“It might get pretty dusty with all the construction still to come.”
“I’m sure it would clean up just fine.”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s a good point. Does that mean you haven’t ordered the appliances yet?”
“No, should I have?”
His brow creases. “Depending on what you want, yeah. It’d be a drag to get everything done and not have appliances in time for the open house.”
“That reminds me,” I say. “Dad got hold of the cabinet guy. He’s coming to measure tomorrow. Is there anything I should know?”
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to draw up a rough draft of what you’d like as far as the layout goes. Also, have the style of cabinet picked out. And the wood, of course. That’ll save time.”
So we go to the kitchen, and I describe what I have in mind as far as the L-shape and then an island. “And I want it to look contemporary but not cheap or flimsy,” I finally say. “And light. I don’t want any dark stain.”
He nods. “I suggest you keep it simple and maybe consider a pretty wood like maple. It’ll cost a little more, but since your design is simple, the total for the cabinets should even out.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “That sounds nice.”
“And how about the floors in the kitchen?”
“I’m not sure. On one hand, I just checked out some ceramic tile that might look nice here. And it was on sale too, but I also like the idea of hardwood throughout. Do you think that would be too much wood?” I’m surprised I’m asking for this much advice, especially after insisting this was my flip house. But it seems like after working with Noah these past several days, I’ve started to trust his judgment more. Probably even more than my own.
He studies the floors. “And you still want to take out these walls and open it up through here, right?”
“Definitely. Dad’s already secured a building permit so we can change the footprint. Don’t you think that would make it nicer?”
“Absolutely. But it will also take more time and cost more.”
“You have to spend money to make money,” I remind him.
“The problem will be matching the new wood to the original.”
I consider this. “Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought about that. Is it even possible?”
“All things are possible.”
“Oh, and I was thinking maybe I’d do carpets in the bedrooms,” I add. “At least the one with the really bad wood floors.”
He nods but looks unconvinced.
“You think I should leave the wood floors?”
“It’s your call, Gretchen. But it might save you a few bucks. And the floors in the other two bedrooms are in great shape.”
“And saving money is a good thing. I’ll only carpet the room with the questionable wood.” I don’t admit to him that the budget is already feeling strained or that I plan to put the appliances on my Home Depot project card because the Lowe’s card is already maxed out. And that will allow me to cover the added cost of the cabinets and roof.
“Did you get that wood I needed?” he asks now.
“It’s in the truck.”
“And your paint?”
“All ready to go.” I don’t tell him that I didn’t only get exterior paint but also a couple of gallons of interior paint, which I will use in the bedroom with the messed-up floors. The first part of my plan was to test if I like the looks of the exterior color, a nice sage. But the second part was to get the bedroom fixed up enough so I can have a place to camp while working on the house. I figure that once Dad goes home tomorrow afternoon, I will be torn between two houses, and since this place is closer to Dad’s than my apartment, I might as well spend nights here. That way I can work whenever I want to … or whenever I have the energy. And I’m sure Riley will like it too. He thinks it’s great having a big backyard all to himself.
Together, Noah and I unload the wood and paint and supplies from the back of the pickup. Then he asks me about the power washer, and I explain that I reserved it but needed to unload the wood and stuff to have room for it. “I’m heading back to the rental place to pick it up right now.”
“Maybe you should wait until tomorrow,” he suggests, “since today is mostly used up anyway.”
“Nope,” I tell him as I pull out my keys. “I’m going to wash the house until it’s too dark to see, and then I’ll start again first thing in the morning. I’ll return the power washer around noon and then pick up Dad. My goal is to have the house all ready to paint, or almost, before I bring Dad home from the hospital.”
Noah just shakes his head. “You’re one hard-working woman, Gretchen Hanover.”
“Or maybe I’m just desperate.”
“Hey, you could start a new TV series called Desperate House Flippers.”
I laugh and wave at him as I hop in the cab of the pickup and start it up. I can guess what he’s thinking. He’s said it already a couple of times when I’ve rejected offers to get a bite to eat or take any other kind of a break. “All work and no play makes Gretchen a dull girl.” What Noah doesn’t realize is that I’m keeping this distance between us on purpose. We have a good working relationship, and I don’t want to mess with it. And if I was being honest, I’d have to admit that he makes me uncomfortable too. Not that he does anything wrong exactly. Maybe that’s the problem; he does too many things right. He’s the kind of guy that a girl like me could fall for. Well, other than the divorced thing … and having a ready-made family. That’s a scenario I have always wanted to avoid.
But despite what I try to convince myself are his “handicaps,” I have a feeling I could fall for a guy like Noah. And the problem is that I feel ninety-nine point nine percent certain that he is the kind of guy who could never fall for a girl like me. Sure, he can pal around with me, joke with me, work with me, and share a soda and a few laughs. I’m sure I could be just like a kid sister to him. But that’s where it stops. Because I suddenly feel that Noah is way out of my league, and if it weren’t for Dad, he wouldn’t be involved in this remodel at all. If anything, it’s simply an act of mercy and goodwill. And for those reasons—call it preservation of the heart or just plain cowardice—I am keeping a safe distance.
You cannot afford a broken heart right now, I tell myself as I drive back to the rental store. And this is true on so many levels. For starters, I need to stay focused on the house renovation. No distractions. But besides that, I know how derailed I could get with a broken heart. Good grief, it took me more than a year to recover from Collin, and some people think it took longer than that. And he wasn’t even the first to break my heart. Normally I don’t allow myself to dwell on these previous and completely depressing episodes of my life. But if it helps me avoid another mistake, it might be worth the agony.
So as I drive down Main Street, my mind meanders back to my college days. That might be more than ten years ago, but the pain is still fairly vivid. I’d been dating Brian since the beginning of my sophomore year, and I honestly thought he was the one—the God-chosen one—and I was fairly certain he felt the same way about me. In fact, he even said as much. But then, midway through our senior year, he met a girl named Amy. Shortly after that, Brian and I became history. Just like that. To distract myself from my aching heart, I put what energy I had left into my classes, which resulted in nearly straight As. But my social life, from the breakup until graduation, was pretty much nonexistent. I would attend class, then return to my dorm room. Study, sleep, and eat—that was my bleak little life. I attended church randomly, but I totally gave up the college group since I felt pretty sure that Brian and Amy would be there.
“Is that enough self-torture?” I ask myself as I pull into the rental place. “Just get over it, Gretchen. Move on. Focus on your house. And quit talking to yourself!” As I get out of the pickup, I notice a woman sitting in the passenger side of the car next to me, and she’s staring. I think she even locked her doors, but as I get out, I simply smile at her and act like it’s perfectly normal to convers
e with myself like this. Too bad I’m not wearing a headset.
I sign the paperwork for the power washer, get talked into purchasing some protective eyewear, then listen to some safety tips and general instructions as the guys load the machine into the back of the pickup. This time, as I drive through town, I crank up the radio. It’s still tuned to Dad’s favorite country-western station, and I’m wondering if I might not become a serious fan by the time the remodel is complete. Already I’m starting to recognize the artists and their songs. But it’s preferable to babbling at myself or dwelling on my less-than-illustrious romantic history.
When I get to the house, I go directly to the backyard for the hose but am surprised to see that little Kirsten is back there, casually tossing a tennis ball for Riley, who totally ignores me as he takes off to chase it.
“Hey,” I say to her. “What are you doing here?”
“My mom dumped me,” she says as she pries the soggy brown tennis ball from Riley’s mouth and throws it again. As always, she’s dressed impeccably, looking like Little Miss Fashion in a pale blue denim vest and matching ruffled skirt. And I can see by the emblem on the sleeve of the white T-shirt underneath that it’s actually a Ralph Lauren outfit and, I’m guessing, fairly expensive. And it figures that she has on what were probably once white canvas shoes but which now look more like the color of this backyard: dirt brown. But I don’t mention this fact, because I can tell she’s having fun with Riley. And he’s certainly enjoying her company.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Noah calls from the opened laundry-room window. “I had no idea Kirsten was coming to visit today. Camille called on her way to, well, somewhere and then just, uh… dropped her off here.”
I can tell he was about to say “dumped” too but stopped himself. “No, that’s fine,” I assure him. “She’s more than welcome.”
He grins at his daughter now. “Not that I mind having you around, princess. I’m always happy to see my best girl.”
“I’m going to start power washing the house,” I tell him as I flick a dry piece of paint off the siding with my fingernail. “I guess I’ll start in front so Kirsten and Riley can keep playing back here.”
“Or they can come inside and hang with me,” offers Noah. I’m thankful the stink that permeated this house has now completely lifted.
“No, that’s okay.” I gather up the hose, attempting to gracefully coil it, but it’s like wrestling with a stubborn snake. “I think I’d rather start in the front anyway.”
“Camille promised it would only be a couple of hours.”
“No problem.” I wink at Kirsten, who seems to be enjoying my little hose-wrestling act. “You’re making that dog one happy camper.”
She nods as if she knows this, then turns and throws the ball again.
By the time I’m out front, Noah is already unloading the power washer. “Hey, let me help you,” I call as I run over to assist. Then together we hoist the heavy machine down onto the driveway.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asks.
“No, but it looks simple enough.”
He nods, but I can tell by his eyes that he thinks otherwise. “What?” I demand.
“Nothing.” He turns and walks toward the house, and I’m feeling almost proud of him for holding back what I’m sure is a lecture. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” I turn my full attention to this somewhat formidable machine. The rental-store guys warned me that, although it’s only water, the force is powerful, so I should take it seriously. I carefully attach the hose to the machine and turn on the water. Then I put on my safety goggles, and with the wand safely in hand, I cautiously turn on the machine. It’s fairly loud, a reminder of it’s power, but after a couple of practice tries where I spray the foundation and am surprised to see how the darkened cement instantly lightens, I feel I am ready to start.
My plan is to begin at the top and work my way down, but as I aim the wand at the overhead soffits, I realize this is one messy job. Wet paint chips and dirt and debris fly everywhere, and within minutes I am soaked and covered with chunks of gunky paint and dead bugs. Nasty stuff. But as I move down to the top plank of lap siding, I know it’ll be well worth the mess. I will be saving myself lots of time in prep work, and as I move slowly across the front of the house, my confidence grows. Although the house looks uglier than ever with various coats of old paint exposed and even some bare wood in places, I imagine that final coat of sage green paint and neat taupe trim. And I know that it’s going to be gorgeous.
The only problem is some of the overgrown shrubbery around the house. I wish I’d thought to remove some of it before I started this. It’s not easy working around it, and as I fight with it, trying to pull it back as I wash the siding, I feel like the bushes might be winning the battle. I’m in a particularly precarious position, standing with one foot on the stepladder and the other balancing myself against the house as I pull back a boxwood and attempt to spray behind it, when I hear Kirsten yelling.
“Help, Gretchen!” she screams.
Alarmed, I turn just in time to see Riley darting across the front yard, headed for the street, with Kirsten trailing behind him.
Stop!” I yell at both of them. But as I say this, the stepladder tips away from the house, and to avoid doing the splits over shrubbery and having a painful landing, I toss the wand aside and make a giant leap backward, which lands me on my rump on the ground. That’s when I realize that the wand has a branch of shrubbery wedged in the trigger. And it starts flipping around like a wounded snake as it sprays it’s powerful jet of water in all directions.
Miraculously, both Riley and Kirsten obeyed my command to stop and are standing frozen in the front yard, just a few feet away, watching this strange spectacle. Before I can warn them to run for Safety, the wand flips over and shoots into the dirt, deflecting grimy water like a mud shower all over the two of them. Riley takes off toward the house, and Kirsten, holding her hands over her face, lets out a loud shriek as I jump between the wand and her, using my body to shield her from the onslaught of more dirty water. “Run!” I yell at Kirsten as I leap for the wildly flipping wand. I finally manage to snag it and aim it back at the siding of the house as I pry out the branch that’s stuck in the trigger. But before I get it free, the noisy engine stops, and I turn to see that Noah has flipped the switch.
I drop the wand and go over to Kirsten, who is standing with Riley near the front door, to assess the damage. Riley, who is naturally brown, doesn’t look too bad, although he needs a good bath. But Kirsten is a mess.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her as I kneel down and use the moderately clean underside hem of my soggy T-shirt to wipe her face and around her eyes. To my relief, she’s not crying, but she’s looking at her ruined outfit with dismay.
“Mom told me not to get dirty.”
Noah is actually chuckling now, which I find slightly insensitive, and I give him a look to suggest as much. Then I turn back to Kirsten. “I know it won’t help much, but let’s get you inside and see if we can clean you up some.”
She just nods and allows me to lead her into the bathroom that still has a functioning bathtub. There I do what I can, which isn’t much, to clean her up. We wash her face and hands and hair as best we can. But when we come out, she is still a mess … and wet.
“Maybe if you sit in the sun,” I suggest as we go outside to find Noah digging through his truck.
“I thought I might have a clean shirt in here that Kirsten could wear,” he says as he comes back empty handed, “but no such luck. Sorry, princess.”
“I could run to town and buy her something,” I offer, but then I see him looking past me with a deep frown.
“Too late,” he says, nodding to a white convertible sports car coming down the street toward us.
“Here comes Mom,” says Kirsten with worried eyes.
And before we can say or do anything, the sleek white car pulls in front of the house, and a tall, go
rgeous blonde gets out and then stares at the three of us as if she’s witnessing the remains of a train wreck.
“What happened?” she demands as she hurries to Kirsten. Camille has on a short white skirt that makes her legs seem to go forever and a pale pink polo shirt that’s rather formfitting. Her hair, tied with a pink and white scarf, is in a long, perfect ponytail that slides over her shoulder as she leans forward to examine her daughter more closely, although it’s obvious she’s being careful not to get too close.
“There was a little accident with the spray gun,” explains Noah.
Now Camille stands up straight, looking directly at Noah, and I notice they’re about the same height. And, with perfectly made-up eyes, she glares at him without saying a word. But I know she is seething.
“There’s no reason to get upset, Camille.” He calmly folds his arms across his chest.
“I should’ve known you’d ruin my day,” she says evenly. “I cannot even leave Kirsten with you for a few minutes without having all—”
“This is a construction site,” he points out. “And that was more than a few minutes. Plus, if you want me to have Kirsten here with me, you need to send her in the appropriate clothes.”
“Appropriate clothes for what?” she demands haughtily. “What did you do to her? Roll her in the mud? Or perhaps you sent her out to play with the pigs? Or to clean out the—”
“It’s really my fault,” I interrupt. “I was power washing the house, and I—”
“This is not your problem.” She turns as if just noticing I’m here and peers at me with a narrow-eyed look that’s either pity or disgust—I’m not sure I even want to know. “But thank you anyway.”
“This is Gretchen,” says Noah, ignoring his ex’s bad manners. “She’s the homeowner, and her dad is a friend, and we—”
“Whatever.” Camille turns back to Kirsten now. “Let’s go!” She starts to take her daughter by the hand, then pulls her own hand back as if she’s afraid to even touch her. Halfway to the car, Camille abruptly stops. “Wait, Kirsten. Don’t get in yet.” Now Camille turns and looks at Noah with what seems like disgust. “Good grief, Noah, you could at least give us something for her to sit on so she doesn’t ruin the leather upholstery of my Mercedes.”
A Mile in My Flip-Flops Page 17