The Renovation

by Terri Kraus

  Ethan waited in his truck until she had pulled out and headed back into town. He had to take the same route and did not want to appear as if he were deliberately following her. Then he wondered if his waiting would make it look like he was intentionally not following her.

  He shrugged and breathed in deeply.

  That didn’t go so bad, he thought. Actually, I sort of enjoyed it. She seems nice.

  He rolled down the window as he drove, turned up the radio, and let the wind whistle about the truck. He began to sing along with the song on the radio, even though he only knew a few of the words, plus the chorus.

  It had been a long time since he had sung out loud like this.

  As he turned the corner just before Sugar Creek, he felt his heart lurch. Dinner was quickly forgotten.

  A half-mile ahead, on the right, overlooking the river, was the River Bend Cemetery. It was where his wife had lain these past seven years. He had, for most of the evening, forgotten she was there.

  And in that moment of realization, he stopped singing. His heart seemed to thump with a familiar, slower cadence.

  He drove by, trying not to look south, to the gentle rise, to the small headstone—LYNNE ELIZABETH WILLIS—set among a trio of red maple trees.

  He told himself again that it wasn’t too soon, that it was time not to look. Yet the truck slowed, he turned his head, and …

  He sighed.

  Then he switched the radio off and drove home in silence to his son.

  Cameron danced up the steps to her apartment and twirled about the living room as she tossed her keys and purse onto the couch. She would have turned up her stereo to a painful level, but this was a meeting night of the Franklin Club and the cadre of stodgy members would be banging on the ceiling in a heartbeat.

  She kicked off her shoes, pranced about into the bedroom, and threw herself onto the bed, reviewing once again the entire evening. She wished she had someone to call. She thought of calling Paige but decided against it.

  Too soon.

  She lay there, grinning, and recalled the brief hug in the parking lot.…

  Chase sat on the couch with his arms folded.

  The Pirates, in contention to take first place in the division, had taken the Braves into extra innings.

  “You said nine o’clock.”

  Ethan looked at his watch. It was 9:15.

  “I said about nine or nine thirty.”

  “How come I have to be on time and you don’t?” Chase snapped.

  Ethan tried his best to be even-tempered at all times. But sometimes he just couldn’t.

  “Because I’m the dad. Because I make the money. Because I go to work every day. Because I pay all the bills. Because I have all the headaches. That’s why—and don’t be smart with me again.”

  Chase kept his arms folded and whipped his head back to the television.

  Ethan waited a moment, huffed out a breath, and sorted through the stack of mail lying on the entry table.

  The Pirates were batting in the bottom of the eleventh inning. Chase stood up, walked to the television, and clicked it off with an obvious and deliberate move. He turned and slowly walked out of the room and up the steps. As he reached the top of the steps, he mumbled, “Good night.”

  Ethan muttered a “good night” in response.

  Chase clicked off the light at the top of the stairs. Ethan stood at the bottom, in darkness. He listened to the sounds of running water, then the closing of a door, then silence.

  He took a deep breath and let it slip from his lungs.

  He could still smell the scent of her perfume on his shirt.

  Since nothing we intend is ever faultless,

  and nothing we attempt ever without error,

  and nothing we achieve

  without some measure of finitude

  and fallibility we call humanness,

  we are saved by forgiveness.

  —David Augsburger

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FLYERS LOOK STRONG!

  Ethan folded the newspaper back and smoothed the crease. He folded it in half again. He would have called to Chase, but his son had spent the night at Elliot’s. Local sports were light in the summer, and The Derrick highlighted the Little League championships. Ethan read through the article—a couple of standard quotes from the coach about “playing their game” and “giving it 110 percent.”

  Chase would get a kick out of seeing this, Ethan thought. I wish he were here.

  Ethan knew his son enjoyed being a part of the pleasant chaos of a family with six children at the Hewitts’, but Chase seemed to be spending more time than usual over at Elliot’s.

  Ethan sighed and refolded the paper carefully. He would save this issue, along with all the other bits and pieces of memorabilia he had collected over the years. A large blue plastic bin under the basement steps held a stack of clippings, drawings, report cards, awards, and pictures—all evidence of the life he and Chase had shared since his wife had died.

  Up until seven years ago, everything was glued into scrapbooks or placed in photo albums. Ethan could never summon up the energy or desire to do the same. Saving the material was all he could do. Organizing it artistically, or even chronologically, was beyond him.

  The Flyers were scheduled to play in the semifinal game on Saturday afternoon. The winner of the Franklin tournament would play the winner of the Oil City tournament. The playoffs, a double-elimination series, would last through the end of summer. Ethan saw the Flyers as having a good chance of heading into the championships. This weekend they were slated to face the Senaca Royals, a team they had already beaten once this year.

  He carefully laid the folded paper on the hutch. He grabbed his keys, thermos, and lunch, and headed out the door.

  “Here’s our latest revision of the first-floor rear area,” the architect said as she unrolled her blueprints on a makeshift plywood table in the entry of the Old Carter Mansion.

  Ethan peered at the neat lines and marks. Neither he nor Joel had much good to say about most architects, claiming that they never understood the realities of actual construction work and materials. But so far, Mrs. Moretti’s architect, Michelle King from 3R Design, was different. She actually visited the jobsite and asked Ethan for his input.

  She didn’t listen to it, though, Ethan politely fumed to himself.

  The first time Ms. King had arrived on the site, both Ethan and Joel had stared in wide-eyed surprise. Architects were usually rare at project sites, and women architects were just rare—period. Michelle was an attractive, tall, sturdy-looking woman, well-dressed, with a no-nonsense bearing.

  At their first meeting on-site, Ethan had traced a thin blue line on the third-floor drawings with his finger and then muttered, shaking his head, “Well—I can see that you don’t know lumber. Look here. You need a bigger header. There’s too much of a span.”

  “I don’t think so. Look at the note. I mean … you do read the blueprints, don’t you?” Ms. King replied confidently.

  Ethan had looked closer at the plans. “Oh. Okay. I see the note. Four two-by-twelves. But … wouldn’t a composite wood beam be more cost effective?”

  He had hoped his words did not sound too contrite.

  “You could use either—depending on the best pricing you get from your lumber yard,” Michelle answered.

  Ethan appreciated that the architect visited, but it made it harder for him to defend his keep-everything-the-way-it-was approach. He was pretty sure that Mrs. Moretti … CeCe … insisted her architect show up from time to time, not only to check out the progress and lend her moral support, but to provide ammunition on technical and style conflicts as well.

  Today Ethan felt overwhelmed. CeCe was joined by her architect and now her kitchen planner, Scott
Anderson of Anderson and Harrington Kitchens. CeCe had touted them as Pittsburgh’s premier kitchen specialists. CeCe first noticed their work in a design magazine, and she’d insisted on using them for the Carter Mansion project.

  “I want this area as open as possible,” CeCe declared with a sweep of her hand. “People love to be in my kitchen, so I need lots of space.” She smiled. “If Ethan wouldn’t give me a headache about it, I would make the entire first floor one big kitchen.”

  Scott walked over to the west wall. “I think the Wolf range and ovens should go over here—their stainless steel hood will catch the sun perfectly. And the double Sub-Zero refrigerator-freezers go on that wall. They’ll balance out the heights,” he said as he walked and pointed.

  “Italian Carrera marble tile, right? And a pot-filler faucet over the stove?” CeCe said. “I love my pasta.” She smiled and added, “And don’t forget my warming drawers.”

  “When guests come in here,” Scott said, sweeping the air with his outstretched arm, “CeCe wants them to think they’re in Tuscany … in some wonderful villa on top of a hill in an Italian vineyard.”

  Ethan did his best not to roll his eyes. It’s just a kitchen, for Pete’s sake. Every house has a kitchen.

  “I want my kitchen to knock people’s socks off. It’s the most important room in my house, where people love to gather. I want people stunned when they come in.”

  “No problem,” Scott answered. “We can do that.”

  “And, Scott, I want to be in on all the finish selections—the marble slabs, the hardware, the flooring—everything,” CeCe reiterated. “I know what I want … right, Ethan?”

  Ethan felt that if he offered more than a silent nod, he might say something he would regret.

  “I’ll have some elevations drawn up within a few weeks, including the layout for the cabinetry for the entertainment wall in the great room, and then we can start with selecting the cabinet style,” answered Scott.

  Mrs. Moretti left in the early afternoon after a long discussion with both the architect and the kitchen planner. Scott stayed on for another hour, taking measurements and making notes on the back area of the first floor. By the end of the afternoon, Joel and Ethan were alone and closing up shop for the week. The rest of the crew had taken off. Everyone wanted out on time on Fridays.

  Joel rolled the blueprint into a tight tube and snapped a rubber band around it, twice. “So, you think you’re going to make any money on this job?”

  “I’d better. I don’t want to have to make another trip to the loan officer with my hat in my hand,” Ethan answered.

  “What time’s the game tomorrow?” Joel slipped the blueprints under his arm. “Be fun to see Chase play.”

  “Two o’clock,” Ethan replied. “But you don’t have to go. I mean, you must have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon.”

  “You don’t know my life. The Little League Junior Championship Series is a big deal in comparison to the rest of my mundane existence.”

  They both laughed.

  “So you taking Chase out for a spaghetti dinner tonight? Stacking some carbs for the first round of the playoffs?”

  Ethan didn’t answer right away. “No … he’s spending the night with a friend.”

  “Oh.”

  “I … have a date tonight.”

  Ethan was not certain why he’d said that, why he felt a near compulsion to admit this fact to someone. He was surprised, and the words felt odd as he formed each one.

  If Joel was surprised, he tried his best not to show it. “Oh?” he answered calmly. “With who? Do I know her?”

  “Cameron Dane. The reporter from the newspaper. The one who did that story on the house. We’re having dinner at Moore’s.”

  Joel nodded.

  “You look surprised.”

  “No,” Joel replied. “I’m not …”

  But it was clear that he was trying to find the words to describe his response—somewhere between surprised and more surprised. He ran his hand through his hair. It looked as if he were about to speak, then changed his mind. He tightened his lips into a fine line. “Oh, what the … yes, I am surprised.”

  He took a deep breath and continued. “I thought you would never go out on a date. No one did, I bet. I lost count of the number of times people tried to set you up. Your sister, Carol—does she know?”

  Ethan shook his head. He felt sheepish.

  Joel continued. “You’ve never taken anyone out. Never. I bet all your friends and relatives have given up trying by now. What’s it been … six years?”

  “Seven.”

  “Long enough. Long enough for sure.”

  “You think so? I mean … I look at Chase and he doesn’t say a word, but it’s like I’m doing something horrible. I know that’s what he thinks.”

  Joel settled against the doorframe and the wood creaked comfortably. “It has been long enough. And Chase … well, he’s only a kid. He doesn’t understand. You need to consider yourself. You’re still a young man … sort of,” Joel said with a smile. “You should have been doing this a long time ago.”

  Ethan stared at his hands. “I never felt like it, really. Until now. And even now … well, I’m still not sure how I feel. I guess it feels okay. But it also feels plain weird. And then … well, I sort of feel guilty … like I’m cheating on my wife or something. And then there’s Chase. It’s just all so complicated.”

  A moment of silence passed. Ethan realized with a start that he had shared more personal information with his assistant than he had with any other living person—except Lynne.

  Joel looked almost uncomfortable having heard the confession. He coughed and cleared his throat, happy to make some sound, other than talking. “She’s younger than you, isn’t she?”

  “Some. A few years. Think it’s a problem?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I stopped worrying about all those complications when I got married. I don’t envy your position.”

  “Tell me about it,” Ethan replied. “I feel so awkward. But she’s nice. She’s easy to talk to.”

  “And easy to look at. Has Chase met her?”

  “He knows who she is. He saw her at the ball field. But he hasn’t met her.”

  Joel nodded. “He probably should, don’t you think?”

  Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s only a date. And I can’t talk to him anymore without us fighting about something. Doesn’t matter what we talk about.”

  “He’s a teenager. We were all like that. Obnoxious most of the time. He’s a good kid. He’ll come around.”

  They walked to the front door. Ethan closed it behind them and fastened the lock.

  “So is she going to be at the game as well?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t asked her. Might be too soon.”

  “Well, if you’re going to ask her, do it now. I think women like to be asked earlier rather than at the last minute. Especially to a semifinal game.”

  “They do?”

  “All I know is my wife gets testy if I spring a dinner invitation without at least a few days’ notice.”

  “Well … I don’t know. Maybe she’ll have to go to do a story on the game. Maybe she’s been planning to come all along. You think?”

  Joel smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Have a good time at dinner tonight. And maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Elliot and Chase stood on the porch, recounting their escape before heading to the Willis house. Elliot’s mother had launched into a cleaning frenzy, and the two of them had slipped out the front door before she tried to involve them in her whirlwind of activity. She was on her hands and knees in the living room of their large old house, spraying and wiping baseboards and muttering. Her hair was tied with a ribbon knotted at the top of her head.

 
“She’s getting weirder,” Elliot said softly as they crept off the porch and onto the sidewalk.

  “Don’t be so hard on her,” Chase answered. “She’s not that bad. Just once in a while.”

  Elliot snorted. “You’re only at my house once in a while. She’s like that most of the time. I think that’s why my dad works so much overtime.”

  The two walked in silence for a block.

  “You ready for the game tomorrow?” Elliot asked. “First game of the playoffs and all that.”

  “I dunno. I mean, what should we be doing? We just play baseball.”

  “Well, like before the Super Bowl, the teams always do something different to get ready. Like special exercises or something.”

  “Nah. If you’re good at baseball—well, you’re just good at it,” Chase explained. “There’s not a lot more you can do. If you got it, you got it.”

  Elliot sighed. “So I’ll never make the big leagues?”

  Chase punched him on the shoulder in a friendly way. “You’re okay. You’re better at other stuff. Baseball just isn’t your best game.”

  “Yeah. I guess. I’m pretty good at football.”

  “Better than me.”

  “’Cuz I’m bigger.”

  “And not quite as bright.”

  Elliot snorted a laugh and returned the punch to Chase’s shoulder, but a little harder than Chase thought appropriate.

  They walked through the neighborhood in the direction of the river.

  “My mom said your dad had dinner with that lady reporter.”

  “How did your mom know that?”

  “Hey, she knows everything. Or she has friends that do, I guess. Nothing much ever happens in this town—and what does, she knows about. That’s what my dad always says.”

  Chase looked at his shoes. “Well, he didn’t bring her home or anything. It’s not like they’re hanging out all the time.”

  “My mom says she’s a looker, all right. She saw her at the Piggly Wiggly. Says she was buying a cart full of frozen dinners. Says she probably doesn’t know how to cook or anything. She says the pretty ones never do. She says they get to coast through life. Do you think she’s pretty?”