens as if wondering how they grew on the end of her legs.

“I’m a maintenance person,” Jorgie said. “My one-woman business in Worrock is as a handywoman. I do carpentry, basic plumbing, repairs, painting, landscaping. I can put in kitchens, re-tile a bathroom, repoint brickwork, repair roofs and guttering. I won’t touch electrics, as I’d like to stay alive, but other than that, I’m a jill-of-all-trades.” She nodded at Leo. “What do your searches say Number 94 would be worth if it was renovated? Repairs done, made solid. Re-roofed, a new kitchen and bathroom, fresh paintwork?”

“It depends on how it’s done,” Leo replied. “Keeping this floorplan, maybe $800,000. If you did what everyone else around here is doing and kept the façade and front bedrooms but converted the rear of the house from these tiny rooms into an open plan living area—like Marta has—then, if it was a high-quality job, maybe up to one million.”

Elfin gasped.

Coral’s glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the worn carpet.

Marta drew a quick breath as the number hammered in her head. One million dollars! It was an inconceivable amount for a tiny Victorian cottage in the inner city. Oh, she’d known real estate prices were rising to all sorts of crazy, but she’d never really kept track of them. She hoped she could live in Gaylord Street for many, many years to come, so what was the point of looking at prices if she wasn’t going to sell her house?

Jorgie nodded. “One million. That’s what I thought too.” Her gaze settled on each of them in turn. “I’m prepared to renovate Number 94. I’ll put in the labour for free, and I think I can do the work in four or five months. Bruce left me some money as well as the house, and if I’m careful, that will fund the cost of materials, plus the tradespeople I’ll have to use. I have enough to live on myself—if I’m frugal. Then, when I’m done, it will sell as desirable inner-city living rather than renovate or detonate. I’ll pay myself back for the cost of the materials and tradies, and we’ll then split the rest of the proceeds as Bruce intended: fifty percent to me, the other fifty percent split between the four of you. Even if the house only fetches $800,000, and materials are $50,000, that would give each of you nearly $94,000.”

Coral pressed her bony knee into Marta’s leg and gripped her thigh tightly. “Holy fruitcakes, Batwoman. This is serious.”

“If we do this though, everyone has to be on board,” Jorgie continued. “I’m asking you to delay the money you might receive now for the possibility of more later. Of course, I’m not a prophet. The housing market might crash. The house might burn to the ground. I may start the renovations and find something unexpected, something big that will cost a lot more than anticipated. But, hand on heart, I’ll do my best to do a great job in the five or six months I’m projecting.”

“Forgive me for being indelicate, when I’m normally such a lady,” Coral said.

Marta snorted in amusement.

“But do you have enough dosh to pay your rent or whatever in Worrock?” Coral continued. “What about your business?”

Jorgie nodded. “I hope so. Rent in Worrock is peanuts compared to here, and my business, such as it is, will have to be put on hold.”

“No more questions, Your Honour.” Coral held up her hands. “If Jorgie’s not going to starve, then I’m in with pleasure.”

Leo crossed his legs, his jeans pulling tight over muscular thighs. “It’s a more than generous offer. I’m in. If you need a carpenter or another jack-of-all-trades, I’ll volunteer. I have muscles.” He pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt and flexed a golden bicep. “I can help with the heavy lifting.”

“That would be great. I’ve already heard good things about you.” The dimple appeared as Jorgie smiled at Leo. “If anyone else wants to help, that’s wonderful. But if no one is able, that’s fine. I’ll hire someone to help me and add it to the materials cost.”

“Put the testosterone away, Leo.” Coral tapped him on the shoulder. “Some of us don’t want to look at things like that. What do you think, Marta?”

“It sounds potentially good,” she said slowly. “It’s very generous of you, Jorgie. It’s a big chunk out of your life.”

“I’m expecting it’ll be worth it in the end.” Jorgie tucked a strand of curly hair behind her ear and regarded Marta.

“Are you sure you’ll have enough to live on?” Marta resisted the urge to squirm under Jorgie’s gaze. It was a reasonable question. She didn’t think Jorgie would rip them off in any way, and she hated to think of her struggling financially.

“If I can complete it in five months, and if my estimates on the materials are close, then yes—barely.” She lifted her bottle of VB. “I won’t be buying craft beer and expensive takeaways though.”

“If that’s what’s needed, we’ll take it in turns to feed you.” Coral looked at the others for support.

Marta and Leo nodded. Elfin stared at her boots as if they held the secrets of the universe.

“Thank you,” Jorgie said.