Page 3 of Just a Number (Magnolia Row #2)

“My late husband left me with four horrid stepchildren and more money than I know what to do with. I intend to waste as much of it as possible before I die. Like I said, I simply adore these old buildings. When I heard about this place, I had to have it.”

“You aren’t from here?” I ask, ducking under a partially fallen beam.

“No, honey. I’m from Fairhope, but my daddy used to bring me here as a child. He was in food distribution and had business with the peanut farmers around these parts.”

“And your husband?” It’s not my business, but I can’t help asking.

“A professional scoundrel,” she says with a loud, throaty laugh. “But he was rich, which is really what matters.”

I smile and nod. “Apparently so.”

“Darling, what do you need from me right now?”

“I’d like to explore a little bit, get some photos and measurements, then take all of this back home and come up with some numbers for you. Do you know if the city has any of the original plans?”

“The little real estate man said something about it, but I didn’t get them.”

“That’s fine. I’ll swing by and see what they have.”

“Wonderful, darling. If you have any trouble, you call me.”

“I will.”

She disappears down the long, dusty corridor and stands by her car, talking on the phone, while I take extensive photos and measurements of the exterior and interior.

An area of the south wing has a lot of decay.

It will have to be completely ripped out, but on the whole, I’m pleasantly surprised at how well the building has stood up to decades of neglect.

Even when I go upstairs, the carpet is rotten but the boards beneath my feet don’t give way as much as I expect.

Most of the windows have been boarded up, which kept the rain out after the glass shattered or was removed, but that’s an easy fix.

I’m not able to get onto the tiled roof, but considering how well the structure has held up, I’m betting the roof is in pretty good shape.

I have some coveralls in my SUV, so I go outside, remove my jacket, and put those on over my dress pants and button-down shirt, then shimmy under the hotel, carefully dodging spiders.

The foundation is made of massive wooden beams that show typical signs of age, but are relatively solid, with the exception of the problem area in the south wing.

I brush myself off after I crawl out and approach Mrs. Caxton, who is watching me and smoking by her car.

“Well?” she asks, smiling.

“I’m quite pleased,” I say. “There are a few trouble spots, but nothing that can’t be fixed. Is there a specific contractor you’re interested in?”

“No, darling. I figured I’d let you handle that.” She reaches forward and brushes cobwebs out of my hair. It’s a strangely intimate gesture and makes me a little uncomfortable.

“What kind of budget do you have in mind?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Don’t you worry about money.”

I stand there for a moment with my mouth open. I’m stunned this woman is handing this project to me sight unseen. I’m stunned she doesn’t have a budget. I’m stunned she’s flicking cigarette ashes into a pile of dry, dead underbrush that could light this place up in seconds.

“Do you mind asking how you decided on me as your architect?” I ask. “Have you seen my work, or did someone refer you?”

“I looked you up on the Google.”

I pause, staring at her with what I know must be a dumbfounded expression. “That’s it?”

“Well, I liked your picture. You’re handsome, and you have an honest face.”

I have no idea how to respond. I have no doubt I’ll do a phenomenal job, but she literally knows nothing about me.

“You need to work on your poker face, Rhodes.” She laughs again with a hearty, deep voice. “My instincts have never failed me. You’re the right man for the job.”

“Thank you. I’m thrilled to be a part of it.”

“When do you go back to Birmingham?” she asks before taking a long drag from her cigarette.

“Saturday. I thought I’d stay a few days to get a feel for the town and find out as much as I can about the hotel.”

“How about you and I go down to that little steakhouse for dinner?”

This…is awkward. There’s no way I’m letting this relationship be anything other than business, despite how hungry I am for this project.

“I’d like to get started on my proposal and make some phone calls, if you don’t mind.” I look at my watch. “If I hurry, I should be able to get to the courthouse today.”

“Of course,” she says, not hiding her disappointment. “Send me what you have when you have it. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She winks at me, then gets in her car—an Aston Martin.

I feel like I’ve entered a different world. I can’t believe this is my life.

* * *

A t the courthouse, I’m thrilled the city has copies of all of the original paperwork on the hotel, down to the blueprints and original permits. I make copies of everything.

“Is it true some rich lady from Mobile bought the hotel?” the girl at the desk asks me.

“Fairhope, actually. And yes. I’m the architect she hired.”

She smiles. “You’re not from here.” She says it as a statement more than a question.

“No, ma’am. I’m from Birmingham.”

“You know,” she says, “the Finnegan House is a museum now. It’s in the historic district. They have a whole mess of old photos you can look at. I bet there’s some of the hotel.”

“That’d be great! Are they open?”

“They’re probably closed for the day, but if you’re still here tomorrow, you should swing by. My aunt runs it.”

“I’ll do that,” I say. “Thank you!”

I take my copies and go back to my hotel after picking up some barbeque take-out for dinner. And a t-shirt. I can’t go to Big Ol’ Butts BBQ and not get a t-shirt.

I spend the rest of the night going through my pictures. I have so many ideas my head is spinning, and I have the perfect contractor to help me with the project. I work until almost three in the morning, and when my head hits the pillow, I dream about the Florablanca Inn.

* * *

T he next morning, I go to Finnegan House as soon as it opens. It’s a massive white Greek revival with Corinthian columns in the heart of Magnolia Row.

I’m greeted by an older lady wearing flowing dark pink pants with a matching cardigan over a black shirt. She’s wearing gaudy costume jewelry, rings on every finger, and so many necklaces she jingles when she walks. Her hair is short, straight, and gray, and she carries herself like a queen.

This place is spectacular. It has floor-length windows and a porch that wraps around the entire house. It’s decorated immaculately in rich greens, blues, and yellows. I can only imagine what kind of decadent parties were once held here.

“Ruth Cottar,” the lady says, holding out her hand when I walk in. “I don’t know you.”

“No, I’m not from here,” I say, shaking her hand. She looks me over, never cracking a smile. “I’m the architect overseeing the restoration of the Florablanca Inn.”

“Ah,” she says, softening a bit. “Well, I’m glad something is being done about it. It’s been a blight on this town. All these beautiful houses, yet that old dump was left to rot.”

I’m surprised to hear it referred to as a dump, as I see nothing but potential. But to each their own, I guess.

“I was told you have some old photos of the building.”

“Yes, we do.” She stands there for a beat and doesn’t move.

“May I see them?” I ask.

“Of course.” She leads me up the stairs. “Did you want the formal tour of the house or just the photos?”

“Just the photos for now, but I’ll probably come back for the tour on another visit. This house is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is.”

The old wooden floorboards creak beneath our feet despite the heavy rugs.

She leads me to what was once a bedroom on the north side, which is now lined with display cases on all walls and one in the center.

Dozens and dozens of black and white photographs are framed with little description cards.

In the back corner, near the old fireplace, she slides back the glass and takes out an album.

“The original owner of the hotel took these the first year it was open,” she says.

I’m so excited my heart skips a beat as I look through it.

Page after page of hotel images are included, along with smiling faces in Edwardian garb.

There’s even a clear shot of the lobby taken from the entrance of the front door, showcasing a fountain with a trio of sirens wearing nothing but magnolia flowers, shooting water from their mouths. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“This is a gold mine,” I say.

“Take it,” she says, “if you think it will help.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, as long as you promise to return everything when you’re finished.”

“Absolutely.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“No. I’d like to look around for a bit, if you don’t mind. Kind of get a feel for the town’s history and character. You have a lot of great stuff here.”

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” she says, folding her hands and showing herself out.

I spend another two hours flipping through the hotel album and looking at all the photos and antiques in the house.

The town has a rich history going back to the 1870s, when it boomed with merchants due to the river and a railroad that ran from Mobile to Montgomery.

It was one of the only prosperous areas in this part of Alabama during Reconstruction.

I go back downstairs and find Ms. Cottar on a settee, staring out the window at the passing cars. I clear my throat to get her attention. She stands and meets me in the foyer.

“Is that all you need?” she asks.

“Yes, for now, though I do have a question.” She nods. “Do you know what happened to the contents of the hotel? The furniture, the decor? There’s a beautiful fountain in one of the photos.”

“Well, everything was auctioned off. In fact, we have two of the bedroom suites upstairs, and some of the furniture you see in these sitting rooms is from the ballroom, though they have been reupholstered, of course. So I guess the answer is everywhere. Everyone in town seems to have gotten a piece of the hotel before it was shuttered. Though you mentioned the fountain. I believe Barbara Bonaventure has it at her store.”

“Her store? Where is that?”

“Bonaventure Antiques. Drive north down this very road out of the historic district. It’ll be on your left. It’s in an old church.”

“Thank you. I’ll go there now.”

An antique store in an old church. I should’ve guessed.