The Renovation
Page 9
I’ll just stay up here for as long as possible, Ethan thought, turning back to his measurements as footsteps echoed up the staircase of the empty house.
“Honey, I’m home,” CeCe called out.
Ethan could hear the women’s laughter. He pushed at the button on the case of his tape measure. It rolled up with a snap.
“Anybody home?”
“I’m up here, Mrs. Moretti,” he called as he made his way downstairs.
“I didn’t think anyone would be here today. How’s it going, Ethan?”
“Good. Good. I’m just here trying to get ahead on some things for next week’s work schedule.”
“That’s what I like to hear!” CeCe answered.
They both turned to the other woman—short, highlighted brown hair, about fifty, Ethan guessed, elegantly but casually dressed, with a warm smile and an easygoing demeanor. She was wearing an elaborately engraved gold locket on a long, thick chain that Ethan was sure was an antique heirloom. CeCe introduced her as her interior designer—Tessa Winberry, of Winberry Design in San Francisco.
Tessa’s multiple gold bangle bracelets jangled softly as Ethan shook her hand.
“I brought Tessa here with me from home for the weekend. She did my house there, and I can’t imagine working with anyone else on this old place. She’ll make it sing,” CeCe declared. “Tessa knows my style and she’s done a lot of Bay Area Queen Annes.”
“Then it sounds like you’re the right person for the job,” Ethan answered.
“We’ve been having a great time putting some schemes together,” Tessa said, “but I wanted to see how they’d work here in person, you know, in the Pennsylvania light.”
And how is Pennsylvania light so different from California light? Ethan thought, but just replied, “Then I’ll just get back to work and let you two do your thing.”
“You mean you don’t want to stay and give us your opinion?” CeCe asked with a bit of a sly smile.
“I think I’ll leave all that to the expert,” he answered.
For the next couple of hours, Ethan could hear CeCe and Tessa going from room to room, pulling out fabric and wallpaper samples from the shopping bags, taping them up on the walls next to the windows, lining up carpet samples on steps. Their voices were occasionally punctuated with higher notes of pleasure and agreement. When he came down for his lunch, CeCe asked him if he could brush some squares of paint on the walls in the foyer, the great room, and the master bedroom from the collection of small sample containers Tessa had brought. The colors ranged from dark, jewel tones to lighter, grayed-down shades of yellows, greens, and blues with accents in the red family.
At least they look like halfway historic colors, Ethan thought with a grin. Here in the Pennsylvania light, anyway.
Too bad we don’t have a Starbucks. It would be nice to have a coffeehouse or someplace I could walk to on days like this, like in Philly.
She knew that toward the mall there was a cluster of chain establishments, but Cameron didn’t want to drive anywhere. Two blocks east, and one block toward the river, there was a twenty-four-hour convenience store.
“Coffee? We have lots of coffee. There’s hazelnut and French vanilla, and then there’s this Irish creamer that tastes like mint. I don’t know if they grow mint in Ireland, but I sure like it. We have decaf as well, but I don’t think I made that mint stuff with the decaf yet. I could. Do you want some? Will only take a minute.”
Cameron leaned backward slightly in the midst of the verbal avalanche. The clerk’s nametag read Vera. Vera, a very short, very energetic woman past middle-age, wore her glasses on a beaded cord around her neck. Her hair was graying and coiled tight like a poodle’s. From a distance she looked like she was wearing a fuzzy helmet.
Cameron smiled. “No latte, though, right?”
“Latte? You mean like at one of those fancy coffee places?”
Cameron nodded. I wouldn’t be having this conversation in Philadelphia.
Vera’s lips pursed as tight as a Cheerio, then she bundled out from behind the counter and peered around the last set of shelves, toward the coffee bar.
“Well lookey here—we do. I wasn’t sure what this machine made. Mike does all the servicing. I don’t touch this one. So I wasn’t sure what it squirted out. I charge by the cup size and I never really pay attention to what’s in them. See there,” she said, turning back to Cameron. “The middle button. It says latte. So we do have it. You press this button here, the one with the big cup on it, not the small one over here, if you want a large one. You want me to do it for you?”
Cameron shrugged. “I guess so. A grande, then.”
“Grande?”
“The large button.”
Vera appeared all at sea for a moment. “Grande means large, right?”
Cameron nodded.
Vera giggled. “I guess I knew that. I must have seen it in a movie or probably on television—I mean somebody saying ‘grande’ and all. I should have known that right away. A grande latte—that’s what they serve at those fancy places, isn’t it?”
A whirring, steaming noise came out of the stainless steel machine. The illuminated sign just above the buttons proudly claimed that the beverages here would be Piping Hot and Gourmet Quality. The machine gave a final whoosh, and the last few drops fell into the cup.
“Well, now, here you go. All set. You want sugar or that pink stuff? I usually use the pink stuff. Somebody said the blue stuff is bad for you. I never use the blue stuff anymore. And I sure don’t use the real stuff. They say that’s even worse for you. I heard the new yellow stuff is supposed to be good, but we don’t have any yet.”
Cameron took a packet of “pink stuff,” shook it, tore it open, and poured it into the latte.
Vera grabbed a lid and carried the cup back to the cash register, humming. She tapped at the keys. Cameron took a five-dollar bill from her pocket and waited for change.
“Well, now, there you go. A nice hot grande latte. You going to the park this morning? I noticed that you didn’t drive here. We don’t get that many walkers. Or are you headed to the river? I like the park ’cause it’s much quieter. You go to the river, and the Jet Skis and the fishing boats set up such a racket that you can hardly hear yourself think.”
Vera stopped talking and grinned.
“The park, I guess,” Cameron replied. “I was planning on writing. Quiet is good.”
Vera brightened as if illuminated by an inner spotlight. “Write? Are you a writer? My goodness. I wanted to be a writer too, but I can’t spell. Writers have to be able to spell, don’t they? So what do you write?”
Now I know what it feels like to sail into a whirlpool.
“Well, this is just a journal. But I work for The Derrick. As a reporter.”
Vera leaned back against the cigarette rack. “Really? The Derrick? You’re a reporter? What’s your name? I read that paper every day. I mean, we sell it and there’s always a few copies left over. I don’t have to pay for it if I wait till afternoon to read it. Is that illegal or anything?”
“I’m Cameron Dane. And I don’t think anyone will arrest you,” she said, taking a sip of her latte.
This isn’t all that bad. Coming from a machine with a big button.
“Cameron Dane.”
Vera brightened more, if that was possible. “You wrote the story on the baseball moms, didn’t you?”
Cameron nodded.
“The story was great. You pegged that snooty Cathy Hollister just right. She could talk the bark off a stump. Jiminy Christmas. The woman can talk, for certain. She comes in here and I hide. I let Mike wait on her. That story was great.”
Cameron’s role as reporter, her slight tint of small-town celebrity, had never been noticed in public before and she was unsure how to deal with it.
Taken somewhat aback, Cameron shrugged.
“I asked him how it felt to be famous—being in the paper and all—when he came in that next day and he just laughed. I think he was embarrassed. He said he thought you did a fine job. You got all the details just right. I think he was really pleased. He bought five copies of the paper that day. He was all smiles.”
Cameron couldn’t help grinning.
“Well, Vera,” she said, “I should be going—if I want to get any writing done at all.”
“Okay then, Miss Dane. It is Miss, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And if you ever want to do a story on a convenience-store clerk, I’m your gal. They made a movie about us clerks, but it had too many swear words. I wanted to walk out, but I already bought popcorn and a Coke and the movie cost seven dollars. Seven dollars for a movie! I think that’s just outrageous. Best to go to a matinee when it’s cheaper.”
Cameron took a step to the door and grabbed the handle.
“Well, Miss Dane, you have a good day. And write good, okay?”
“Thanks, Vera. I’ll try,” she said as she stepped out and began the three-block stroll to the park.
The river would be too noisy for sure.
As she walked and sipped her coffee, she came to the quick and final realization that, despite her noble intentions, she would not write a word today. Instead, she’d spend the morning staring out at the rippling waters of the Allegheny River and trying her best not to think too much about Ethan Willis and the color of his eyes.
Ethan pulled his truck to the curb and beeped his horn as softly as he could, being Sunday morning and all. They were running late, and by the time Chase would get his seat belt undone and saunter up the walk to Elliot’s house … well, a lot of time might pass.
Elliot ambled out of the house in his standard church uniform—nicer jeans, blue T-shirt, and, over everything, one of four Hawaiian shirts he owned. In the summer, the style worked fine. In the winter, Ethan wasn’t so sure, but he would never mention his misgivings to Elliot.
“Morning, Mr. Willis,” he said as he wedged himself in the small jump seat behind the front bench seat.
“You can sit up here with us,” Ethan said.
“No, I’m fine back here. Honest, Mr. Willis.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “You two say the exact same thing every Sunday. Don’t you get tired of it?”
Both of them responded, almost in unison, “Nope.”
Chase slunk farther in his seat, even farther than usual, especially after noticing the smiles on both his father’s face and his friend’s.
In five minutes, Ethan had steered the truck toward the curb in front of Creekside Bible Church at the edge of town. He held the brake down as Chase clambered out.
Elliot wedged his way out from the back. “Thanks, Mr. Willis.”
“You’re getting a ride home?”
Chase nodded. “Mr. Carwell said he doesn’t mind. It’s on his way.”
“And you both promise to stay in the church and not wander off like you did last week?”
Chase’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t last week. It was, like, two months ago. And we only went across the street for a Coke. Come on, Dad, everybody was there. And it was only for three minutes before church.”
Ethan had heard the story from Ken Carwell, the boys’ Sunday school teacher, of how a gaggle of students had sneaked out of church before the service had started and had to be rounded up by the youth pastor. Ethan hated getting bad news from a third party.
“We promise, Mr. Willis,” Elliot said, then leaned back toward the truck. “I brought two cans of Coke with me. We don’t have to go to the store.”
Ethan waved a quick good-bye and headed away from the church.
His wife had been the real churchgoer of the family. She had nudged and pushed and prodded to get Ethan to come with her to Sunday services and special events. He would always relent, sometimes begrudgingly, sometimes less so. Since her death—since the funeral—he had not stepped inside their church, or any church for that matter, more than a handful of times. Mrs. Whiting’s gentle encouragements that Ethan go with Chase went unheeded. He would make sure he was there for a Christmas Eve service, and most likely Easter—anytime Chase participated with the youth group, or whenever Chase insisted.
Ethan often found himself driving aimlessly around Venango County on Sunday mornings. In the past he would try to read the paper at home, but without Chase around, the silence became too deafening. He tried to have a quiet breakfast out on his own, but felt as if other diners were staring at him in his solitude. He had tried going to church on occasion but could not sit through the service without imagining his wife beside him—or worse, the scene of the funeral. It had happened only a few times … the sweat, the heart palpitations. The sadness was too much for him to bear.
Ethan didn’t blame God for his wife’s death. He was fairly certain he didn’t blame God.
But maybe he did … a little.
And if he did, who could blame him?
And why were Lynne and his son in Erie in the first place?
They didn’t need to be in Erie.
She never once had mentioned she and Chase going to Erie that day.
It was not to buy important school clothes or supplies.
To go all that way for a hockey jersey, when she never liked to drive and Erie was over an hour away?
They had no business in Erie.
He remembered the funeral. And then he tried not to remember the funeral.
He hated it when people said her death was all part of God’s timing or in His plan. That didn’t make sense to Ethan. Was God surprised at what happened? If He was, then who was really in charge of life here on earth? Was her death some sort of angry coincidence, some tragic serendipity? And what good could come of taking the mother of a young child like that?
She was gone. Nothing any pastor could say or do would make her come back and heal this huge hole in his heart. He would not remember what that man said the day of her funeral. He would not. He would not remember the silent sobs Chase cried. He would not. He would …
Ethan found himself on a road he did not recognize.
He looked behind him. The road was empty. It was a country road, on a Sunday morning, with a pellucid sky and the scent of corn growing in the fields. He thought of his wife. This time Lynne’s image was slow to form in his thoughts, and it wasn’t as clear as it had been in the past. When he closed his eyes tight, he could see her—but as if he were looking through a hundred windows. Not like before. Her face used to appear in his thoughts with a burning intensity.
Now it did not. And for that—for that tiny failure—Ethan felt a tide of guilt wash over his heart. He breathed deeply, looked both ways along this unfamiliar, familiar road, and began to search for his way home.
That afternoon, Elliot called through the front screen door of the Willis house. “Is Chase here?”
Elliot was almost a head taller than Chase, and built like a coal miner—his grandfather’s occupation.
A shout came from the kitchen at the back of the house. “Come on in. I’m back here.”
Elliot opened the front door and closed it gingerly. His mother nagged at him constantly to be more refined and pay attention to his manners. He tried, but he often found himself galumphing into f
urniture or people or even trees and shrubs, so an apology and a smile was always at the ready.
Chase sat at the sturdy kitchen table with a loaf of bread, a stack of yellow cheese slices, and a small boat-shaped container of shaved ham. A knife was stuck in a mayonnaise jar that sat next to a plastic squeeze bottle of mustard.
“You hungry?” Chase asked as he chewed on a healthy bite of sandwich.
Elliot shrugged. “I just had lunch, but I could eat another sandwich, I guess.”
Neither spoke. The knife clacked against the glass jar. Elliot grabbed the mustard bottle, and it snorted out a healthy dollop.
He looked around for a dish but elected to use a paper towel instead. There was no chance he could break a paper towel, although he once pulled the entire holder out of the wall. He and Chase had fixed it before his dad got home, using big butterfly bolts.
Both boys finished at the same time.
Chase looked at his friend. “Want another?”
Elliot shrugged and reached for the bread.
After they had cleaned the kitchen, they sat on the front porch. Lynne had bought and repainted some vintage wicker furniture that she’d carefully placed on the porch flanking the front door of the house. The glider chairs, a rocker, and a sofa were now a pleasant blue color that matched some of the house’s trimwork and had thick, comfy, multistriped cushions. The hanging baskets she had added across the front as the finishing touch, once home to lush maidenhair ferns, now hung empty except for a few remaining dried brown fronds that drooped over their edges.
Chase brought his radio out to the porch with them and tuned it to the Pirates game. They were playing in Philadelphia. Chase didn’t like the Phillies. He wasn’t sure why, except that his father didn’t like them either. He always wondered how his mother felt about them. She was from Philadelphia, and Chase thought you couldn’t be against the hometown team.
“What do you want to do?” Elliot asked. He sprawled on the wicker couch. No one could sprawl quite as well as Elliot.