by Beck, Jamie
It’d be perfect if not for the silver Foley Construction pickup truck parked in the driveway. A quick glance at the clock in my car confirms it’s after five o’clock. At this hour I should’ve been in the clear.
I need time to myself in the empty space. Time to visualize, to dream, to stamp out my misgivings. To prepare for my first steps in this new life. Instead, I face another round of strained conversation with the contractor. Shoving my car fob into my shorts pocket, I dawdle, checking the flower beds for weeds on the way up the walkway.
Years ago, Dan Foley made my teen heart flutter from his perch on the lifeguard chair at the public beach. Brown curls sun-kissed by honey highlights. Tan skin stretched tight across a chest that looked more like a man’s than a boy’s with its tuft of hair. Cool sunglasses and a whistle that he’d twirled around his fingers over and over.
Not that he’d ever noticed me. He’s four or five years older and had been surrounded by plenty of girls his own age who competed for his attention.
In July, when the broker handed me a list of contractors for the planned renovations, Dan’s name had jumped out like a shot of confetti. I remembered him as an affable guy beloved by many, and assumed he’d be the type to help someone new integrate into town. But from our first meeting, it became clear he wouldn’t be part of my welcome wagon.
Perhaps it was foolish to expect him to be that perfectly laid-back, pleasant boy from the beach. Decades of life’s disappointments weather us all and expose our jagged, broken pieces. Jaded I can handle, but judgmental is trickier. It’s clear from our many exchanges and my several requested change orders that he considers me a persnickety outsider. I might be both, but this house is the foundation of my and Katy’s fresh start, so it needs to be flawless.
“Hello!” My voice echoes throughout the empty space.
Dan peeks out from the kitchen. “Hey, there. Didn’t expect to see you today.”
He forces a polite smile, but not quickly enough to convince me that he’s actually pleased to see me.
“I dropped my bags at the hotel but couldn’t resist checking out the progress.” I crouch to stroke the refinished hardwood floors, admiring the rich espresso stain warmed by golden sunrays streaming through the large picture window behind me. “These old boards look amazing.”
Being here also brings back fond memories of my grandpa. This is where he taught me the jitterbug to old Elvis Presley songs. Rock step, slow-slow, rock step, cuddle, send you across . . .
After I lost my mom when I was eight years old, my father shipped me to Gram and Grandpa that summer and the ones that followed so he wouldn’t need to hire a sitter while he was at work. I didn’t mind because it was cold living in the shadow of my father’s grief. I almost dreaded the weekends he would come down to visit, sorrow rolling in with him like thunderclouds. Not to mention the thin tension between him and Gram. Thank God for her and Grandpa, who doted on me, which I so needed then—much like Katy will need now to help her cope with the loss of life as she knew it.
“Glad you’re happy.” Dan’s voice wakes me from my reverie. He sounds relieved and a bit surprised, rubbing his chin while giving the floor another look. It may have taken seven attempts to formulate the precise blend of stains, but one can’t argue with perfection. “I was concerned the color would close up the space, but the big windows bring in tons of light.”
“The warm tone is comforting.” I stand and begin to mentally place my furniture and artwork around the room, pleased by the way the new slate facing and live-edge mantel update the old fireplace.
“Are you sure you want to move in before we finish the kitchen and master bath?” He presses his lips into a firm line. I recognize that tone—like a parent trying to get a kid to rethink the decision not to wear a coat in December. “It’ll be a few weeks until that work is completed. A short-term rental might be best until then.”
After years of being micromanaged by Richard, I won’t be second-guessed by another man who apparently can’t credit me with a basic understanding of the pros and cons of my own choices.
“My daughter needs to be settled when school starts. She’s . . . struggling with all the changes.” My face is hot because, regardless of what Richard did, Dan knows that on some level I didn’t satisfy my husband. In fact, Dan probably empathizes with my ex and is equally as eager to leave me behind.
“Guess that’s one good thing about not having kids. My divorce was a clean break.” His mouth pulls into a sort of lemon-faced frown, having apparently let that comment slip.
I had no idea he’d ever been married. Lucky for him, I’m not up for trading divorce stories today, so I revert to the conversation about the house. “We’ll be fine here. I’ll share the upstairs bathroom with Katy until the master is complete. We’ll use the new patio and grill as our kitchen as long as the weather remains mild.”
A dubious gaze clouds otherwise luminescent eyes the color of rich amber beer. His attitude is discouraging, but it’s better than him being a charmer who tells me what I want to hear. In my vulnerable state, a flirt could mess with my head much worse than Dan’s doubts do.
“Hopefully your crew can work fast to install the cabinets and appliances.”
“Well, there’s good news there. We’ve already got the kitchen down to the studs. Wanna see?” He waves me over.
Dan had initially tried to persuade me to knock down walls and create an open floor plan. That might be all the rage these days, but I still prefer a bit of separation between the kitchen and other spaces. We compromised by enlarging the archways to create a more open feel.
I also replaced the kitchen window above the sink with an oversize box bay. Not only does it offer a pretty view of the butterfly bushes separating my yard from my neighbor’s, but it also doubles as a sunny ledge for potted herbs. Large-pane french doors now lead out to the patio and flood the relatively small kitchen with natural light.
“Oh, this will be fabulous.” I hug myself to hold on to a moment of happiness.
“I hope so.” Dan rests one hand high up along the arch, inadvertently showcasing his chest and biceps in that snug T-shirt. Sometimes the position of his eyebrows makes that scar on his forehead look like a lightning bolt.
For an irrational moment I wonder what I’d do if my curmudgeonly childhood crush hit on me. I’m not beautiful, but I’m attractive enough. Daily walks and weekly yoga have kept me trim, and I thank God for my mother’s Italian skin. Not that I’m at all ready for a tour of the Tinder store.
My stomach sours as it dawns on me that, from now on, these are the reservations I’ll have—the games I’ll be playing—with men. Careless boys trampled my heart in my teens, and then Richard and I rushed into marriage so young because of Katy. I’ve got zero experience with normal dating, but I’d venture a guess that it isn’t easier in one’s thirties. That goes double with the serious trust issues Richard’s betrayal left in its wake. It’s a pointless worry, though, because I’ve got Katy to keep me occupied. She’s the song in my heart and real love of my life. I don’t want to miss a minute of what little time we have left together before she goes off to college.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go with the white-and-gray palette,” he says.
I’ve no interest in my home being a carbon copy of the taste du jour. For the first time in forever, I don’t have to answer to Richard or fight for my taste. This house is like a canvas of a sort—a new medium of expression that I don’t need to sell to others or impress them with. That is this woman’s definition of heaven and a definite upside of divorce.
“Not my style.” The space will be filled with modern, whitewashed-wood base cabinets, white quartzite counters, and black-and-glass upper cabinets, all of which will be set off with polished brass fixtures and drawer pulls. The glass cabinets’ turquoise interiors will create an unexpected pop. “I’m sorry our living here will make finishing up a little harder on you, but I’m stubborn once my mind is set, so I’m sticking with my plan. Gi
ve me the weekend to unpack all the boxes; then your crew can come back on Monday and keep going.”
“Sure.” He shrugs and crosses his arms. “You realize that taping off areas with plastic sheeting will only keep so much of the dust down. And it won’t buffer any of the noise.”
“I’ll dust every day to keep up with it if need be.”
“Seems like a lot of extra work.” He mumbles that one, almost to himself.
“That won’t fall on your shoulders.” My tone should signal the end of this debate.
He sighs, ushering the return of another of our standard awkward silences.
“While I’m here, let’s take a quick look at the master bath and closet reconfigurations while that space is empty,” Dan finally says as he walks out the back side of the kitchen. “Oh, and I have a surprise for you, too.”
I shudder because “surprise” is usually a euphemism for unforeseen problems that increase the costs. “A good surprise?”
He glances over his shoulder while he walks. “Not sure. We found something when clearing out the crawl space behind the master closet.”
Intrigued, I follow him to the bathroom, where I’m caught off guard by the transformation of the emptied room. Spinning on my heel, I gasp. “Oh! This is even more spacious than I imagined.”
“Most women would prefer a huge closet to a bigger bathroom.” His brows rise to emphasize his point.
You would think he’s aware by now that I’m not most women. In fact, I’ve gladly downsized my humongous closet and wardrobe for something simpler. There’s no need for so many things when there won’t be balls and galas and client dinners to attend, or massive parties to throw for people I barely know.
A simple, quiet life in comfortable jeans, flip-flops, and cotton shirts suits me better. Most of my clothes had been paint stained until Katy hit kindergarten. “Been there, done that, and am all in on less laundry.”
When he chuckles, the rich sound tickles my chest. He, too, looks surprised at himself. It might be the first time I’ve made him laugh since we started working together. When did I become the dour thirtysomething?
He reaches for something from the corner, then, stepping closer, hands me a dusty white tin box with red letters that read RECIPES. “Here’s the surprise.”
I open it expecting to find handwritten notecards with some of Gram’s old favorites, including the delicious shortbread cookies she’d stocked in the cookie jar—the ones she’d always served with a side dish of strawberry ice cream. Nothing beat coming home from the beach to the buttery aroma they created in the kitchen.
Instead, the first thing I pull out is a man’s handkerchief embroidered with W. T. in one corner. The box also contains a rusty nail, a yellowed Polaroid of a slender young man with slicked-back hair and a dimpled chin, and a vintage red silk scarf with a faint hand-painted outline of a mountain and what looks like a cherry tree sprig.
“I wonder whose stuff this is.” The initials don’t match any of my known relatives, nor does the man in the photograph look familiar.
Dan shrugs. “Not sure, but I like a good mystery. Maybe Mrs. Sullivan can fill in the blanks.”
“Maybe,” I say absently. A memory of a whispered conversation between Gram and Grandpa on a hot summer night, when their voices had drifted up from the back patio through my open window, resurfaces. “You should tell Bobby what you went through, Marie. Maybe it could help him do better with Annie.”
I’d been mourning my mother—missing the way she’d brushed my hair, and played tea party, and cooked my favorite meals—so I hadn’t thought much about the significance of those words. A little shudder ripples through me as I finger the items in the box. Might they be clues to whatever Grandpa had been referring to? I’ll have to ask my dad the next time we talk.
My skin prickles with the sudden awareness of Dan’s scrutiny.
I close the lid and tuck the box under my arm, returning to the matter of the remodel. “This bathroom will be a fabulous retreat. I can’t wait for the soaker tub.”
“We’ve hit a little snag—a delay—with that.” Dan grimaces. “It’s on back order for another couple of weeks, but it shouldn’t hold up the rest of the rebuild.”
Everything about his expression tells me he’s bracing for me to complain or to blame him.
A few more weeks of this will be a long time to deal with each other if things between us don’t improve.
“That tub is worth any delay. I’m already counting the days until I can soak in it with a lit candle and a good audiobook.” Not the most romantic use for such a tub, but a true escape.
“Sounds nice.” He clears his throat, eyes on his work boots.
“Mom?” Katy’s voice from the other room interrupts us.
“Back here!” I make my way toward the living room, where I find my daughter.
Her puffy face doesn’t look much better than when she zoomed away from me this morning. Lunch mustn’t have gone as she’d planned. I’d hug her and ask if she’s okay, but she’d be embarrassed in front of Dan.
“Katy, this is Dan Foley, the contractor doing all the work on the house. Dan, this is my daughter, Katy.” I remove the tin box from under my arm and hold it at my side.
Katy’s gaze flicks toward it, but then Dan steps forward with his hand extended.
“Nice to meet you, Katy.”
She shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you, too. Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other for a while.”
“Yes, but you can hide out upstairs. I won’t be offended.” He winks. Dan’s apparently better with kids than with grown-ups.
Out of nowhere, I recall him treating a young boy who’d been stung by a jellyfish. He’d calmed the hysterical kid by asking a dozen questions about Pokémon, all the while using tweezers to remove tentacles with the steady hand of a surgeon, then washing the sting in a saline-vinegar solution.
Makes me wonder why he never had children. Questions form, but I keep mum. It’s not my business, although it seems a shame that an otherwise circumspect man like Dan never had a child, while a careless one like Richard takes his for granted.
Katy flashes a respectful smile similar to the ones she gives her dad’s friends and clients. Afterward, her gaze lands on me. “Looks like we’ll be eating out. Is there any good restaurant in this town?”
I bug my eyes from behind Dan’s back. “Of course there are nice restaurants, honey. In fact, it’s such a beautiful evening we should go to the East Beach Café. They have an outdoor seating area on a dock that extends over the bay. Good seafood, too.”
“Fine.” She makes a sort of raspberry sound. “What’s in that box?”
I hold it up. “Old memorabilia. Dan found it when breaking through the closet. We can ask Gram about it when we visit on Monday.”
She lifts one shoulder, showing little enthusiasm for visiting with her great-grandmother—the woman who’s been the closest thing I’ve had to an actual mother for most of my life.
Grandpa died before I graduated from high school. But when Katy was very young, I’d brought her to visit Gram every several weeks until school and sports obligations ate up our free time. These past two years we’ve seen Gram only for birthdays and holidays. Still, I call her at least twice a month.
“Well, I’ll make myself scarce,” Dan says. He takes a step toward the door, then pauses. “Katy, a lot of the teens around here spend summer days at the Bayshore Point beach. And I think Dante’s is still the pizza joint of preference.”
Although Katy and her friends frequent high-end coffee bars and health food restaurants instead of pizza shops, she offers him a courteous nod. “Thanks.”
He casually salutes us. “See you ladies on Monday at eight a.m.”
“Thanks, Dan.” I walk him out and wave as he jogs to his truck. “Enjoy your weekend.”
As the door clicks shut, I take a deep breath before spinning around. “Did you have a nice lunch with your father?”
“Don’t worry. He didn
’t invite me to live with him.”
I’m simultaneously relieved and furious. Mostly relieved, though. Even so, I would force Richard to take her if I believed living with him would be better for her in the long run. When he gives her his full attention, she comes alive. But two or three hours per week is not enough to sustain her without me there to make up for the rest.
Watching her struggle with our divorce reminds me of when my mother’s death taught me that family could be cruelly snatched away. My dad didn’t greet me with my mom’s bright smile or tuck me in with a bedtime story, but I’d had Gram and Grandpa to cushion the blow. I don’t want Katy to lose faith in—or struggle with—love because her father is currently too preoccupied with his own happiness to pay attention to hers.
Katy strolls the living room. “This whole house could fit in our old basement.”
She’s not wrong. This Cape is slightly more than two thousand square feet, which definitely would fit in our old basement.
“Less to clean and maintain, which means more time and money for travel or art lessons,” I add hopefully. “Maybe we can plan a trip to Grand Cayman at Christmas, or Paris during spring break?”
Katy nods before bobbing her head from side to side. “Can we call the school and switch my digital engineering class to a photography elective? Screw Dad and his STEM bullshit.”
“Let’s watch the language.”
She’s acting tough, but her recent manicure is already a mess and she’s plucking at her hair. Since she hit kindergarten, I’ve monitored her nails chewed to the quick, hair twisted and plucked, teary outbursts, and irritability in unfamiliar environments. Not that Richard shared my concerns. His Katy-bear was flawless or merely going through a phase. “Let’s not saddle her with mental illness labels like all these other parents do.”