The Renovation

by Terri Kraus

  “The thing that gets my goat,” she said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “is the mothers who crow about being a ‘soccer mom’—and then never go to a single soccer game. They expect someone else to cart their precious kids around. They’re as much a soccer mom as I am Miss America. Don’t get me started. That’s another story. My gut’s already in a knot over this baseball game.”

  Cameron bit her lip. I have the quote, she thought, secretly celebrating.

  Cameron laughed and flipped another page, filled with her sprawling but legible writing. She looked up and waved to Bart Renshaw, the staff photographer for The Franklin Derrick. Cameron guessed he was on his fourth roll of film. She could tell by the bulge in his shirt pocket—the place he always stored all his exposed rolls as he worked. He was the only photographer Cameron knew who still worked with real film, despite everyone’s efforts to get him to switch to digital.

  Cameron watched the Flyers’ first baseman dive for a whizzing foul ball, skimming along at shin level.

  Mrs. Hollister shouted out, “Way to go, Chase! Good hustle!”

  Cathy Hollister attempted to act natural as Bart snapped picture after picture while considering the afternoon sunlight, adjusting his vantage point to include the small crowd behind her.

  “I hope you use one that doesn’t have my mouth wide open—like it usually is.” She grinned.

  “No, we want you to look as good as possible,” Cameron assured her. “We’re not The Enquirer.”

  Cameron tapped Bart on the shoulder, catching his attention. “I know you like action pictures, but take one posed shot, would you?”

  Scowling, Bart went to his knee, mumbling “Smile,” and when Mrs. Hollister offered a weak, posed expression, he snapped two quick shots, then returned his focus to the game.

  The two teams changed sides, and in the short lull in the action, Cameron turned and looked over the crowd.

  “Anyone else I could talk to on this story?” she asked Mrs. Hollister.

  Mrs. Hollister turned around and scanned the crowd. “Did you talk to Meg Walters—the big redhead over by the water jug?”

  “I did. She was the first on my list.”

  “Then that’s all of us, I guess.”

  The right fielder for the Flyers swung and the ball ricocheted off the backstop, making a metallic, wrinkled sound.

  “Hey, wait a second,” Mrs. Hollister said with a nudge. “You should talk to Chase’s dad.”

  “Who?”

  “The tall fellow who caught the foul ball. Ethan Willis. The Flyers’ first baseman—Chase Willis—Charles—that’s his son.”

  “Willis? Willis? Don’t I know that name from somewhere?” Cameron said as she scribbled it in her notebook.

  “Willis Construction. He does all the renovations on the old rat-trap Victorians in town. You may have seen his signs. He’s working on the old Carter place over by the river.”

  Cameron pushed a strand of her long dark hair behind her right ear. She turned, shielding her eyes from the sun with her notepad, trying to get a better look. “Ethan Willis?”

  “Uh-huh. You should talk to him.”

  Cameron turned back to Mrs. Hollister. “Is he always at the games?”

  “Most of the time.”

  Cameron laughed. “Does he call himself a ‘soccer dad’?”

  Something dark crossed Mrs. Hollister’s eyes—but only for an instant. “I don’t know. He’s always around, though.” Then she added, in a confidential, nervous whisper, “He’s a widower, that’s why. He comes to just about every game. His wife, Chase’s mom, is dead.”

  There was the briefest of pauses, as if Mrs. Hollister was struggling to add a list of large numbers in her head. “He’s never remarried. Lord knows why. He doesn’t have a beer gut and he has a steady job. That, and being as drop-dead good-looking as he is—well, I imagine that he could have his pick. But I guess that’s another story for another day, right?”

  Cameron stood and dusted off the seat of her tan slacks. Deliberately, she turned and looked in the direction of Ethan Willis. He lay stretched over two rows of seats. His cap had some sort of insignia on it—a tool company, maybe, she thought—but she was too far away to see clearly. His dark blond hair, covered by his cap, appeared to be cut close. She wondered if it were thinning. She wasn’t close enough to see the color of his eyes. He wore a plain white T-shirt with jeans. A cell phone and tape measure were clipped on his belt.

  As she began to make her way to him, her cell phone rang. For a split second, she was startled, forgetting she had the phone with her. She answered quickly.

  After listening a moment, she sighed loudly. “But it’s a grass fire, Paige. It’ll be out by the time I get there. Can’t I just send Bart?”

  She scowled and nodded. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. We’ll take pictures of the smoking grass. Should I interview any survivors?”

  A vacant lot across town was on fire and threatening an empty warehouse. The fire department had arrived, and Cameron knew there wouldn’t be any decent pictures or an interesting story. But her editor wanted coverage, and coverage is what she would get.

  She stopped at the end of the bleachers. “Mr. Willis?”

  Ethan sat up straight. “Yep. That’s me.”

  She brushed the same errant strand of hair from her face. “I’m Cameron Dane—from The Derrick. I’m doing a story on the Flyers baseball team … well, actually the moms of the baseball team. I hear that the team is the favorite to win the Junior Tournament championship again.”

  Ethan waited a heartbeat, then nodded.

  “Unfortunately, the story on the Flyers is due tomorrow, and I just got a call that a vacant lot on 7th and Egbert is on fire. I’m overdue for a Pulitzer, and my editor thinks that this fire story may push me over the top.”

  Ethan smiled easily but seemed most uncertain as to what to say in response.

  Cameron gathered her notepad and backpack to her chest and squinted up at him. She didn’t know why, but she made sure that he could see both her hands, outstretched over her backpack—especially the one without the wedding ring.

  He was almost lost in the glare of the afternoon sun. She still couldn’t make out the color of his eyes because of the warm light.

  “So you’re too late to be included in this story,” she said, grinning. “And I bet you’re disappointed to hear that.”

  He took off his cap and smoothed his hair.

  She was right—his hair was thinning, but in a slow, gentle manner.

  “Well, after you leave, you’ll hear my cries of anguish,” he said. “That’s what the media is used to hearing, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Broken lives and trampled emotions. Scars. Lots of emotional scars,” Cameron replied, hoping that his response meant he understood her sarcasm. She found that few people in Franklin really did. “I just heard that you’re renovating the old Carter place. I’d love to do a story on what you’re doing to it. You know, explain the progress to our readers.”

  His lips went tight.

  She offered a bigger smile. “Please …”

  Ethan squinted, trying to see this attractive woman more clearly in the blinding sun. He shaded his eyes with his hand to catch a better glimpse of her. But no matter how good-looking she was, Ethan, in his wildest dream, would not have considered himself fodder for any newspaper story—regardless of how small the market.

  “Please. I know it would be fascinating,” she begged. “You could be like Franklin’s Bob Vila.”

  He tried not to wince when he heard the name. Almost every contractor disliked being compared to that man. Ethan considered the former This Old House host to be a showman who had the good fortune to find great carpenters, subcontractors, and craftsmen—though he wasn’t one himself.

  “Listen, the fire awa
its,” she said. “Let me call you tomorrow. We’ll talk about this.”

  “Well …”

  “Please?” she said, her expression neither coy nor apologetic. “Cameron Dane. From The Derrick. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  Then she left without waiting for his response, either positive or negative.

  Ethan shifted his position and watched the reporter jog toward the parking lot and her car.

  Long dark hair, blue eyes, tall. Great smile. She’s well dressed for Franklin, to be sure.

  He turned back before she got to her car, not wanting her to see him looking. And as he turned, he saw Chase, standing by first base, frowning at him.

  Ethan and his son sat in the cool, dim back room at McCort’s. The front of the place was an old-style tavern, pure and simple, and the inside had a thickness of smoke hovering just above the faux wooden bowls filled with Beer Nuts. But through a separate entrance around the side, warm textures of old paneling and the scents of juicy hamburgers filled McCort’s small dining room. A kaleidoscope of neon signs provided most of the light in the room.

  Chase had declared the hamburgers at McCort’s to be the best in all of Venango County. After every victory, Ethan allowed Chase to pick the dining establishment of his choice.

  Midway into last summer’s baseball season, Ethan had stopped asking and simply drove to McCort’s, a block off the river in Oil City.

  Chase slumped in the booth that was covered in bloodred vinyl lined with tarnished brass tacks along the seat and backrest. He tossed his cap to one side. His hair, lighter than his father’s, more like his mother’s, was damp from sweat. Ringlets coiled against his forehead.

  Hazel took a healthy sip from her Seven and Seven and called out from her post by the kitchen door, “The usual, fellows?”

  Ethan nodded and grabbed a handful of pretzel sticks from the bowl on the table. The other booths had similar bowls.

  “Close game,” he said as he chewed.

  “Those guys were good,” Chase said as he arranged the pretzel sticks on the table, making a series of squares and triangles. “We were lucky. That foul ball Elliot caught saved us.”

  “No, you played pretty well too. I think you had ’em the whole game.”

  Chase scowled as only a teenager who loves and hates the same moment can scowl. Ethan knew Chase loved the praise but had to deny it in public.

  A papery wisp of music filtered into the room from the jukebox in the tavern. Depending on the time of day, the music could vary greatly. In the afternoon, it might be a polka or an old standard from the fifties. At dusk, the crowd usually chose country and western. And toward midnight, the music was straight rock ’n’ roll, with the emphasis on metal.

  Ethan often wondered if they changed bartenders for each crowd, or if the same fellow had to endure such radical shifts in styles.

  The hamburgers appeared, coupled with a larger platter of cheese fries—French fries drenched in some sort of yellowy cheese topping. Ethan abandoned any health concerns when they dined at McCort’s. He knew the food must be bad for him because it tasted so good.

  Chase poured a fist-sized dollop of ketchup on his plate, for dunking both the cheese fries and his hamburger, usually before every bite. The two ate in silence, pausing only briefly to sip at their drinks or to grab another napkin from the chrome dispenser on the table.

  Finally, Chase breathed a great sigh and pushed his empty plate to the side. “Good burger.”

  Ethan smiled in agreement. “Want dessert?”

  Chase shook his head. “I’m pretty full. And kinda tired.”

  Ethan reached for the check and peered close, examining the figures and mentally doing the calculations. It was always the same amount. Chase would have rolled his eyes had he been with a friend.

  As Ethan was reaching for his wallet, Chase cleared his throat. “Who was that lady?”

  “What lady?”

  “At the game. Who was that lady you were talking to?”

  Ethan knew whom he meant. He heard a note of controlled anxiety in Chase’s question.

  “She’s from the newspaper—The Derrick.”

  Chase stared at his father. “What did she want?”

  Ethan shrugged, wanting to dismiss the subject. “She was doing an article on the moms of the baseball team.”

  Chase bobbed his head. “Oh yeah, Elliot told me. She talked to his mom, too.”

  Ethan pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “What did she want with you? You’re not a mom.”

  Ethan shrugged again. “I know. But she said she heard we were working on the old Carter place. Wants to do a story on it. Like I’m the Bob Vila of Venango County.”

  Chase winced at the comparison. “You gonna do it? You gonna talk to her?”

  Ethan, surprised at his son’s questions and agitated tone, replied, “I don’t know.”

  If you stand up like a nail

  you will get hammered down.

  —Japanese Proverb

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE TREES CLUTCHED AT the darkness. A scant sliver of a moon peeked among the still leaves. Ethan carefully inched his way up his front walk. After supper he had dropped Chase off at the Hewitts’ house for a weekend sleepover.

  Ethan disliked entering a house that was too quiet, so instead of rattling around the rooms without the presence of his son, he had walked downtown as dusk fell. Then he had spent the evening at the Cumming’s Stop and Chat Restaurant, reading the newspaper and drinking a succession of half-filled cups of coffee. It cost him $1.25 plus a dollar tip to spend two hours in the company of strangers. Now, in the warm dark, he had made his way back from town. The night grew thicker.

  He came to his front steps. He had not switched the porch coach lights on when he’d left earlier in the evening. He remembered that inside the front door, in the alcove by the answering machine, lay an automatic timer for lights. It had been there for months, still in the box. He stared hard in the darkness and shuffled his feet forward. His right foot touched at the familiar loose sidewalk brick. Behind that were several bricks, wobbling and loose, just a few inches from the front porch steps. He promised himself again and again that he would fix them but knew he probably wouldn’t get to the job anytime soon. He found his key and unlocked the door.

  The hall was dark, quiet, and empty. The red eye of his answering machine blinked, indicating four messages.

  He fumbled for the light switch. The wall sconces on the upstairs landing glowed softly. He made his way to the small alcove in the hall, tossed his keys onto the ledge, and nicked at the button just to the right of the red light. A beep and a busy signal. Someone had hung up without leaving a message. He smiled, feeling better that there were only three messages left.

  The second message was from his assistant, Joel, detailing the list of concerns Mrs. Moretti had expressed during her visit. The job of restoring the Carter Mansion would keep his crew busy for at least six months—probably more. But Ethan was afraid she would become one of “those” clients—clients who stopped at the jobsite often and made a series of conflicting and confusing requests. With Mrs. Moretti, he was certain that her suggestions would be more like demands than requests. No, Mrs. Moretti’s presence might just disrupt any sense of an orderly progression to the job.

  The homeowner had to know—and Ethan realized that he would be the one who would tell her—that builders have certain requirements.

  You have to respect the bones of an old house, he thought, rehearsing what he might say to Mrs. Moretti. You have to honor what the original builders wanted to accomplish. Order and comfort come from keeping the past alive. You’ll never go wrong staying true to the past.

  Ethan believed that no one, even with lots of money, should come in all willy-nilly and rearrange the original pla
ns and style of any historic place. No—the original essence of the house needed careful preservation, loving restoration.

  Otherwise you’re just using the facade as some sort of elaborate stage set—like Disneyland.

  He sighed, though he didn’t want to.

  I’ll have to sit down with her.

  He loved the careful work of restoration, returning to perfection a piece of history that had been damaged from use or worn down by time. That’s what got his adrenaline pumping and brought him great pleasure.

  His hands took easily to the work. They always had. And he knew a lot about historic architecture. But the real challenge was dealing with the human problems, not the construction problems. He knew that, in Mrs. Moretti’s mind, the Carter Mansion project was a renovation, not a restoration, and she liked the “revise as you go” approach. He also knew that money was not a consideration with her. The situation felt far too fluid, far too slippery, for Ethan. He was a man who liked to know his limits from the beginning; he wanted to know and respect those boundaries. And he mourned the fact that, for the first time, he had a client with the resources to restore the home to its original glory, but she was one who didn’t share his fervor to respect its history. Instead, she desired to remake the past so it fit into today, which Ethan considered an impossibility—even a travesty.

  I’ll talk to her. I’m sure she’ll understand.

  He tried to imagine how that conversation would go, and as he did, another thought barged into his reverie.

  And … well, we really need this job. I need this job … if I want to keep the crew busy. It has been a bit of a dry spell.

  The tape whirred again, shuffling to the next message. “Hi … Ethan …”

  There was a pause and the shuffling of papers. There might have been the clack of a typewriter in the background.

  Who still uses a typewriter?

  He stopped and stared. He did not recognize the low feminine voice.