Eugene and the Box of Nails

by Jaime Samms

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Text

  About the Author

  By Jaime Samms

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Eugene and the Box of Nails

  By Jaime Samms

  Every time it seems like things are looking up for Eugene Kraft, disaster hits. Bankruptcy, a bigoted sibling, and a back-breaking accident have all left him with little money and less faith in the universe.

  His last-ditch effort at peace is the small lakeside property where he is building a tiny house from recycled materials. If he can get it livable before the cold sets in, maybe he’ll be okay. Hopefully Cullen, the foreman on the construction site next door, won’t notice Eugene pilfering discarded materials from his dumpster.

  When Cullen stops by to talk to Eugene, he’s sure the gig is up—but all Cullen wants is a date. Can two things go right in Eugene’s life? At first it seems possible. Projects on Eugene’s house are getting completed by what he dubs “construction elves” while he’s off site. But like Eugene predicted, his good fortune can’t last, and soon he has a tough choice to make: give up his home… or the man of his dreams.

  For my sister-in-law, Jenn. She totally knows why. Happy Christmas, I wrote this in July. You’re welcome.

  Thanks to Mary for keeping me on the straight and narrow, i.e., nonkinky path, this time. We did it! (Bears don’t count.) Thanks to Grant for answering 1001 construction questions, complete with napkin diagrams, price quotes, and building code violation warnings.

  IT WAS heart-stoppingly cold outside. Eugene hopped from the step of his trailer to the ground. The heavy metallic clank startled a crow up from the fire pit, its cantankerous cry echoing too loudly inside Eugene’s head. Sunshine glared down, and Eugene wished for just one snowy, overcast day. At least that would be a relief from the unrelenting cold. A quick glance around his minuscule front yard quashed the thought, though.

  Devoid of anything resembling grass or, heaven forbid, a flowering plant, the space looked more like the worst areas of the construction site next door than a yard. He was—or wanted to be—a landscape contractor, for goodness’ sake. But like the shoemaker’s kids, his yard was the last to receive attention and it showed. Nothing to remind him how close it was to Christmas. He should think about that. Even a pine tree in a pot or a garland on the trailer could hold a few strings of lights—brighten the place up.

  “This is depressing.” He scowled at the crow, who clucked at him from an overhead wire. “What would you know about it?”

  The crow cawed. Loudly.

  “Shut up.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Eugene tucked his hands under his armpits and shuffled across the hard-packed ground. Pink morning sunshine skittered off the ice filigrees surrounding the reed stems edging his nearby pond. Less than twenty yards away, a small trickle of water spilled over the rocks and down to the lake in a miniature waterfall. The sound grounded him, and he smiled.

  “Never get tired of that,” he decided, and eased a breath out. He watched it swirl away in the morning air. The lake should have been frozen by now, but weather changed, he guessed. Really, he should be glad there was no snow yet, even if Christmas was only a month off. He still had a lot of work to do to get the place winter-ready.

  The dwindling pile of salvaged two-by-fours tucked up under the trailer mocked him. He was close to completing the framework for the timber walls that would define his home. He had just enough long timbers left to erect the last outer walls; so he would have to be judicious how he measured and cut. He didn’t have any room for mistakes.

  As he stood there, the crow returned to sift through the ashes of his fire. It was a wasted effort on the bird’s part. Eugene was careful not to leave food refuse around, or he’d be overrun with seagulls and other enterprising city wildlife.

  It did remind him that if he was going to check the construction site’s bin, he’d better do it quickly, before the first workers arrived. He didn’t really think his early-morning thievery went unnoticed, but as long as no one saw him, no one seemed inclined to say anything. It wasn’t like he was taking anything they planned on using. It was all in the garbage already. He was recycling. Reducing his carbon footprint.

  Scavenging. Whatever.

  Determined, he pulled his gloves from his back pocket and hustled down the path leading through the five feet of scrub brush that separated his lakefront postage stamp from the site next door. At the top of the hill, he could look down on the house undergoing renovations. It was roughly twenty times the size of his modest five-hundred-square-foot-ish floor-and-a-half plan. Where his neighbours had opted to blast out half the mountainside to create a flat space large enough for their monstrous dwelling—right on the beach—the bulk of Eugene’s land remained vertical.

  Sure, the beachfront portion of his yard was about twenty feet straight down a switchback stairway, but the upside was that he enjoyed an unobstructed view over the lake and would never be bothered by unpredictable water levels.

  “Not getting the work done, Kraft,” he muttered to himself, and set out down the stairs.

  At the bottom he had a quick look around, but the site was still quiet. Reeds crackled and whispered along the shore between his beach and theirs. Mist lifted in ethereal veils off the water. Somewhere in the bush at the foot of his cliff, a small animal rustled through papery oak leaves. The quiet was amazing, given he was less than a ten-minute bus ride from downtown.

  A distant horn reminded him he wasn’t the only person up and about, and that he had a mission. He headed for the bin, which, if he wasn’t mistaken, was a good fifty feet closer to the property line and the bottom of the stairs than it had been yesterday. It was still well on the neighbour’s plot and had been carefully placed to avoid the gardens he’d planted for the elderly couple, but it sure made his job easier for the big stuff.

  Smiling, he donned his gloves as he sauntered over. A quick step and a jump and a firm grip on the upper lip of the dumpster, and he was balanced on the top, gazing down. The bottom was littered with old shingles and tar paper and other roofing refuse. Some splintered two-by-fours tangled in the mess, but tossed against the near wall of the bin were about two dozen used but straight eight-foot two-by-fours. Nails stuck out here and there, and some had the distinct blue paint from the home’s beachside porch, but they were perfectly salvageable.

  Eugene grinned. “My lucky day.” Lowering himself to his hands, he swung his feet inside the bin, twisted and dropped, hung for an instant, then landed, his steel-soled boots making a loud clang on the bin’s metal bottom.

  It took only a few minutes to toss the wood over the edge. He’d haul it up to his place from his beach with the pulley platform later. While he was down here, he might as well sift through the rest to see if there was anything else of use. He found a brand-new shovel head with a broken shaft, and three boxes of pretty glass tiles that had been cutoffs of some project or other. They would make a gorgeous mosaic. Enough for most of a dining table, probably.

  Kicking some of the old shingles aside revealed some sizable slabs of plywood. Not full four-by-eight sheets, but good on one side, and big enough to be useful. It was a good haul today. He felt a tiny bit guilty that it looked like the plywood was brand-new and probably hadn’t been slated for the garbage bin, but he consoled himself by reminding his conscience that he was saving the construction company dump fees by leaving them less to haul away later.

  There was also an empty paint bucket half filled with screws and nails. It was tougher to get those out without spilling them, but he managed. If he spent some of the evening with a large rock and a hammer, he’d b
e able to straighten out a lot of the nails. The screws were probably stripped, but he could check.

  Maybe this was a ridiculous way to save a few bucks, but he only had a few bucks to begin with, and no place to spend the winter. He’d do what he had to.

  Before he headed back up, he double-checked the construction crew hadn’t damaged any of the burlap-wrapped plants along the side of the house. Everything was as it should be, and he smiled his approval. The guys were being careful, and he appreciated that. Just because he’d done the work for free didn’t mean he hadn’t done his best, and he was pleased the crew seemed to appreciate his efforts.

  BETWEEN THE sun coming fully over the treetops and the manual labour of hauling on the pulley system, Eugene was plenty warm by the time he had all his supplies up the hill. He was also plenty hungry. Before tending to his belly, though, he took a few minutes to pull a folding table from under the trailer and set up a massive pot of coffee. He’d noticed months ago the multiple runs the crew made to a nearby Tims for literally boxes of coffee and was pretty sure they drew straws for the run. Everyone had grumbled about the massive time-suck. Eugene figured even if they didn’t know it was him taking the wood from the bin, it was the least he could do to keep them caffeinated for less money and less aggravation. After the first few pots he’d offered them, a tin can had appeared and change dropped in for the brew. The system paid for itself now, and Eugene got to know the guys.

  Turned out, they were a great crew. Which only left him feeling guiltier about his early-morning escapades.

  “Never mind. It’s trash, Eugene. They don’t miss it.”

  From above, the crow squawked loudly. “You’re one to talk,” he chided it. “Find anything interesting in my fire pit this morning?”

  He got another loud call and the bird puffed up, flapping its wings at him, indignant.

  “What I thought,” he muttered, and turned his attention to setting out Tupperware bins of muffins and date squares he’d made in his younger brother Paul’s kitchen, then frozen for later. He was happy to share his spoils with the work crew, and they appreciated the treats. His crow did too, apparently, because when he turned his back for a bare instant, it flapped down and snatched one.

  “You fucker!” He shook a fist at it, but it was already disappearing into the trees.

  At least with it gone, he could finally focus on splitting some wood and starting a fire. He made breakfast inside, needing the fuel and the caffeine, but brought it out to sit by the fire to eat.

  The crunch of tires on gravel snuck past as he munched. The workers parked in his driveway and used his stairs to get down to the site. It was easier than driving down the steep, twisting drive the neighbours had to put in. They saved the treacherous descent and scant parking real estate down there for deliveries. Eugene’s driveway was far more than he needed for his own quarter-ton Toyota, so it only made sense to let them use it.

  As they arrived, they waved to Eugene, offering good mornings and smiles as they grabbed their coffees and snacks. He appreciated that they respected his thriftiness and the obviousness of his deep-seated recycling tendencies, because they all brought their own reusable mugs now. The foreman pulled up just before nine, nosing his powder-blue Ford just into the yard enough Eugene could see it around the end of the trailer.

  “Hey there,” he offered as he got out and slammed the door. “Good weekend?”

  “Not so bad,” Eugene admitted, easing the pail of nails he’d pilfered around the far side of the stump he was sitting on. “You?”

  “All right.” He reached back into his cab and came out with a tray with two coffees and a bag jammed between them on a cardboard tray. “Got a sec?” He held up the tray.

  Eugene’s palms began to sweat, and he had to fight not to glance towards the pile of two-by-fours lying a few feet away, awaiting the ministrations of a pry bar. “Sure. S’pose so.” He accepted the offered coffee.

  “Not sure how you take it.” The foreman offered the bag as well. “Cream and sugar in there. Thought you might like a bit of Tims for a treat. I know the guys tend to leave you the dregs.” He winked, which sidetracked Eugene for an instant before he replied.

  “Black’s fine.” Eugene motioned to the other upturned log beside the fire. “Sit?” He popped the tab of the lid, then gingerly stuffed it into the resultant opening so he could sip the hot brew. He made a point of not staring at the older man. Not noticing the way the salt-and-pepper hair at his temples curled out and up in tiny wings around the ball cap he’d pulled on as he exited his truck. Or how the laugh lines around his eyes made the dark brown seem sharper and brighter. He really ought not to be looking that closely.

  “Thanks.” His guest set the tray and unopened bag on the ground next to his work-booted feet, then held out a hand. “Cullen James.”

  “Eugene Kraft.” Eugene smiled, sure it was too faint to look genuine. Between the perfectly angled cheekbones and his own gnawing guilt, he wasn’t sure where to look. He wiped his palm on his jeans and took the offered handshake.

  Cullen’s dark eyes sparkled, and his teeth—the front two a little bit crooked, canines a bit too prominent—gleamed out from the surround of his full, neat beard. His hair was damp, maybe from his shower, and curled at the ends where it touched his collar. It gave him an unkempt, flighty look despite the plaid he filled out with great success. Eugene mentally shook himself and focused on his guest’s face.

  “Quite a project you’ve got going on here,” Cullen observed.

  “Yeah, it’s a challenge.”

  “Good plan, setting it directly on bedrock.”

  Eugene shrugged. “Concrete to level it is a lot cheaper than blasting. Rock’s not going anywhere. No frost heave this way.”

  “Not a very big footprint, though.”

  Eugene smiled and waved at the trailer. “Been living in that for nearly seven years. The build gives me nearly three times the space. Be a palace in comparison.”

  Cullen’s eyebrows went up. “Seven years.” He eyed the trailer. “What about over the winter?”

  Eugene snorted. “Used to park it in my brother’s barn. He bought llamas.”

  “Really. People raise llamas around here?”

  “They do now. Or, he does, anyway. Makes sense. They come with their own winter coats.”

  Cullen snickered. “I guess that’s true.”

  For a few minutes, the fire crackled and Eugene’s guest crow chucked at them from a telephone wire. Neither of them spoke.

  “So….” Eugene ran a thumb along the lid of his cup. The plastic bit into his skin, and he yelped. “Fuck!” He stuck the bloodied thumb in his mouth but managed not to drop the cup.

  “You all right?” Cullen leaned forwards, brow furrowed, eyes fixed on Eugene’s.

  “Yeah.” Eugene sucked at the blood. “Just… klutzy.” He tried to smile around the digit. “Story of my life, actually.”

  “Here.” Cullen pulled some napkins out of the breast pocket of his quilted flannel and held them out. “Let me see.”

  Eugene flushed as he removed his thumb from his mouth to examine the cut. It wasn’t that deep, but it being on a finger, a fresh ooze of blood leaked along the line of broken skin.

  “Here.” Gently Cullen wrapped napkins around the pad of Eugene’s thumb. “Hold that there for a sec.” He hurried to his truck and returned a moment later with a small first-aid kit. Swift and sure, he spread disinfectant cream over a bandage, then secured the bandage round Eugene’s cut. He topped it with a bigger bandage and handed over a latex glove. “You can cut a finger off the glove and put it over the bandages if you need to do something where it might get wet or dirty.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “That’s a good trick.” One he wished he’d thought of years ago. He’d gone through a shit-ton of bandages in his line of work, not to mention the number of accidents he’d had on the house already.

  “I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen. I hope I learned a thing or two over
the years.”

  Eugene nodded. “Sure. Makes sense.”

  Another quiet spell settled between them.

  “So.” Cullen shifted.

  “Right. You didn’t stop by to admire my campfire.”

  “I wanted to have a look at your work.” A bit of pink appeared above Cullen’s beard, and he lifted one shoulder. “Curious, you know?”

  “Sure.” For another moment, Eugene sat there, uncertain. Was he here just to look? Because he was actually interested? Or because he recognized some of the materials as having come out of his dumpster?

  “Do you have plans?” Cullen asked, leaning forwards, planting his elbows on his knees. “I would sure love to have a gander at those, if I could.” He was studying the build, and his expression conveyed nothing but curiosity and interest.

  “Um. Sure.” Eugene winced. “Yes. I mean, sort of. Here.” He set his cup on the ground and promptly kicked it over as he swung round towards the door of the trailer. “Shit. Sorry.” His face heated as the coffee soaked into the dust and the leather of Cullen’s boots.

  “Nah.” Cullen grinned, stopping just short of a chuckle. “That’s hardly the worst thing that’s been spilled on them.”

  “Come on.” Eugene ducked his head and hurried for the trailer door. “Plans are in here.” What there was of them, anyway. The plans for his house followed a sort of chicken-and-egg routine. He planned something, sought out materials and found something else, then changed the plans to suit what he had found. Like the seven-foot, three-inch custom door he’d found at the ReStore for thirty bucks. It had been cheap because it was nonstandard, and once he’d realized the difficulty in sourcing long enough framing materials to accommodate the increased height, he’d figured out why he’d been able to pick it up for next to nothing. It had taken a few days of research to figure out how to build a wall to accommodate his special find without spending a fortune on new lumber to frame it. Live and learn.