What the Heart Wants. Cynthia Reese

quite wood filler...drywall putty?”

      “Yeah, I’ve got holes. I started scraping, just like you showed me the other night, and all of sudden this huge chunk of plaster came out. I just about freaked, let me tell you. I didn’t know what to do. And then I got smart, went down to our friendly home improvement store, and a guy there told me this stuff would fix it right up.”

      “Wait. He told you to patch the holes? With drywall putty?”

      Kyle tried very hard to keep any judgment out of his voice, but what kind of idiot would advise someone to do that?

      “Yeah. Seems to be working.”

      “Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no, no.” He took the rest of the stairs two at a time and barreled through the twisty turn of an upstairs hall to reach Gran’s bedroom.

      It was a big airy room that took up nearly the entire back part of the house. With direct access to the single upstairs bathroom, and plenty of windows, it had probably been Ambrose’s master bedroom.

      The two interior walls they’d painted stood pristine and the barest shade of periwinkle blue, her grandmother’s favorite color, Allison had said. The back exterior wall?

      A huge patch of grayish-white putty painted a bull’s-eye in the middle of the wall equidistant between the windows. Already Kyle could see signs that the putty was shrinking at the edges, ready to pull away from the hole. Eventually it would dry up, fall out and maybe take an even bigger piece of plaster with it.

      “What a colossal mess!” Kyle swore. “Who would do such a thing?”

      The pitter-patter of Allison’s feet behind him came to an abrupt stop. “I beg your pardon?”

      He looked around to see her eyebrows arched and her chin raised a fraction of an inch. Her arms were crossed over her T-shirt.

      “Not you. Whatever dumb salesperson told you about this. It won’t work. It will just make things worse.”

      “It won’t?” The haughty look was chased away by a crease of worry between her brows.

      “There are patches for plaster...but not drywall putty. Fiberglass is a good way...” Kyle walked over to the wall and ran his fingers over the nubby surface around the patch. He checked for the telltale signs—the way paint can feel over failed plaster, the give of the crumbling, damaged material underneath.

      Shoot.

      He stretched higher.

      Double shoot.

      “Better get the ladder,” he mumbled to himself. Jerking it over from where she’d been using it to scrape, he propped it by one of the windows and climbed up the rungs. Systematically, he began to inspect the wall surface.

      “Kyle?”

      Not good. He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand and considered how to break the news.

      “Kyle?” Allison said again, this time from the base of the ladder.

      “Okay. This corner of the house has a northeastern exposure. Back wall here faces north. And the side wall—” He jabbed a finger toward the other exterior wall, which formed a right angle to the one she was working on. “Well, it faces east.”

      “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.

      “It’s Georgia, right? A hundred twenty-six summers of high humidity and heat, a hundred twenty-six winters of cold wet rain. The temperature difference, over the years, tends to create dampness. And dampness is not plaster’s friend. So...probably on every exterior wall, especially in stretches like this, where you’ve got lots of windows, you’re going to have at least some huge sections of plaster that will crumble at a touch.”

      “Oh. I guess...” Allison eyed the little tub of putty she’d been using. “I guess I’d better buy a bigger bucket.”

      “Not of that stuff. And this wall—and probably the other? Well, I’d advise carefully ripping out the plaster in the damaged sections down to the laths, and re-plastering it. Big chunks are damaged, so it’s going to be a pain to patch. But by ripping out the plaster, you can inspect for structural damage, check the wiring and even put in new insulation.”

      She stared at him and blinked. “Do what?”

      “I know it’s overwhelming. I know just how you’re feeling, because I had to do the same thing...”

      Allison didn’t answer. She just sank down onto the paint-spattered tarp on the floor and stared some more. Her eyes went from Kyle to the wall, back to him, back to the wall. It was almost like watching a concussion victim trying to shake off a good case of having his bell rung.

      “Can’t I just patch it?” she whispered.

      Kyle came down off the ladder and knelt beside her. “Trust me. You’ll spend more money in the long run trying to patch it. And it won’t look right. You’d never get the texture to match.”

      “I don’t care about the texture.” She banged her palms against her forehead. “Just once. Just one single time, can’t even the simplest thing actually be simple? Gran’s going to come home soon, and I haven’t even managed to repaint her room.”

      “I know.” Kyle patted Allison’s arm, not quite sure what to say to her.

      She didn’t respond right away, so at least he hadn’t said anything to aggravate the situation.

      “And—and...” She lifted her head. Her eyes glistened with tears of frustration. “I can’t do this. I don’t know how. And nobody. Will. Come.”

      “What?”

      “Workers. Repairmen. Anybody but you. You’re the only one willing to help me. I call people, and they say they’re gonna show up, and they don’t. Ever. Not even if I offer to pay for the estimate. It’s like I’m blackballed.”

      “Oh. Oh!” Kyle let out a huge breath. “Is that all? Sheesh. That I can help with. That I can fix.” He fished out his phone and scrolled though his contacts. Punched a number and smiled to reassure her.

      A moment later the ringing stopped and a voice came over the line in a gruff greeting.

      “Hey, Jerry! Glad I caught you! I have a restoration job you might be interested in—1888 Second Empire.”

      On the other end of the line, Jerry whistled. “You mean Belle Paix. You have got to be kidding me. Somebody bought Belle Paix off the old lady? Who are the new owners? Can I see it? Can I come now?”

      “Not new owners, exactly. The granddaughter. She’s, er, trying to renovate, and has run into a plaster issue. We could use your expertise.”

      “Just give me five minutes. No. Four. I’ll be there.”

      Kyle listened to the dial tone in his ear and then lowered the phone. Allison’s hopeful expression died on her face.

      “See. I told you. Nobody.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong.” He gave her what he hoped was a look of reassurance. After she met Jerry, though, she might not be reassured at all. “He’s coming. Right now.”

      “What? Really?”

      “He’s...Jerry’s a character. Just warning you ahead of time. He’s devoted to old houses, really loves them. I got to know him through my work with the historical society and the preservation committee. He works all over the state, and it just so happens that he’s finishing up a restoration on a house here.”

      The peal of the doorbell resounded up the stairs. It had rung three times by the time Allison and Kyle managed to get to the landing, and Jerry was starting on the fourth ring as she opened the door.

      “You’re the granddaughter? What’s the budget? Where’s the architect? Can I see the plans? We can make this old girl shine!” Jerry told her. “I can see the new paint