The Renovation

by Terri Kraus

  He stopped talking long enough to take a rather large bite out of the flaky roll, foregoing the addition of butter.

  Cameron remembered the croissants as being made with a substantial portion of butter, or maybe lard.

  This is Venango County, after all, she thought.

  He chewed, swallowed, took a drink, and brushed his lips with the napkin. “Cloth napkins. In Franklin. Imagine that.”

  Cameron liked him even more.

  “Well, Miss Dane, enough of my pathetic cat-and-mouse game. I admit to taking some measure of perverse pleasure in such activity. Though my father is the master at this game. Such dialogue with him can extend for weeks.”

  Paul pointed to his water glass as a busboy scurried past.

  “Well, I mentioned to you earlier, did I not, that we are in that horrid television business? A brother of Paige’s father moved south to Pittsburgh way back when. Said the newspaper business dirtied his hands. Literally. He didn’t like the way newsprint rubbed off on his hands. And he claimed that your daily work winds up in someone’s trash bin the next day. He didn’t like the imagery involved.”

  Cameron sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, anticipating a longish story. She was glad she was wearing slacks.

  “He was one of the original investors in KDKA.”

  Cameron still didn’t get it. Her face must have showed it, because he went on.

  “Well, obviously you did not grow up in Pittsburgh. KDKA was the world’s first public radio station. And even then, there was a Drake with his hand in the till.”

  “Did he own it?” Cam asked.

  “Oh, no. Just a little part of it. And a few other stations. I suspect he bought a majority holding in some of them for a few hundred dollars. And presto … wait twenty years … sell at a huge profit.”

  “The American way,” Cameron said.

  “And they bought into television when it was very much in the infancy stage. Now the family is into cable and transmission services and advertising rights. None of our side of the Drake dynasty really seems to own anything outright, but the little pieces all add up.”

  He relaxed in his chair. “The one thing we do own outright, curiously enough, is an operation that does not make money. Some sort of wicked Drake curse, I suppose. We have an independent cable station—and that includes an odd franchising operation. If one franchises television, one needs shows to franchise. Our little operation produces programs. We own the rights to a few cooking shows, a few exercise shows, and we are beginning a new show—to compete, if you could call it that, with Home and Garden Television—a remodeling and decorating and renovation show. It will be grand—grand on a western Pennsylvanian scale.”

  Cameron uncrossed her legs, took a croissant from the basket, slathered two pats of butter in the middle with her knife and smushed it back together. Before she took a bite, she asked, “But what does any of this have to do with me?”

  Paul smiled. “Well, Miss Dane, we want you to be the host.”

  She almost dropped the croissant in her lap but caught it before it hit, nearly crushing it in her fist.

  Ethan hurried around to first open the car door and then the restaurant door. He’d discovered that Emily was not a woman who walked slowly. She insisted that he drive her car. He had not driven a car as luxurious as hers since … well … since forever.

  “I don’t know much about cars,” Emily said. “But Scott said this model of Jaguar is a good value for the money. And I like its rather feminine lines. They had a red one in stock. So I bought it.”

  Ethan was going to ask what her husband had to say about that, but then looked at her ring hand and saw it bare of jewelry. If she asked her business partner what car to buy, then she’s probably … single.

  Ethan had no idea what to do with that information or if it should make a difference in how he should act this evening. He hoped not, because he was not standing on ground that felt all that solid.

  “Why, this is just lovely,” Emily said as they sat down. “So charming. I was expecting something more like a roadhouse. This isn’t like that at all.”

  Ethan was glad that she seemed pleased but wasn’t sure what the difference between a roadhouse and this restaurant was. Subtle perhaps, he concluded.

  Emily only glanced at the menu, and when the waiter came for their drink order, she said she was ready to order food as well.

  “There is nothing on the road between here and Pittsburgh except that dreadful fast food,” she said for the benefit of both the waiter and Ethan. “I am mostly to fully famished, so dinner needs to progress on the quicker fashion, rather than the slower.”

  After they ordered, Emily took a crusty roll, broke it into small pieces on her plate, and added a delicate dab of butter.

  “So, tell me, Ethan, how did you come to land the Carter restoration project? Mrs. Moretti just goes on and on about how wonderful your work is. Do you specialize in historic projects like this? I wouldn’t think Venango County would host that many careful restorations. And why aren’t you working in Pittsburgh? I could use a good contractor to recommend. Clients are always asking for trustworthy craftsmen. You could do very well in a bigger market, I would bet.”

  Ethan took a sip of water and wondered which of her questions he might actually get to answer.

  “So, Chase, what’s it going to be for the big science project?” Elliot’s mother asked as she ladled out a large spoonful of macaroni and cheese onto his plate.

  This was not the sort of mac ’n’ cheese that came out of a box. Elliot’s mom took real macaroni and melted a chunk of real cheese—Chase thought it was Velveeta, or the warehouse version of Velveeta, the size of a softball. When that was melted and gooey, she added milk and lots of butter, then poured it all into a full pot of macaroni—the kind that looked like seashells. It was Elliot’s favorite dinner. Chase, as well as all of Elliot’s younger siblings, liked it too.

  Chase would have shrugged at the science-project question at home, getting a glare back from his father for sure. But he liked Elliot’s mom a lot and, after all, they were feeding him once again.

  Both he and Elliot had been seated at the far end of the table, closer to the adults and farther away from the mayhem at the kids’ end of the long, long dining-room table.

  “I’m building a house … I mean, it’s a model house. Out of balsa wood. I’m showing how the walls are made and the trusses and joists and how all that stuff works together. I’m using a book that my dad has. It shows how to calculate the loads and stress and that sort of thing. Like if you need a ten-by-two or OSB or steel. The model shows all the hidden stuff in a house.”

  Mrs. Hewitt nodded and pointed at Elliot. “You should do something interesting like that. It sounds real brainy and just the thing that would impress those snooty judges.”

  Elliot looked pained, just a bit, and Chase gave him a second’s worth of a shrug, as if to say, I didn’t mean to make you look bad.

  “I don’t know, Mom. But I’ll think of something to do.”

  His mom just looked at him.

  Elliot quickly added, “Maybe I’ll do a presentation that shows how to make the world’s best macaroni and cheese. I think that’s kinda brainy.”

  Mrs. Hewitt looked both peeved and pleased at the same time. She smiled at her oldest son. “I don’t know if that would qualify as science, but thank you, Son, for the nice compliment.”

  After dinner, both boys helped clear the table, much to the surprise of Elliot’s mom. Then they headed back over to Chase’s house.

  “It’s easier to study there—it’s real quiet,” Elliot explained.

  “Thanks for dinner. It was really good,” Chase added.

  They cut through backyards, shortening their walk.

  “Is your dad home?”

  “D
unno. He works late a lot these days.”

  “He never used to.”

  “This is a big project. And he said something about meeting a kitchen designer or something. From Pittsburgh.”

  “Really? From Pittsburgh? They come the whole way up here, like with refrigerators and stoves and that sort of stuff?”

  “Dunno. Just said this guy was coming up. He said there was a pizza in the freezer if he didn’t make it home for supper.”

  “A pizza? Really? A warehouse club pizza?”

  “Probably. You want some?”

  Elliot shrugged. “Maybe. Okay. A piece or two. If you’re hungry. Sure.”

  “But I don’t know a thing about television,” Cameron said in protest. “Though I did take a television-production class in college, I hardly paid attention.”

  Paul leaned closer. “Then you know at least as much as I do about the business. I nod a lot and ask other people what they think, then agree with them—with enthusiasm. Works like a charm.”

  “But host? Me? You must be joking.”

  Their food arrived and Paul did not stop talking as he dug into his steak.

  “No, Miss Dane, I am not. You are articulate. I could tell that from the way you write. You seem to know quite a bit about construction and renovation. We could all see that from the articles you did on the Carter Mansion. You have a fresh face—you’re very attractive. Aunt Paige said that. And I can see why. That’s all you need to be successful on TV.”

  Cameron was pleased about being judged attractive but would not let her thoughts linger on the delightful feeling that gave her. “But don’t you need a screen test to tell? Or some sort of interview?”

  Paul chewed more quickly. “Maybe some people might. I don’t.”

  “But I don’t see how …”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Paul said, waving a thumb-sized piece of sirloin in the air. “When you read a story, or a book, or a newspaper article, even, how many pages or paragraphs do you need to read to know that it is something that’s good, well-written, something that you would want to continue to read?”

  Cameron thought. “Maybe a page?”

  “I would think a single paragraph would be more likely,” Paul said, popping the meat into his mouth. “One can tell early on. I think you would be a grand host. Somebody else will write the scripts. You can do some editing, if you like, if the words don’t sound like you. We have a small crew that will do the filming. Someone else will edit, add music, graphics … whatever. All you have to do is look at the camera and not trip very often. You could do that, right?”

  Cameron felt pushed along, like a dandelion caught in the wind.

  “Listen, Miss Dane. Being a TV host on a cable show will not make you rich. In reality, it is just a glamorous-sounding part-time job at the beginning. Unless it takes off. Then—who knows? You would not have to move to Pittsburgh. I envision your being our delightful host for merely a few days a month. I could work out a time-share deal with Aunt Paige. It would be great fun.”

  Cameron looked at her steak and realized that she had yet to take a bite.

  “I said earlier that a man … or a woman … needs to seize the moment. I think I said that earlier. If I didn’t, then I should have. And if you hesitate in your response and fail to eat your steak—then I will be forced to eat it for you. And you don’t want that, do you, Miss Dane?”

  She waited, then grinned, and picked up her knife and fork and began to eat.

  “Thank you for the kind words,” Ethan said, avoiding calling her Emily—or Miss Harrington—which she probably was, but he wasn’t sure and had limited skills in navigating the turbulent waters of modern manners. “I don’t think I could get any of my crew to move to Pittsburgh. I bet the deer hunting in Pittsburgh is terrible. And there’s a lot more traffic than in Franklin. Everyone that works for me hates traffic. So, no, I have not considered advertising for work there.”

  “A pity,” Emily replied. “You could stay very, very busy—just on my referrals alone.”

  “And as for specializing in restorations … I love old houses and the care that people took in building them. You don’t see that today. People cut corners, use cheap material, shoddy workmanship. It’s a shame, and I try my best to give the customer not just what they ask for, but what the building needs. It takes a lot of time with some of these jobs to uncover what’s underneath, what was hidden by lots of layers of paint, cheap paneling, or bad drywall. A lot of the bones, the intentions of a house, get lost or buried, and it takes some care to uncover all that. I find the work fascinating and rewarding.”

  Emily nodded during his speech, and Ethan would say later that she was just about to take his hand in the middle of it.

  She did not.

  And when he was finished, he turned his head slightly away from her, somewhat embarrassed by his passion.

  Had he not turned, he may very well not have seen Cameron and a well-dressed man sitting in the far corner of the dining room, both heads leaning in toward the center, as if discussing a matter of great importance or something of deep personal significance.

  Whatever their discussion was about, Ethan felt his chest tighten, as if having some sort of major medical emergency, which he knew he wasn’t. He wondered how long he could stare in her direction before making a fool of himself once again in front of a woman.

  When one door closes, another opens;

  but we often look so long

  and so regretfully upon the closed door

  that we do not see the one

  which has opened for us.

  —Alexander Graham Bell

  Life is an adventure in forgiveness.

  —Norman Cousins

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE PIZZA WAS BIGGER than Chase or Elliot had anticipated. But, gamely, they finished it, although they both left a few crusts; something they seldom, if ever, did.

  “So, what are you doing for the science fair? You only have a few weeks.”

  Elliot shrugged. “I dunno. None of the stuff Mr. Hardwick suggested seems very interesting—and most of it seems pretty hard.”

  The boys sat in Chase’s small, hidden room.

  “You wanna test concrete? I thought of doing that. Might be cool.”

  “Concrete? Where am I going to get that? From one of those giant cement trucks?”

  “No, dummy. You buy one bag of the stuff at the Home Depot. It’s called Sakrete. Then we have to build some small forms for the concrete. You could use paint stirrers—they’re just the right size. We mix up the concrete with different amounts of water or sand or gravel. Then we put weights on them to see when they break in half.”

  “Sounds really hard,” Elliot said as he scooted back against the wall, picking up a Justice League of America comic book.

  “It would take, like, a couple of hours at the most. I was going to do it myself—before I started building the house. It would be cool. See how much stress it takes to break things.”

  Elliot appeared concerned. “But don’t you need to prove something? What’s it called—a thesis or something?”

  Chase readjusted his lawn chair. “It has that. All the concrete will look the same from the outside, but it won’t be the same on the inside. The weak concrete will look just like the strong concrete, only the weak stuff is brittle and breaks easy. You could have a title like ‘Breaking Points,’ or something cool like that. Like how it can look normal and all on the outside and be ready to break on the inside.”

  “I dunno,” Elliot said as he flipped the pages. He had read the comic book several hundred times. “Would you help me?”

  “Sure. I’m almost done with mine. Sure. And we can make things break.”

  Elliot set the comic book down. “Okay. Thanks. I mean that,” Elliot
said, his words tight with honesty.

  “No problem.”

  For the most part, except for in her hometown, Cameron never anticipated seeing anyone she knew anyplace she went—especially in Franklin, where she knew a few people through her work on the paper but considered only a handful as friends.

  Just as Mr. Paul Drake was in the midst of laying out his proposal for Cameron to host the initial three episodes of Three Rivers Restorations, she stretched her back and pivoted in her chair, hearing her vertebrae pop and click. When she reached her fullest extension, she saw into the other section of the dining area, connected by wide French doors. She saw Ethan and some other woman, a woman much closer to his own age than Cameron was.

  She supposed that in Franklin, given time, everyone would see everyone, regardless of potential or imagined discomfort. It was different in Philadelphia. Circles may never intersect. But she had known that, sooner or later, she would run into Ethan.

  And there he was, sitting there, plain as day, smiling … then not smiling as their eyes met. While the look they shared was not happiness, it was not displeasure, not anger. It was something else altogether—a look of longing or pain or something akin to seeing an image of a lost past that was once attractive and perhaps now is gone, but perhaps not.

  Cameron didn’t know what to do or say or where to look.

  Paul asked a question that she didn’t hear. He repeated it. She had to turn away and look at her dinner partner. She had to look away from Ethan, though she didn’t want to.

  She didn’t want to admit how her heart felt, how her throat tightened, and how much she wanted to run from the restaurant. She wanted to run into the snowy woods, where she could hear nothing except the creak and hiss of the pines as a cold wind threaded through the branches and needles and swept along the dark, bare forest floor.

  Ethan stared a moment longer at Cameron after she stopped looking at him. He turned back to Emily, who was happily dissecting her steak, dipping it in crimson steak sauce, turning the slice of meat in and out and through, and drawing it to her mouth with great gusto.