She sipped her coffee. “Well, let’s see. It’s a remote site. Roughly a thousand acres. The house itself is not going to be some gaudy faux-ranch or mega-lodge, so, if that’s your forte, Mr. McCourt, I can save you some time.”
His heart did snag for a moment before it occurred to him that her notion of gaudy might be quite different from his own. It wasn’t that he endorsed gaudiness—no; it was just that gaudy generally meant expensive, and expensive of course meant a more lucrative builder’s fee.
“Imagine something akin to the Schindler House, only three-tiered, with even braver lines, and embracing a mountain. Thirty-eight hundred square feet, three-car garage, carbon neutral. Geothermal heating and cooling, solar—both passive and active. A central fireplace crafted from all locally quarried stone. Four bedrooms, three bathrooms. That should give you a basic sense of it.”
He nodded along with this, though the bit about the Schindler House had gone sailing right over his head; like the Spielberg flick? Still, as she spoke, he began tabulating costs, and against that steadily rising number, multiplied by True Triangle’s ten percent builder’s fee. Okay, so this house might not be some eight-thousand-square-foot monstrosity, but it would certainly carry a price tag in the upper seven-digits, with True Triangle potentially netting around a million, if he, Teddy, and Bart worked their asses off to avoid what subcontracting they could; hell, they could farm the whole thing out and still pocket a bundle.
“All of that sounds great,” Cole said, nodding. “And so, where’s the building site?”
“Southeast of town,” she said. “About forty miles, give or take.”
This bit of information did give him a moment of pause. He’d worked a few jobs fifty, even seventy-five, miles away from town, and he knew that after you factored in travel time and gas and the cost of transporting materials, you could lose thousands if not tens of thousands here and there with botched deliveries, little oversights—even something as benign as Teddy’s girls’ dance recitals. . . . It all added up. Then, throw in a penny-pinching homeowner, and suddenly your fee wasn’t nearly as substantial as you’d budgeted. But he did not have long to dwell on this line of thought.
“Mr. McCourt, do you know who I am?”
He did not, though he’d spent the past week trying his damnedest to find out. Sure, he’d googled her name—Gretchen Connors—but that only yielded hundreds of Gretchen Connorses: a WNBA player, a renowned vegan chef, and a tulip magnate, among scores of less remarkable-seeming individuals. He’d even inquired around town, but to no avail. When he asked Teddy and Bart about this dearth of information, they seemed nonplussed. Every year, more and more out-of-state money poured into their quaint little ski town, more Patagonia- and North Face–wearing strangers. Nike and New Balance had long since replaced cowboy boots, and it had been this way for a while. In fact, the only thing more galling than the loss of any real cowboy culture was the interlopers’ determination to dress up on a Friday night in their best western costumes—some hedge-fund manager with a Brooklyn accent wearing thirteen-hundred-dollar Ferrini cowboy boots, or a California surfer-girl sporting a five-thousand-dollar fringed leather jacket. . . . Point being, it wasn’t necessarily a surprise that her name didn’t register.
“Well, she’s building a house,” Bart had said, “so obviously she ain’t from around here. Who gives a shit, long as her checks cash?”
“No, ma’am,” Cole allowed, meeting her eyes. “I don’t, actually.”
“That’s just as well, I suppose. So, are you interested in my project, Mr. McCourt? And, more to the point, is this the kind of home your firm would have the time and expertise to build?”
“It is, yes, absolutely,” he said. “And we’re definitely interested.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then why don’t we meet at the site in a week? I’ll shoot you the details soon enough.”
Rising from the table, she reached down for a large Louis Vuitton handbag. Even Cole recognized that particular logo and design. His soon-to-be ex, Cristina, had bought a knock-off on a long-ago trip to New York.
“I’ll be speaking to a few other firms in the meantime,” she said, gazing away from him down the street.
He’d been sitting on a glossy navy-blue folder with True Triangle’s yellow logo on the cover. And this he pulled out now, its thick, shiny stock still warm from his thigh, and handed it to her.
“Everything’s inside,” he said. “All our references.” Cole suddenly realized, as he stood quickly to offer his hand, that he had hardly even had a chance to pitch his company’s merits. That this could easily be the last time he ever saw this woman.
“We’ll be in touch,” she said, and he could not help feeling that he’d just been dismissed. Clearly this was a woman accustomed to adjourning meetings. He dearly wished he knew more about her, what her job was, where she lived, where her money came from, and, somehow most importantly, whether she was married, or even a little bit attached.
“How?” he all but yelped.
“I’ll contact you with the location of the site,” she said. “Good day, Mr. McCourt.” And with that, she walked a half block down the street before ducking into a black Range Rover and driving off.
Cole was confident he’d blown it, and it was with an acute sense of defeat that he drove to their current worksite, a nondescript beige two-story condo with severe water damage stemming from an overflowing Jacuzzi. Apparently a bunch of college kids had polished off a case of Daddy’s Veuve Clicquot, partied in the hot tub, and spilled enough water to totally weaken what must have already been a rotten subfloor, because the hot tub eventually crashed through the floor, not only leaving a hole in the first-floor ceiling but destroying everything below. The job would be perhaps two weeks of work if they could drag it out that long, at which point True Triangle Construction would be on to the next thankless gig.
* * *
—
Cole’s truck continued its labored climb up the mountain. In the distance, perhaps a mile or more away, a plume of dust rose into the immaculate sky like proof of some dry fire.
“What’s going on up there?” Teddy asked, pointing through the windshield at the column of khaki-colored dust.
“Looks like some major action is what,” Cole mumbled.
They plodded forward, scanning the mountainsides and talus slopes for bear, moose, elk, or mountain goats. Down below, in the canyon holding that rugged river, they hadn’t spotted so much as a single fly-fisherman. And along the road, no trailers, no horses, no ATVs—nothing but scree, mountainside, and lodgepole pine.
Another twelve minutes of jostling and bumping down the road, and they could now see that the dust originated from a road-building crew: a dump truck, an excavator, two long flatbed trailers, two bulldozers, and a Bobcat. Cole pulled over to the side of the road, and the three partners of True Triangle swung out of the truck, stepping down onto the gravel with the swagger of gunfighters approaching a disagreement not yet resolved. Cole had never been able to pinpoint it exactly, but there was a kind of judgment, a kind of feeling out, that inevitably accompanied two groups of workers in the building trades when they encountered each other. The visitors were sure to begin at once evaluating the others’ work, while the latter affected the disposition of entrenched soldiers, their body language all, Yeah, you don’t know the half of it, buddy. . . . This homeowner . . . And the fucking weather . . .
Luckily, they were able to sidestep all the macho bullshit when Teddy recognized a member of his Mormon temple and they exchanged heartily sincere greetings. The two groups of men eased up now, and the road-building crew climbed down from their machines for pulls off insulated water jugs and maybe a quick cigarette.
“Now, who the hell are you guys?” an older man asked, looking surprised to have company on such a lonesome road.
“Cole McCourt. True Triangle Construction,” Cole said, extending his han
d.
They shook, and there was an awkward moment when the older man, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, stood sizing up Cole and his partners.
“Hell of a project,” Cole said to the older man, gesturing up the mountain to the road’s gravel base. “How long you guys been working on this?”
“Shhhiiittt,” said the man thoughtfully. “Since the spring snows quit, I guess. . . . May, for sure. Been workin’ like dogs. Seven days a week. She’ll pay overtime and wants it down lickety-split. Never seen nothing like it.”
“You know anything about her?” Cole pressed.
The older man raised an eyebrow, pulled on his cigarette. “Well, we call her the Fox,” he said. “For obvious reasons. But, buddy, all I know is that her pockets are deep and her checks always clear. She stays out of our way, mostly, though she’s up there now. You laid eyeballs on the site yet?”
Cole shook his head.
“Yeah, well, I’ve worked on some choice projects,” the older man went on, “but I gotta hand it to her. This is gonna be somethin’ special.” He spat into the dust. “What’s your name again?” he asked, removing an old Denver Broncos hat to scratch at his head.
“McCourt. True Triangle Construction.”
“Huh,” the older man said. “Never heard of you guys. Well, we better get back to it.” He tipped his cap and climbed into the cab of the dump truck. “Sure we’ll be seein’ you around.”
Cole, Bart, and Teddy climbed back into the truck and drove on. Another third of a mile down the road, Cole brought it to a stop.
“What’s the deal?” Teddy asked.
“I just need a second,” Cole said, closing his eyes. “I didn’t want to, you know, pull in there and not have my shit together.”
“Sounds like a good time to pray,” Teddy said, shifting back into his seat. “I’m gonna pray for us.”
“Good,” said Bart, spitting out the window. “I could always use a little extra help.”
The truck sat idly for two or three minutes before Cole opened his eyes, felt his heartbeat drumming regularly again.
Bart was staring at him like he was some drooling basket case.
“Well?”
“All right, all right, all right,” Cole said. “Here we go.”
The landscape narrowed, closing in upon them as they ascended. The new road rose up between two nearly sheer cliff-faces that held the midday sun to glow a buttery yellow. Those ridges rose a thousand feet over the road, which was funneled into a sort of V-shaped canyon, the river still on their right, though tapering, too. Finally, the road terminated at the river, with a large turnaround area shaped like an O. And here was Gretchen’s black Range Rover, now dusted pale brown. An asphalt-paved driveway led from the gravel turnaround across a steel bridge and up to what looked like the skeletal beginnings of a house.
Climbing out of the truck, they just stood there, stretching their backs, breathing the high-country air, and gazing up at the cliff-faces shining down upon them. Far above, three or four buzzards wheeled on a thermal, and from the crowns of the creek-side pines, a passel of black rosy finches chided them. Cole was confused; she’d said nothing about the house already being under construction.
“Over here!” a woman’s voice called.
Turning, they saw Gretchen picking her way up a slope from down below them, where the river roiled.
Cole walked briskly toward her, extending his arm to guide her up the last few feet of the slope where it steepened. Dressed in expensive yoga pants and a Lycra hoodie, she might have been a model in one of the women’s outdoor catalogs that Cole’s estranged wife received in the mail. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a light sheen of sweat showing on her brow and in the fine, nearly invisible hairs just above her lip. She dusted off her hands and blew a tangle of long red hair away from her eyes. The men stood there, simply staring at her for a moment before remembering themselves and glancing politely away.
Now Bart stole a look at Cole, who was clearly crushing on this woman. Clear from the moment he sprang over there and guided her up, like she was a queen. It was unusual to see Cole so excited, Bart thought; he hadn’t been much for talking about the separation, but Bart knew his friend had been ground down by the beginning stages of the divorce, and it had been some time since Bart had seen any lightness in his friend’s step, any real sense of joy, aside from when he was reaching for a well-deserved bottle of frosty-cold beer at the end of a solid day, or on those rare occasions when they shared a joint together. Otherwise, Cole had seemed pretty well hollowed out these past two years, a shell of the man Bart and Teddy had moved here with. . . . Fucker looks like he’s in love, Bart thought.
“Well,” she said evenly, “you found it.”
“Ma’am,” Bart began, “we were all saying on the drive up, we’ve never seen such a gorgeous spot.” Turning his head away from her, he hooked a finger inside his mouth and as casually as possible flicked away his wad of chew.
Teddy stood staring out past the river, up to where faint wisps of cloud seemed to rise from the base of the mountain. “Is that steam?” he asked.
She smiled. “Follow me,” she said, and they fell in behind her.
Just beyond the turnaround the asphalt began, leading to the wide steel bridge that spanned the river. Past the rushing water the asphalt narrowed a bit, and there was the site, already in progress. A three-car tuck-under garage had been built up almost flush against the cliff-face, and above that rose two stories of house supported by I-beam construction, the first of those floors cantilevered out and nearly over what they now saw was a steaming thermal spring. A pool of crystal-clear water appeared to be fed by a seep gushing out of the side of the mountain, eventually overflowing gently into a short creek feeding down into the river below. Deeper than six feet from the looks of it; the natural pool was about half the size of a tennis court.
“You own this?” Teddy burst out.
Cole closed his eyes in embarrassment.
“I do,” Gretchen said. “Isn’t it something?”
“I mean, I’ve seen some places,” Bart mumbled, worrying the stubble of his jaw, “but this here, this here. . . .”
She lowered herself to a flat rock adjacent to the springs and looked back toward the valley and the faces of the cliff-sides now shining as if lit by some internal fire.
“Only you never mentioned nothin’ about the house already bein’ under construction,” Cole said sternly. “Respectfully.”
“The thing is, gentlemen, I’ve run into a snag,” she said, pointing up at the house. “See, I lost my first contractor.”
“Well, ma’am, at this point, I’m more than a little confused,” said Cole. “Because if your contractor was local, we’d have known about this project. And if you’d lost a local contractor, we would have definitely heard about that. To say nothing of the fact that the house is already damn well started.” It was true that Cole felt something for this woman, but at the moment he was pissed—he could not deny it—and did not even bother to camouflage the tremble in his voice.
She nodded quietly, traced a fingertip in the steamy pool.
“Mr. McCourt,” she began. “I was under the impression that you wanted this job. Now, I really have no interest in dwelling on the past. Suffice it to say that my first contractor and I did not see eye to eye. He and his crew are gone. I am in need of a new contractor. I am under no obligation to further explain myself to you; it is none of your business. Now, if you and your partners aren’t up to the task”—she turned her back to them and exhaled—“then please stop wasting my time.”
“They must’ve had a reason,” Bart said. “You don’t just up and quit on a project like this.”
Gretchen sighed.
“I have a tight schedule to keep,” she continued, “and I simply will not accept anything other than the finest work. Now, I am exact
ing. And I must insist on a rather tight time frame. I think that . . . ultimately, my prior contractor simply couldn’t maintain his end of the bargain. And so, we parted ways. I would have thought you might’ve seen his loss as your gain.”
“Who was your prior contractor?” Bart asked.
“It really is none of your concern,” Gretchen said, a sharp edge to her voice. “And, gentlemen, any further questions are really fruitless. To preserve the privacy of the site, that contractor and his crew signed nondisclosure agreements. I can assure you they were all well compensated for their work here.”
The men wordlessly glanced at one another: Teddy shrugged his shoulders, Cole nodded slowly as he tapped a finger against his lips, and Bart simply stared at the house, his arms crossed tight against his chest, his fingers holding his biceps.
“Somethin’ don’t seem right about this,” he said. “I’ll play ball, but I want to say it for the record.”
Now Gretchen turned to face the men as her left hand finned through the steam.
“Look, gentlemen,” she said flatly, shielding her eyes now from the slant of the early-afternoon sun, “the most dangerous work has already been done; all the groundwork has literally been set. The pilings have been poured and by now should be properly cured. The garage and first floor are poured. The I-beams were secured into place by a specialty firm out of Denver. The well and geothermal have all been drilled. The initial electrical work is already in place. What I need is a contractor to take this project across the finish line. I need a contractor with an attention to detail and a desire to work hard. And I’m hoping, Mr. McCourt, that you are the man to do just that.”
Cole felt Bart’s and Teddy’s eyes on him, and he knew why. They were equal partners, the three of them, and yet here she was talking to him as if he were the foreman. . . . But hadn’t they all agreed he would be the one to meet with her that first morning? There was nothing to do but to plunge forward.
“Ma’am, I don’t know what to say. . . . All this is just, uh, highly unusual. All of it, really, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m having some cold pricklies.”
Godspeed Page 2