Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

6. Chapter Five Matt

Chapter Five: Matt

T he pinewood flooring groans in protest underfoot as I step into the grand foyer of Beaufort Manor. Rusty hinges shriek at me as I let the massive oak door swing shut behind me. When I reach to my right to flick on the lights, the cobwebbed chandelier overhead flickers several times before finally giving in and offering the dim space some weak illumination.

“Ah. Interesting.”

Joe Mansfield, a contractor based near Plymouth, puts his hands on his hips and frowns at the scene before us. He’s around my age and has a familiar sort of roughness about him that instinctively makes me trust the guy. I’ve spent the past couple weeks researching contractors and architects up and down the coastline, and finally decided to give Joe a call. Even though I know I can do most of the labor of fixing this place up by myself, I’ve never renovated an entire mansion by myself.

And since I have so much disposable income nowadays, I figured there was no harm in hiring an expert to help me out .

“Floor’s still in good shape,” I grunt, nodding my chin at the expanse of light-colored wood before us. It’s easy to imagine that, once upon a time, it gleamed beautifully under the crystal chandelier, but now it’s dusty and rough.

“Sure is,” replies Joe, wandering further into the high-ceilinged foyer. “Just needs to be sanded and stained.”

“Yep.”

“It’s the subfloor I’d be worried about, though,” he continues, frowning down at his work boots as he does a little bounce on top of the wooden slats. “We’ll want to check for rot.”

I let out a heavy sigh. Joe chuckles and nods in understanding. We both work with wood. We understand the daunting threat of mold and rot.

“Apparently, the old man moved into the guesthouse in 2003,” I say. “Makes sense. This place definitely looks like it hasn’t been touched in over two decades.”

Together, Joe and I make our way across the foyer, which extends in a vast hall underneath the grand stairwell and ends in a gorgeous row of French doors that overlook the cliffs. A few of the glass panes are cracked, probably from debris during a few past Nor’easters, but the overall effect is still incredibly stunning.

Joe nods thoughtfully. His portfolio is full of big projects like this. He might be relatively young, but this isn’t the first coastal mansion he’s contended with.

Outside, I hear the echo of Ava and Mia shouting and laughing as they chase each other around the grounds. They’ve already been lectured sternly about not getting too close to the cliffside, so I let them be for now.

Wordlessly, Joe moves into one of the rooms off the entrance hall. I’ve already hired a moving company to remove the rickety, moth-eaten furniture that was strewn throughout the rooms and place it into a local storage unit until I can decide what to do with all of it.

Joe takes in the arched doorways and elegant, arched windows, nodding in quiet appreciation despite the obvious disrepair throughout the house.

“The way I see it, you’ve got a few options,” he says.

“I’m all ears.”

He reaches out to run his fingertips over the faded fleur-de-lis wallpaper.

“We could do a faithful historical restoration. A place like this, built in the late 1800s, has good bones. There are also a lot of reference points that would help us restore it to its former glory, like they did with Blakeley Manor down the road.”

“Blakeley’s even bigger than this place, isn’t it?”

Joe nods. “It’s huge. The custodian lives in the converted carriage house, but the manor is an event space now. Weddings, galas, fancy luncheons, and whatnot. It rakes in a huge profit. I can imagine this place has similar potential, if you’re willing to take on the competition.”

I frown. I don’t think I like the sound of that. Hundreds of people coming and going from my property every day, even if it’s mainly just during tourist season, sounds like a nightmare. I also don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.

Again, Joe nods. I like that I don’t have to say much for him to understand what’s going through my head.

“Another route we could take is subtle modernization. We could renovate and update the old parts you don’t like, such as the kitchens and bathrooms, but otherwise keep it simple, traditional, and functional. I’d recommend that if you wanted to live here full-time.”

“That’s the thing,” I reply. “I don’t really know what my plan is for that. It’s just me and my two girls. Seems ridiculous for us to live in a place with nine bedrooms. Especially during the winter.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be fun to heat.”

“Amen.”

“Well, another thing we could do is just keep it really basic. Fix up the place just enough to make it more attractive to buyers.”

I run my fingertips along the wainscoting. When McHugh called me with the news that I was inheriting this place, the first thing I considered was selling it. I’d get several million dollars from the sale—enough to buy a decent house anywhere in the country.

Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that giving up this opportunity to live in Mermaid Shores would be the wrong call. There has to be a reason that destiny pushed me toward this town specifically.

After all, she is here.

“I don’t think I’m looking to sell. Not right now, anyway,” I tell Joe.

He shrugs. “I don’t blame you. This is a fine piece of real estate.”

“So… are those my only options?”

“You could demo the whole thing and start from the ground up. Although, personally, I think a project like that would break my heart a little bit, so I wouldn’t be keen on that.”

I cringe. Knocking down a historic manor like this would be a travesty. This place is a relic, an ode to old-school carpentry. It’d break my heart to rip it all down, too.

“No to the demo,” I respond.

Joe breathes a sigh of relief, then nods thoughtfully. He shoves his hands in his pockets and then wanders back out of the room. I follow after him quietly, letting his contractor mind work through the various options. I know how it is. Whenever I get a new client, I like to spend a good chunk of time thinking about how to approach the project before I ever touch a single plank of wood.

We head across the hall, through another arched doorway, and end up in what used to be a study of sorts. There are built-in bookshelves crafted from rich mahogany along three of the walls. Joe whistles low when he sees the impressive craftsmanship underneath the layers of dust and mouse droppings.

He turns to me, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mulls over his words.

“What about an inn?”

I cock my head to the side. “Pardon?”

“A couple of years ago, we took on a big, old house like this up in Eastham. Huge manor with ten bedrooms and all the old-fashioned fixings. It had been in the family for generations, but the most recent generation didn’t really know what to do with it anymore. They wanted to invest in a less fussy vacation home, something more modern, but didn’t necessarily want to let go of the property. So, we eventually came up with the solution to convert it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

I blink in surprise. Something tugs on the edges of my memories, painful and raw.

“A bed-and-breakfast?” is all I manage to say.

“Yep. Fun project. Easy enough, what with all the bathrooms and the general layout working in our favor. The family hired a management company to do the business side of things, but remained owners. Last I checked, they’re usually booked out a year in advance nowadays.”

Again, a memory nips at my focus. Sharper this time.

Lindsay groans dramatically, sinking lower into the kitchen chair and glaring at her laptop screen. “Listen, Matt. I love studying anthropology, but sometimes, I really wonder why I decided to pursue a PhD.”

“You know I love and support you, but I wonder that sometimes, too.”

She laughs, tossing a lock of golden-blonde hair over her shoulder. “I don’t even know what else I’d do.”

“You don’t have to do anything, baby. I can provide for us.”

“That’s sweet, but we’ve got twins on the way.” She pats her abdomen, which has only recently started showing a slight bump. “It might take me another four years to become a professor, but I can’t live with myself if I don’t at least try to work toward a stable career. These girls deserve a two-income household.”

I rest my hands on her shoulders, massaging the tight muscles in her neck. “If you say so.”

“Oh! I know what I’d do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d open a hotel.”

“A hotel, Linds?”

“Well, an inn. A cute little inn on a picturesque piece of land, and there’d be a library for the guests to borrow from and a pretty dining room with tables made by my gorgeous carpenter husband… Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Sounds like a lot of work, baby. A different kind of work than a PhD, but just as much.”

She sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. I still think it’d be nice, though. I like taking care of people.”

“I know you do. You take good care of me.”

She grins, turning her head to press a kiss to my palm.

As much as it hurts, I let the memory wash over me in full detail. It feels like something clicking into place. Like something in the universe has shifted, restoring a sense of balance that I didn’t even notice was out of alignment.

I stare at Joe. He’s frowning at me, almost like he’s worried that his suggestion insulted me.

“That’s actually an interesting idea,” I admit. “I mean, I don’t know the first thing about hospitality, but I think I’d like to look into it. Can I get back to you?”

“Absolutely, Matt. Take your time. It’s a big decision. You’ve got my number.”

I nod, relieved that this guy is cool, calm, and collected. He’s not like some other contractors I’ve reached out to, who are so obviously eager for my business that they almost come across as desperate. As soon as they hear what kind of property they’d be getting their hands on, it’s like they turn into ravenous wolves.

Luckily, I think I struck gold when I found Joe.

We make our way back to the entrance. Before I can graciously get the front door for him, it bursts open. A tangle of blonde hair and skinny limbs passes the threshold in a blur. They race past Joe so fast that it’s a wonder they don’t knock him over.

“Girls!” I bark out.

In unison, Ava and Mia halt in their tracks. Ava has to brace herself against the banister to stop from face-planting, thanks to her reckless trajectory.

They offer me matching smiles, all innocence and sweetness.

“What did I say about tracking mud inside?”

“Well, Dad, it’s already pretty dirty in here,” Ava attempts to argue.

“ Girls . What did I say?”

They let out synchronized sighs and slink back toward the open door. I try to hold in a laugh as they retreat, the porch creaking underfoot. I already told them that I don’t want them running around in here, mostly for their own safety. They like to test boundaries, though. Constantly .

“Sorry about that,” I say to Joe, leading him outside where his pickup truck is parked. “Kids can’t be tamed.”

“Tell me about it,” Joe replies with a chuckle. “I’ve got two boys. My wife passed a few years ago, and I feel like I’ve just been winging it ever since.”

It’s an effort not to outwardly flinch. “I’m sorry to hear that. I, uh—I’m a widower, too.”

With a sad smile, Joe reaches out to shake my hand. “Sorry for your loss, man.”

We nod quietly, the silent connection of our similar grief hanging over us. The moment passes gently, and then Joe hops into his truck and waves goodbye as he pops a U-turn in the gravel driveway and heads toward the iron gates.

The twins come bounding back when he’s gone.

“Who was that?” Mia asks.

“A contractor.”

“What’s his name?” Ava wants to know.

“Joe.”

“Why was he here?” Mia inquires.

They trail me as I head toward the guesthouse. “Because I need help figuring out what to do with this place.”

“I think we should turn it into a haunted mansion attraction,” suggests Ava.

“Interesting idea.”

“No, I think we should just fill it with a lot of cats.”

“Cats, huh?”

“Yeah, can we get a kitten, Dad?”

“No, two kittens, Dad!”

I sigh quietly. “I guess a cat would help with the mouse problem in the manor. ”

Ava giggles. Mia groans in disgust.

As we approach the front door of the guesthouse—which I should probably start calling a different name—I notice something waiting for us on the steps. It’s a glass baking dish covered in foil. As we draw closer, it’s easy enough to confirm that there’s no note attached to the gifted food, but there are an odd assortment of colorful stones resting atop the foil.

“Girls, did you see anyone come up to the house other than Joe?”

“Nope,” they answer at the same time.

I pick up the dish and peek under the foil. It looks like some kind of casserole with tomato sauce. Baked ziti, maybe? But the cheese has a weird consistency, like that disgusting vegan cheese the girls once begged me to shell out seven dollars for at the grocery store.

“That’s weird,” I mutter. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone?”

“We’re sure, Dad,” Mia says, opening the front door and carelessly kicking off her flip-flops. “Why are you looking at it like that? Are you afraid it’s poison or something?”

“What are those rocks?” Ava cuts in. “They’re pretty.”

“I have no idea.” I step into the house and bring the food into the kitchen. The three of us stand there in silence, staring at the strange gift as if we’re expecting it to explain itself.

It’s not the first time a stranger has waltzed onto the property without invitation. We’ve only been here for about a week and a half, but we’ve already had visits from two local reporters eager to do an exclusive story on the mysterious Beaufort heir . I turned them both away very quickly. Another time, an old man claiming to be a friend of Roger Beaufort wandered onto the property and tried to insist on taking a tour of the grounds. I turned him away a little more gently.

I’ve been tempted to keep the gates shut around the clock, but with all the construction that’s about to begin, it’ll be a huge inconvenience to have the driveway barred like that. Especially since the rusted iron is heavy and stubborn.

Even though this is a small town, I’m starting to get concerned about security. I know that these strangers are just curious townies who want to know the fate of the manor, but I’m hardly a people person. The twins are more social than I am. They get that from their mother.

Maybe I should consider installing some security cameras. If I’m going to go through with Joe’s suggestion of converting the place into an inn, I’ll have to do that anyway.

“Dad?” whispers Mia, nudging me in the ribs.

“Hm?”

“Why are we staring at the weird lasagna?”

“I have no idea, kiddo.”

“I think we should try it,” says Ava.

Mia wrinkles her nose at her sister. Even I’m hesitant. It’s pretty odd to drop off food without introducing yourself, isn’t it? I mean, right after Lindsay died, it seemed like everyone in town was dropping off some kind of dish or another, and I got so weary of accepting their condolences around the clock that I wished they’d just drop off their pity parcels and leave… but, still. This is weird.

Ava, the bravest among us, retrieves a fork from one of the kitchen drawers. She carefully peels back a corner of the foil and pierces the lumpy cheese with the tines.

Mia and I watch as she lifts a bite to her mouth, all but holding our breaths as she chews thoughtfully and then swallows.

After a moment, she breaks into a huge grin.

“Oh-em-gee. It’s so good. You have to try it!”