Page 2 of Just a Number (Magnolia Row #2)

RHODES

W hen I got the call about a potential job restoring an old hotel in Magnolia Row, I jumped.

I’d never been to the small Alabama town, but I’d heard all about it when I was in architecture school.

It’s known for its stunning historic homes, manicured lawns, and picturesque location on the Florablanca River. It sounds like a dream.

The hotel I was contacted about was once a hotspot for Southern travelers, particularly honeymooners, but for the past thirty years has been completely ignored and unoccupied. The new owner reached out to me for a proposal to overhaul the hotel and completely restore it to its original grandeur.

It’s the day of my first meeting with the potential client, and I make the three-hour drive south from my loft in Birmingham.

It’s all interstate until Montgomery, then I have an hour and a half of rural roads lined with cow pastures, oaks full of Spanish moss, and the occasional old farmhouse set back from the road like a totem to the past. It’s a beautiful day despite the heat, and I’m glad to be out of the congested city.

I drive into Magnolia Row and am immediately transported back in time.

It’s quaint, as I thought it would be, and exquisite.

Passing through the historic district, I see every kind of architecture I would expect from a town that boomed in the late 1800s.

Victorian, Italianate, and Greek revival houses line the streets.

Even the trees are immaculate – the most gorgeous oaks, magnolias, and dogwoods complement each house.

The homes themselves are circled with azaleas and hydrangeas that no doubt give a spray of wild, bright colors in the spring.

Now I’m even more hungry to get this job. It’ll give me an excuse to come back and see the town through all the seasons.

I’m early, so I stop at a coffee shop on Main Street to get an iced latte.

This stretch of road is the beating heart of town, and is even more vibrant than the residential streets.

Instead of oaks, this street is lined with massive magnolia trees.

If it weren’t for the modern cars, I’d swear I’d somehow been transported back to the 1950s.

I can’t believe how well preserved the whole area is.

As soon as I step out of my car, I regret wearing a suit instead of something more casual and cool to meet the investor who purchased the hotel.

My clothes feel like an oven. Luckily, the air conditioning in the coffee shop is on full blast. The girl behind the counter takes my order and asks me where I’m from.

She’s short, with dirty blonde hair and a pink apron.

“Birmingham,” I tell her, strumming my thumbs along the counter and taking in my quaint surroundings. “I’m an architect and have a meeting with the new owner of Florablanca Inn.”

“Wow!” she says, running my card for my iced coffee. “I can’t believe someone actually wants to throw money into that old thing.”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” I tell her. “Is it in bad shape?”

She makes a hard-to-read face and steps behind the barista counter to make my drink.

“I’m told it used to be beautiful,” she says, “but I’ve only ever known it as a creepy bat shack.

A lot of the houses in the Victorian Village are in rough shape.

It’s Magnolia Row’s dirty little dilapidated secret. ”

I raise my eyebrows and chuckle. “Why is that? The rest of the town is so stunning.”

“I’m not really sure. Something about a fire on Old Vic Road a long time ago.

The hotel is the first thing you’ll see.

If you keep going down that street, you’ll be able to see where it was full of Victorian houses a hundred years ago.

Most of them are gone now. There’s a house about a mile from the hotel in similar shape.

My friends and I used break into it when we were bored in high school. ”

“That sounds fun!” I say, but she merely shrugs and finishes making my coffee.

“Good luck to you,” she says, handing it to me. “I hope you enjoy a challenge.”

“I do,” I say, almost as a reminder to myself.

I sit in a corner table to drink my coffee, which is better than I’d expected. Once I’m done, I wave goodbye to the barista and drive a few blocks over to the hotel.

The girl at the coffee shop was right. This road isn’t as well-kept as the main drag, and the hotel stands as a testament to its neglect.

I don’t see any cars or signs of life near the building, so I park, grab my camera, laser distance meter, pen, and notepad and help myself to a walk around the exterior.

It isn’t easy. The yard is overgrown with weeds and I’m cognizant of the fact that I could step on a snake at any moment. I also note the back of the hotel overlooks the river, which makes me even more anxious about cottonmouths.

I take a few photos. The building is a four story, L-shaped Victorian with six stacks of bay box windows.

The lobby entrance on the front corner is at an angle.

It still has the original turned spandrils and sawn balusters on the long porches that span each wing on the front.

It’s a stunning building, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

Even though the paint is peeling off, kudzu is growing over parts, and spiderwebs glisten in the sun, I can perfectly imagine what this place looked like in its prime.

God, I hope I get this job.

In the back, what was once an impressive courtyard is tucked into the corner of the L-shaped building.

The original tile on the patio is visible, but the earth is well on its way to reclaiming it under dark green growth.

Broken concrete furniture and statues dot the lawn, and I take few photos to later see if I can find replacements of something similar, assuming I get the job.

“Hi!” I hear from behind me, and I’m so startled I almost drop my camera.

I turn to see a tall woman in a skin-tight black dress and heels. She’s dark-complected and has long black hair and red pointy nails. She’s struggling to walk towards me in her completely inappropriate stilettos.

I wave to her. “I’ll come to you,” I say, navigating my way off the patio and towards the corner of the building where she’s waiting.

She’s older than I’d thought she’d be, though she’s doing her best to look younger.

From far away, I would’ve guessed she’s close to my own age of forty-five, but as I get closer, I see she easily has fifteen to twenty years on me.

“I’m Wilhelmina Caxton,” she says, holding out her hand.

I return the gesture. “Rhodes Cauley.”

“Well, aren’t you a tall drink o’ water?” She takes her sunglasses off and looks me up and down. Her eyes are lined with a thick layer of black make-up that somehow hasn’t smudged despite the sweat breaking out on her face.

“Thank you,” I say, looking to the ground and shuffling my feet, unsure what to say.

“So, what do you think?” she said, dramatically holding out her hands.

“It’s a gorgeous building. I need to go inside to assess everything, but it looks like there’s a lot here to work with. I’m delighted to be considered for the project.”

To be honest, I’m more than delighted. I’m ecstatic.

When I quit my job at the largest architecture firm in Birmingham last year, I opened up my own business to focus solely on historic restoration and preservation.

I was so tired of designing new, boring commercial spaces.

Old buildings are more beautiful, more challenging, and more rewarding.

This hotel is everything I’d hoped it’d be, and I’m a little overwhelmed by the prospect of finally bidding on my dream job after twenty years in the profession.

She smiles and pats me on the shoulder, then leads me inside, walking carefully with short steps.

“I have a passion for old, neglected things, Mr. Cauley, being an old, neglected thing myself.” She leads me into the lobby and, for a moment, I forget to maintain an air of professionalism.

My mouth drops open at the sheer scale of this place.

“May I call you Rhodes?” she asks, bringing me back to reality.

“Rhodes is fine,” I say, clearing my throat.

She rubs my arm. “As you can see, this hotel was once the jewel of this town,” she says.

She’s right. The lobby is massive with rough marble floors.

The ceiling looks to be about twenty feet high, and there’s a spot in the center which once held what was probably an impressive and very expensive chandelier.

There’s ample room for seating and lounging, and in the back are French doors—with broken glass—leading to the courtyard.

“Once we’re done, I want this place to be not only the jewel of Magnolia Row, but the jewel of the whole state of Alabama.

I want it shiny, restored, and even more glamorous than it was before.

I have a decorator who wants to do every room in a different color and theme, but first we need to work on the bones.

That’s your job. We’re sparing no expense, darling.

You just tell me what you need and whom to pay. ”

I’m a little confused. I’d thought I was here to get a lay of the land so I could write up a proposal. I assumed I’d be bidding against other architects. “I have the job?”

“Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t bring you all the way down here for nothing.”

I’m shocked. I expected a much more difficult process. “Wow. Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Caxton.”

“It’s Mrs. Caxton. My husband is dead, but I still like the sound of the ‘Mrs.’ It adds a bit of class, don’t you think?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Yes” seems to be the correct answer here, so I agree.

We walk down the hall of the south wing. I’m struggling to take it all in and keep up with her conversation.