Southern Comfort: Chandler's Story (The Southern Series Book 1) Read online

  Chapter Two

  “Chandler Ann Collins, what the hell are you doing?”

  My voice echoed in the large foyer of my old antebellum house. I suddenly felt lonely and apprehensive. I had been the owner of this house one month, and I would begin classes in exactly ten hours, walking into a college class for the first time on the campus at LSU. I had no idea what I’d gotten myself into. I contemplated the stair rungs I’d been sanding. Mamaw Irene always told me, “Everything happens for a reason, and in God’s time, not our time.”

  “I’m sure missin’ all of them tonight,” I breathed out, the only one to hear me was the big old empty house that I now called home. I glanced around the foyer. A month ago, this all seemed like a great idea. I remembered back to the first time I saw the entry hall.

  Aunt Sue and I followed the small, trim, smartly dressed female real estate agent through the white, paint-flaked door and it was like stepping into an HGTV déjà-vu kind of dream. The light filtered through the mottled antique glass of the front windows, making diagonal streaks of dust mites that swirled down to the worn wooden floors. Directly in front of me, a delicate spindly staircase curved to the second story. Someone at some point had painted the beautiful spindles on the banister alternating shades of lavender and deep purple, probably someone who had used the first floor as a business or boutique.

  I immediately began to imagine the work it would take to strip the paint from all of the grooves in the wood and bring it back to its original form. Bits of carpet padding and staples hung on to the worn steps, which had obviously been covered in carpet at some point. Someone had begun the process of ripping the carpet off – a process I was already deciding would be good therapy for me. I hadn’t even seen beyond the entry hall and two wide sitting rooms to either side, and I was already mentally moving in!

  Turning to the agent, Aunt Sue asked, “It sure needs a lot of work, and it’s a lot of house for her. How firm are they on the price?”

  “I think we can make them a really low offer, and they will accept. It has been on the market quite a while, and the couple who inherited the property is out of state,” the real estate agent replied.

  “What am I getting myself into? There must be something wrong with the property besides needing some restoration,” I stated, more than questioned.

  “It’s just the location. It is a beautiful old Antebellum home, but it is in such disrepair and so close to the Greek houses and campus, that the only potential renters are college kids. No one wants to restore an old house like this one and spend any kind of money on it to let a bunch of college kids tear it up. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Chandler, this sure is a lot of house. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather buy something smaller?” Aunt Sue asked. We’d looked at house after house close to campus, but nothing was in my price range.

  There was just something about the house. It felt like home, almost like I’d been there before. I was enchanted.

  “I really want this house, Aunt Sue.”

  My expression seemed to please her. She raised her hand to cup my cheek.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen you really show interest in anything, since… Okay, what is the asking price?” she turned back to the agent.

  The agent suggested, “Let’s offer them $75,000 and see if they bite. I will call you as soon as I hear something back.”

  I’ve certainly made a lot of progress since then. Wow.

  I looked around the foyer, with its tall ceiling and curved staircase, and a sense of satisfaction filled me at the work I had already finished. As the buzz of the sander vibrated my right hand, I wondered if this sensation would be there forever – like bumblebees in my forearm. I turned the sander off and and sat back to view the staircase. The grain I’d uncovered was beautiful, and I had a feeling I had actually bonded with the aged wood, like I was now a part of the house.

  The plaster was still in good shape on the walls in the two rooms on either side of the entry hall, and there were old, ornate Victorian fireplaces in each room. Neither one was in working order but that was fine. If I stayed in this house for an extended period, I could work on them later. But they were beautifully carved, and I was thankful they had not been painted some psychedelic color like the entry hall woodwork. I painted the room to the left of the staircase, the dining room, a beautiful soft gold. All I had to do was lemon oil the woodwork around the doorways and baseboards and using some elbow grease to bring the wood back to its natural luster.

  The room to the right of the staircase was designed as sitting room, which I painted a warm, brassy green, and I dared to paint the woodwork around the fireplace white. It went against my sensibilities to cover oak with white paint, but someone had left candle wax and wet glass rings all over the surface of the mantel, and I decided it was beyond my knowledge to restore. The three bedrooms upstairs were going to be a little trickier, because roof leaks in the past had left huge stains in the corners of a couple of the rooms, and plaster was laying in chunks on the dirty, dingy shag carpets some college student had decided to staple to the floor with a hand-stapler. I was dying to start ripping up the carpet upstairs, but my muscles ached from sitting cross-legged on the stair steps for so long. A quick check of my watch told me it was 10:30, and I really needed some rest.

  Tomorrow would be a hectic day, the first day of classes. I stood up, stretched the muscles in my back, and shook my legs to regain the feeling in them.

  A knock at the door directly behind me made me jump and turn. I could make out a tall, broad-shouldered dark figure through the oval glass in the old door – obviously male.

  “Who is it?” I asked hesitantly, realizing I didn’t have a chain on the door yet.

  “I’m Banton Gastaneau,” a deep, smooth southern drawl answered. “I live down the block in the two-story duplex. I think my dog is in your backyard, but I didn’t want to crawl through the bushes without askin’ you. I didn’t want to frighten you or get shot or something. Is it okay to look?”

  What the heck? I was so trusting, I just unlocked the door and opened it. Never a thought to his being a serial killer, or druggie looking for some quick money for a fix, or a rapist…

  WOW. Mmmm…WOW!

  In front of me stood the most gorgeous guy I had ever seen – dark brown hair, almost black… strong jaw line, chiseled features tanned by the sun, and then he smiled at me with a flash of the most boyish dimple at the right corner of his mouth. I thought, if you are a serial killer, pick me!

  I found my voice. “Um, why don’t you come through the house and go out the back door. I can’t get through those overgrown bushes to see if there is even a gate at the side of the house.”

  He paused and smiled at me again. “I’m sorry to bother you this late at night. Sometimes my dog wanders off when I let him out, and he likes to sniff around the bushes in your backyard. This place used to be empty – I noticed someone had moved in.” Then he observed as he looked past me up the stairs, “Hey, you are really into a restoration project here. And hard at work tonight, I see.” He glanced back at me and seemed to pause at my hair.

  Oh my gosh! I had forgotten the pink stretch band on my head holding my bangs back out of my face, which was covered with fine sawdust. My hair was knotted at the nape of my neck in a makeshift ponytail. I then glanced down to look at the Mickey Mouse tank top clinging to my sweaty torso, and the paint splattered gray sweatpants I had altered with the scissors this morning when I couldn’t find another pair of shorts to ruin. Oh, this is attractive!

  “Yeah. I’m a sucker for the do-it-yourself stuff, but I think I might be over my head now. Come this way to the backyard.” I turned awkwardly and motioned to him. He followed me down the hallway tucked just to the left of the staircase. I thought to myself, Oh great, and I haven’t shaved my legs in a week. I hope the lighting in here is dim enough to camouflage…

  He paused behind me and glanced into the doorway into the large bathroom to t
he left between the kitchen and dining room.

  “Beautiful old built-in woodwork for a bathroom.”

  I looked over his shoulder into the room as I answered him. “Mmm, yes it is.”

  He turned and looked back at me as I continued, “I think it used to be a butler’s pantry separating the kitchen and dining room but luckily, when it was converted to a bathroom, some of the built-ins were left for bathroom cabinets. I’ll have to replace the glass in those upper cabinets, though. Vandals definitely staked this place out before I moved in.”

  “I heard lots of strange noises down here since I moved down the street, and figured some kids found a good haunted place to party.” He winked at me.

  Great. Now he’s planted the “haunted” thing in my head.

  We continued through to the makeshift kitchen with its shabby cabinets and curling linoleum on the floor. The kitchen seemed an afterthought, like someone took in a screen porch and added plumbing.

  “Here – the back door is here in the kitchen.” I fumbled with the latch, unlocked the ornate doorknob and pulled the door to open it. It didn’t budge.

  “Here, let me try.” He reached around my waist to pull on the knob. I was trapped between a cabinet and the refrigerator, and his proximity had me worried my scent might match my appearance as a homeless handyman. Boy, did he smell good – like clean, spicy shower soap. He tugged and the door popped open, banging into my forehead.

  “Oh, I am so sorry – are you okay?” He reached up to touch the spot stinging just above my right eye. I pulled back reflexively, knocking over a broom I’d propped against the side of the refrigerator. My ankles tangled with the broomstick as I tried to back out of the small space and I fell with a thud to the floor, landing on my backside. Oh, this just got better and better.

  Banton reached down to help me to my feet. “I think I’d better get your name before I have to take you to the emergency room – I don’t want them to think I’ve injured a stranger.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before. I’m Chandler Collins – Andie, to my friends,” I offered awkwardly. Of course I hadn’t introduced myself like a normal person. I was too busy staring at him with my mouth hanging open and tripping over broom handles.

  Just then, a rather large brindle dog pushed his way between us and ran into the house. Large was an understatement…I could have saddled him up.

  “Sorry, he tends to make himself at home. Beau! Beau, come! Sit!” The big dog turned back down the hallway toward us and landed at Banton’s feet. His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he began to pant, grinning at me. I reached down instinctively with both hands to rub his ears. “Hey, Beau, how you doin’?”

  “His registered name is Bon Chance – it means good luck in French. Cajun dog needs a Cajun name.”

  “What kind of dog is he?” I asked as I ran my hands down his neck and rubbed his chest. Beau seemed to like this, and flopped down at my feet, rolling over to his back with all fours in the air.

  “He seems to really like you. He’s a Catahoula Cur.”

  “A cata-what?” I asked.

  “Cat-a-hula. He was a present from my big sister. She thought I needed company back when I moved down to N’awlins alone. She isn’t around to fix me up with blind dates, so she bought me a companion for my birthday a couple years back. I have to say, Beau’s a lot less maintenance and trouble than a girlfriend.”

  OKAY – what did he just say? I zoned out when his Louisiana accent rolled the name New Orleans out and made it the most sensual sounding place ever.

  After an awkward moment of silence, Banton reached down and grasped the bright blue collar around Beau’s neck and urged him to his feet.

  “Well, I guess we’d better get back. We’ve interrupted your project and bothered you enough.”

  “Oh, it was no bother. I was going to knock off for tonight, although there seems to be no stopping point,” I mused aloud, as I glanced around at the broken cabinet doors and peeling paint. We started to amble back down the hallway to the front entrance.

  His expression turned more serious. “Are you doing all this work yourself? Don’t you have any friends you can recruit?”

  “Well, I haven’t been in Baton Rouge long enough to make many. Besides, what I can handle myself is good therapy. I’m great with a sander, paint and a jigsaw. The sheet rocking project upstairs might be a trickier, but I will probably just hire it done when I find someone who works cheap.” Yeah, my entire monthly allowance from my trust fund went to make my mortgage payment and buy food. I was definitely into cheap, free, whatever.

  “Well, you are going to be glad my dog invaded your space tonight. What a great coincidence! My roommate does odd jobs and small construction projects to pay his way through college. I could ask him to drop over with me and take a look, if you would like?”

  He grinned. The dimple again. My heart skipped a beat. Wow. Again, Wow. Find your voice, Andie – he expects a response!

  “That would be great. Um, if I can afford him…” I trailed off.

  “I really don’t think that will be a problem. Why don’t I bring him down tomorrow evening when I inevitably have to look for Beau again…just earlier this time?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then.” Dream about you all night tonight, plan out what I will be wearing when I open the door next time, and dazzle you with my silky brown hair that won’t be wrapped in a worn ragged headband…

  He flashed his cryptic smile and dimple at me again. “Goodnight.” He turned and strolled back across the wide front porch, with Beau tagging along behind him.

  I shut the door and stared at it a moment. He had to be the best looking man I had ever seen. Friendly, sweet – but then the obvious first thought: Oh man, any guy that good-looking has to be gay! I shook my head. No, there is lots of testosterone there, I’m sure. There is no way the guy is not with someone. Wait, did I just assume that because he said his sister would try to fix him up? That didn’t mean he wasn’t involved with someone!

  “Oh, Chandler, get a grip!” I said out loud. “He’s out of your league, anyway. And, you are too old to be fantasizing about every good-looking guy you meet like you did in high school!” And with that final thought, I padded off to take my lukewarm nightly bath (no working water heater yet) and get the day’s sawdust and grime off my skin.

  As I crawled into my sleeping bag on the couch in the living room, I ran through my encounter with the tall, dark, tanned neighbor in my head. Images of how I must have looked to him kept creeping in as I shut my eyes: curly, dusty hair clinging to my sweaty neck, no makeup, uneven cutoff sweat shorts splattered with old paint, unpolished toes and dry feet from running around barefoot all summer. I threw the sleeping bag back, looked at my toes, and grimaced.

  “Pedicure tomorrow after class,” I said to the big fireplace staring back at me. And just like when I was fourteen, I curled up on my side and began the best fantasy I could work out in my head about Mr. Banton Gastaneau.

  Chapter Three

  Excitement thrummed through my veins, chasing the lingering blues away. The further I got into my classes, the more pumped I seemed to be. My 19th Century Literature class was shaping up to be a favorite after just one session. Some of the required reading materials I was already well versed in and had the books in my possession. My professor, Dr. Sandburn, reminded me a lot of my sophomore English teacher in Texas. She promised to be quite a character, and seemed to be passionate about romance literature, so I was sure to like her class. My creative writing class might be a bit trickier – one of those “throw all your pre-conceived notions about writing and life out the window” curriculums. The professor in that class was a hippie throwback-from-the-sixties type named Mr. Powers.

  I headed over to the library after my last morning class to begin some research on my first creative writing topic – anything to do with local black history. Everyone in the class was leaning toward the obvious: slavery in the south, or the civil rights movement. So
I decided to jump into local folklore and the supernatural. After rifling through their card catalog and shelves of books on Creole folklore, black magic, and voodoo in Louisiana, my head began to spin. There were twenty books on Marie Laveau alone. I decided it would be easier to narrow my topic down on the internet at home first.

  Turning the car out of the parking lot on to the main street, I spotted a nail salon and thought, Didn’t I make myself a promise last night? I’m not getting caught again tonight looking like a homeless person.

  After an hour and a half in the chair, and looking more sophisticated with some pretty watermelon red polish on my manicured fingers and toes, I stepped out on to the sunny sidewalk and thought of Constance. I wondered what she was doing right now. This is when she would have laughed and said, “Let’s go for it, Sister – drop two hundred on some new shoes we’ll only wear once, and find a cappuccino somewhere.” I missed Constance. I was going to have to make a trip to New Orleans for the weekend, and soon.

  As I turned the corner, I spotted a shabby-chic looking boutique named simply “Vintage.” I blinked as my eyes watered, thinking this was the kind of shop my mom would never pass without stopping to check out. Momma loved antiques and renovating. The first time I helped her paint something, I was four. She was always finding a treasure, repurposing a piece of furniture, turning trash to treasure. We redecorated my room so often during my twenty-one years at home I was a pro at it myself. She loved to decorate the house at Christmas, loved to work in the yard and plant flowers. My mom made the world beautiful.