Big Deck

by Remy Rose

  Okay, so now I definitely need to leave, because if I don’t, I’m taking her right on this kitchen table. I need her to think about all this for a while—decide if she can handle it, knowing how I operate and knowing it will end in a few weeks.

  “Listen, Callaway...I think it’s best if I go, so you can have some time to decide what you want. I’m not in the business of messing anyone up, and if you decide you don’t want anything more than me working on your bathroom, I can do that. If you want me to stop working for you altogether, I’m fine with that, too, and I can even give you a few recommendations of other people. Maybe the fiftyish guy with the beer gut. But if you’d like to get involved with me while I’m here...”

  “You mean, like an alliance?”

  Madeline Callaway, you are precious as hell. She almost looks like she’s going to cry, but here she is, trying to make a joke and lighten the mood. “Yeah. An alliance. If you want that, I’m all yours.”

  “Till roughly mid-August.”

  “Yes. Whenever my work here is finished. Think it over and let me know what you want.” I stand up from the chair, polish off the rest of my wine and we clear the table in silence. Her cat stretches on the rug in front of the sink, and I bend down to scratch him behind the ears while he squints up at me.

  I want to kiss her, but I can tell she’s thinking hard, so I give her a peck on the cheek before I leave.

  I’m pulling out of her driveway when my phone buzzes. A text, from Madeline.

  I want you to work on my bathroom. And I want an alliance with you. Starting Wednesday. Can we do that?

  I let out a long, slow exhale. Fuck, yeah, Callaway. We can do that.

  Chapter 10 ~ Madeline

  July 20

  I shouldn’t have had the second Grande Mocha, even though Angie, my very thoughtful office manager, had it sitting on my desk when I arrived. I had just finished one in the car on the way over, needing a caffeine boost since I tossed and turned all last night (when I wasn’t in the kitchen making banana bread and apple muffins), because that’s what you do when you know you need a good night’s sleep before you go back to work after vacation. Of course, it didn’t help that my foggy sleep was punctuated with vivid thoughts of strong arms, six-pack abs, a sculpted, kissable mouth and eyes the color of the Caribbean. And a 2 x 4 nestled in Carhartt jeans.

  Wednesday seems like an eternity.

  I have plenty to do to keep me busy at the office, after being away for a week: going over disclosures, meeting with eager new clients with very specific frontage requirements, approving commissions. The company has seen tremendous growth over the past couple years. Paul and I started it just after we were married six years ago—as college sweethearts, we knew we wanted to go into business together. I never expected that the business would inadvertently cause our breakup. His guilt and my very savvy attorney were both contributing factors in him relinquishing Maine Coastal Realty to me, the shattered ex-wife. And it’s been all business, all the time, for me since the divorce.

  Until Jackson Decker.

  He is everything I have always avoided in a man—outrageously cocky, brazen, at times crass.

  Yet I’ve never been so attracted to anyone in my life.

  Paul and I used to have a lot of sex, and as much as I loathe the bastard now, I have to admit it was good—one reason why I was so shocked when he told me he was having an affair and wanted a divorce. Wasn’t I enough for him? Reeling from his confession, bawling like a two-year-old, I asked him if there was anything I could do—did I not give him enough oral? Was I spending too much time at the office and not enough making him feel like a man? And he said emphatically, no, there was nothing I could do—it wasn’t me, it was him, and he couldn’t explain it but felt like he was going through something and couldn’t take me with him.

  But that’s what you do when you’re married, I had whispered in a choked voice, between sobs. You work things out, together, and please let’s just try. We have so much history, and we have a future which is supposed to include big real estate deals and zip-lining in Fiji even though heights scare me shitless, and babies. We are supposed to have babies. A boy that looks like you, and a girl that looks like me, and maybe a third just because we love the first two so much.

  I thought I may have gotten through to him, but he told me that he didn’t understand it; he just knew he wanted out, and could I please not make this more difficult than it already was.

  So I not only lost Paul, I lost weight, my self-esteem, my idealistic view of marriage, and my dreams of sharing children, grandchildren, life. But contrary to what I thought in the very beginning, when I’d look at myself in the mirror with my eyes red and swollen from tears and lack of sleep, I’m making it. I may not know exactly who I am, but I’ve grown rather fond of the work in progress that is Madeline Callaway.

  I suppose, in a way, I’m renovating myself.

  Renovating...Decker Renovation...Jack.

  So much for work keeping my mind off him.

  Last night, laying there in the Egyptian cotton sheets he somehow knew I had, I was imagining what he might do to me. The imagining quickly turned into masturbating with the vibrator he also somehow knew I had. I pictured him on top of me, his eyes hazy with lust, holding his insanely big cock in one hand while he propped himself up with the other. I spread my legs, rubbing the head of the FDA approved, silicone power wand against myself, feeling dirty and horny and a little embarrassed that Murphy was hearing me moan as I climaxed. I thrust it inside me while I came, leaving it there as my vaginal walls pulsed around it. But I was left aching. Still wanting, desperately.

  Because it wasn’t him.

  “Knock knock.”

  My thoughts come to a screeching halt. Angie, my office manager, at my open door with a folder in her hands, her round, pleasant face smiling behind her red glasses. She is the quintessential motherly figure, all homemade cookies and cozy sweaters and warm hugs, and I’ve leaned on her both personally and professionally more times than I can count.

  “Hey, Ang.”

  “Hi, honey. Everyone’s loving the goodies you brought in. Can I get that muffin recipe from you sometime?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wonderful. I brought you the Fenderson offer to look over. This is turning out to be a banner summer, huh?”

  “Most definitely. Our listings are up twenty percent, and we have four more agents than we had at this time last year.”

  She puts the folder on my desk. “The Fendersons need to reply by 5:00 tomorrow, if they want to accept or counter-offer, so you’ll need to present it to them as soon as you can. Hard to get back into the deadline thing after vacation, isn’t it?”

  “Um, yes. Quite a bit to catch up on, but you guys all did such a great job holding down the fort while I was away.”

  “We like to think we know what we’re doing.” Angie winks. “And besides, you needed to take some time off and do something for yourself.”

  “Have you been talking to my mother? She was saying the same thing on the phone last week.”

  “Great minds. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  So Jack isn’t a dull boy?

  No, Callaway. He’s not. And I can prove it.

  “I do know what they say,” I answer brightly. “I’m keeping that in mind.”

  And I plan to play.

  Starting Wednesday.

  Chapter 11 ~ Jack

  July 20

  I’ve come to the conclusion there are basically four kinds of clients. There are the Laid Backs, whom I can never get enough of—they’re okay with unexpected delays and don’t really care when the work gets done, as long as it gets done. Unfortunately, you don’t get too many of those in the renovation business. There are the Indecisives, who for days can’t figure out what the fuck they want, and when they finally figure it out, they usually end up changing their minds: I think I want a brushed nickel faucet instead of chrome...the paint to be gray instead of blue
...the wall you just took down put back...in fact, why don’t you just change everything you’ve done so far and start over. There are Perfectionists, who see every blemish in your mudding, every bubble in your urethane. There are the Impatients, who even though you’ve given them a timeline, ask when you think you’ll be done. And there are the Hoverers, who like to be in the room with you watching you work.

  Ed, the guy I’m working for now, is what I’d call an Impatient Perfectionist Hoverer. I’ve been getting his Cape ready to go on the market: things like spackling, repainting, polyurethaning woodwork. Since he’s retired and widowed, he has a lot of time on his hands, and that, combined with a few OCD tendencies, could make for a difficult job. But luckily, I really like the guy. And I feel badly for him, since his wife died a few months ago. He seems lost. I think it helps him to have me here, just to have someone in the house to talk to and so he can focus on what I’m doing, instead of missing her. I’ll drive in, and Ed’ll be in the bay window, like he’s been watching for me. He always opens the front door before I even get out of my truck and greets me the same way every time: How are we doing today, Mr. Decker? And I always respond, Stellar, Mr. King, and you? I can picture how he was as a professor, calling his students by their last names. I bet they got a kick out of him, and liked him. No doubt he was the kind of teacher who really cared. He still wears buttoned-up plaid shirts and Chinos, like he’s all dressed for school. Poor dude.

  I know he doesn’t want to sell the house. Every so often, he’ll rest his hand on a door frame, his wrinkled, wobbly fingers gripping the wood trim, or he’ll pat the countertops, like he’s connecting with the Cape personally. The house always feels like it’s in the middle of a big, deep sigh. To be honest, it’s kind of depressing working here, because it makes you see how old age can suck. But like I said, I like him, and I want to do what I can to help him. I’m not going to hurt his pride by telling him, but I’m charging him just for materials.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m more therapist than handyman, because a lot of this job involves listening. Case in point: today. I’m giving the entryway a new satin coat of butter-yellow paint, and Ed is standing beside me, talking and supervising. “I was a good painter, back before my hands started getting shaky. Marian loved color—the deep purple dining room was her favorite...I think I see a roller mark over here, Mr. Decker...we argued over that color, let me tell you. I wanted a pale blue, because of the pewter chandelier, but she insisted on the purple, and by gory if the woman wasn’t right, like she was about most everything. Looks positively regal, that color. Might want to smooth out what you just did, Mr. Decker...there, that’s it. Think you’ll be all done with the painting by tomorrow?”

  Like I said: Impatient Perfectionist Hoverer. “Should be, yes, sir. What realty company are you going with?”

  “Maine Coastal. Heard great things about them.”

  Callaway’s company. Just the thought of her sends a jolt of pleasure rocketing through me. It’s only been a couple of days since I’ve seen her, but it’s hard. Literally. I’m betting both of us will be ramped up by Wednesday. I’ve been doing a lot of fantasizing about what I plan to do to her.

  I turn my attention back to Ed, who has slid his glasses down his hawk-like nose to look closely at the paint job. “I’m sure you’ll be in good hands with Maine Coastal, Ed.”

  And soon, I hope to be, too.

  “Awful hard to think of leaving this place.”

  I can detect a tremor in his voice. Ah, the poor guy.

  “Lot of good memories, but it hasn’t been the same without Marian. Fifty-five years with that woman, and it went by in a blink. Now that she’s gone, though, it seems like it’s been centuries.” He takes out a rumpled blue handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabs at the corners of his eyes. “Time can be cruel, that way. But she was worth it.”

  Ed’s more emotional than I’ve ever seen him. I dip my roller in the paint tray under his watchful eye as I nod and let him talk, because that’s what he seems to need right now.

  “At the end, I think she was hanging on just for me. I could see how much pain she was in. She was worried about me—she kept whispering that—and I told her the first lie I’d ever told her in all our years together. I told her that I’d be fine. But she needed to hear it. I always knew that true love means putting the other person first, and it really hit me then.”

  His voice trembles, and I keep painting slowly, smoothly, giving fresh color to this house that will soon be home to someone else.

  “I told her it was all right for her to go. And that was all she needed, because she closed her eyes and looked relieved. Peaceful, like she could finally rest. Her pain ended, and mine began.”

  He’s wiping his eyes again. Jesus, I can’t stand it. I put the roller down in the tray, and I turn around and give him a quick man-type of hug. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I can’t take seeing him so sad, and at this moment, he’s more like a grandfather than a client. “Thanks for sharing your story with me, Ed. I’m really sorry about your wife.”

  He pats me on the shoulder in a glad, appreciative kind of way. “You do good work, Mr. Decker,” he says as he folds up his handkerchief and tucks it back in his pocket. “I’m going out to the garden and check on my tomatoes.”

  Just before he heads outside, he fixes his pale, watery eyes on me. “Even with losing her, I still feel like I’m the luckiest man on Earth.”

  I’ve got a whole new respect for Ed King.

  Chapter 12 ~ Madeline

  July 22

  I pull in my driveway, expelling a shaky sigh of relief when I see his truck. I’m getting home later than I wanted, and my old friend Paranoia kept nagging at me that maybe he wouldn’t be here...maybe he changed his mind about me and went on to another project. And by project, I was really thinking, woman. But he’s here, and so am I, and I can’t wait to get in the house to see him.

  Murphy meows at me from the kitchen counter. I toss my keys on the table, scoop him into my arms and gently set him on the floor. The house is cool, thanks to central air, but I’m sweating. I give my armpits a quick sniff. Good—I smell deodorant. I dart into the downstairs bathroom to check myself in the mirror, deciding that I look more professional than sexy, with my sleeveless, silk navy blouse and gray dress pants. But Madeline Callaway, Real Estate Broker, will soon make way for Madeline Callaway, Sultry Vamp.

  Before that, though, a quick rinse with the cinnamon mouthwash in the medicine cabinet and neatening up my smudged eyeliner.

  A few deep breaths later, I slip off my heels and climb the stairs. As I get closer to my bedroom, I can hear Jack’s voice and realize he’s on the phone. His voice is low, but it sounds serious. Should I try to listen? Of course I shouldn’t; eavesdropping would be disrespectful and sneaky and rude.

  But the part of me that’s a nosy bitch can’t resist.

  I can see him through the plastic tent that’s covering the new doorway to the bathroom, and a thrill zings through my chest. He’s facing away from me, one hand holding the phone to his ear and the other resting on his hip. Even blurred through plastic, his build is Adonis-like.

  My nosy bitch-self strains to hear what he’s saying.

  “...already heard...it doesn’t matter who.” His free hand goes up to rake his hair—God, I want to do that—and there is a pause before his tone darkens. “Save the courtesy bullshit, and I’m not giving you my fucking blessing, if that’s what you’re after. You’ve taken enough from me.”

  Ughh, now I’m wishing I hadn’t heard any of this. It’s none of my business, and I should only be focusing on Jack in the present, since his past is inconsequential, and there will be no future Jack. Plus, I don’t like hearing him angry and upset like that.

  The conversation is over. He takes the phone down from his ear, presses his finger on the screen and slips it in his pocket, shaking his head like he’s in disbelief. I don’t want him to know I’ve been standing there, so before he turns a
round, I call out, “Hey” as I push the plastic to the side and step in.

  He whirls around. There is fire in his eyes that begins to cool when he sees me. His jawline looks tight, and I feel the urge to put my hand on his cheek, take away his anger.

  “Hey yourself, Callaway. Did you just get home?”

  His eyes are roving over me, his face brightening, and I feel a pang of pleasure that he’s glad to see me. “A few minutes ago.”

  “Sorry I got here later than usual this morning. I wanted to see you before you left for work.”

  “You did?”

  He laughs softly. “Uh, yeah. Of course I did. Don’t sound so surprised.”

  I’m feeling heat in my cheeks. And in other places. “I wanted to see you, too.”

  He looks down at my bare feet, frowning in disapproval. “You should have shoes on. It’s not safe to walk in here.”

  “Maybe I’m trying to live dangerously.”

  “Nice. I like that. Still, I don’t want you to step on anything.”

  I watch him as he walks toward me, reaching me in three strides, this man who can wear a t-shirt and jeans and look like he’s dressed in Dolce & Gabbana. I feel very small in front of him, and that awareness of his size compared to me adds to my excitement. He takes my hand and leads me into my bedroom, gently positioning me between the two windows overlooking the backyard and ocean. My heart begins to pound.

  I’m looking up at him, soaking in the masculine beauty of his face. All the anger he had with the phone call has vanished, and I’m glad. His expression is calm and serene, which is in stark contrast to me basically dying over here. I can’t wait for him to touch me. For me to touch him.

  Impulsively, I stand on my tiptoes and start to put my hands on his shoulders. I’m not usually forward with men, but Jack Decker is making my list of “not usually’s” turn into “to do’s.”

  His crystal-blue eyes are crinkled at the corners in amusement as he grasps my hands and then gently places them behind my back. “Callaway. Maybe I’m not that kind of guy.”