by Terri Kraus
In recent days Ethan had not made his life easier … nor his crew’s, nor CeCe’s.
“But I don’t like that trim, Ethan,” CeCe said as she strolled about the former ballroom on the third floor, staring at the walls. “I thought we had already discussed this.”
Joel looked on from the side of the room, having finished stacking a few hundred board feet of authentically styled, historically accurate Victorian trim that had just arrived from a mill in southern Venango County, which milled authentic trim with authentic, historically accurate router bits. Ethan had been so excited when the source had been discovered and more excited when he’d discovered that their running costs were only a couple of dollars per board foot more than the trim the local lumberyard carried.
She picked up a stick of the trim and held it at arm’s length.“This is just too—I don’t know—but it’s too something, for sure, for the feeling my interior designer and I are after up here.”
Ethan really disliked her dismissive tone.
“I wanted everything to work off that more simple crown molding we picked. More like that feeling. Simpler. This is too … too … not right. Didn’t I say that I was leaning toward a simple molding?”
Ethan had held his temper, held his words even, held any response at all, despite the fact that the pile of trim now stacked neatly on the floor had been paid for and was purchased on a nonrefundable basis. If he couldn’t use it for trim, it might become costly firewood.
Even Joel had cautioned him against buying it without confirming with CeCe.
“Just buy a foot of it,” Joel had said. “She might not like it.”
But Ethan had bought it—and bought enough of it to trim the entire third floor of the Carter Mansion, because of the time constraints.
“But it’s here, Mrs. Moretti. The trim was available so I jumped on it, thinking it would save some time. We won’t have to wait for another run of material, and it’s before the price increase goes into effect. This saves us both time and money.”
By referring to her as Mrs. Moretti only, Ethan was hoping that his subtle refusal to use her first name would indicate how much turmoil he was in.
“This trim matches the original exactly. It may have been cut using the very same router bits that cut the original trim in the rest of this house. The owner of the mill was almost certain that his mill was the same one that ran the material for your great-grandfather. That is such an amazing coincidence—and we never knew they existed until Jack stumbled on this little lumberyard while riding his motorcycle in Venango County.”
CeCe appeared unimpressed and unmoved. “That’s terribly fascinating, Ethan, but I still don’t like that trim for up here. It doesn’t matter if one of your crew discovered it in a prehistoric cave somewhere. It’s just too … fancy. I like what I like.”
Ethan thought that if he tried just one more time, CeCe would recognize the validity of his argument and finally recognize the value of keeping the past alive—and all she would have to do is agree to use the authentic, historically accurate trim work. How hard could that be? She had to see the rationale behind his purchase.
She did not.
“Ethan,” she said firmly, before he had a chance to continue the discussion, “I am not talking any more about this. I do not want this trim on this floor of my house.”
She moved closer to him, as if she was concerned that their disagreement would be heard by more than just the two of them. She smelled of anise. She probably carried several biscotti in her purse, Ethan thought.
“Ethan, I appreciate your passion for the past. I really do. But I will not have that trim here. I don’t like it here. And I don’t want to fight about this anymore. Take it back. All of it. Get a refund. Or not. I don’t care. Just finish this house according to the plans you have been given. It’s my house. It’s my life. If it’s not right, then I have to live with it, not you.”
She turned, then stopped and looked at Ethan. “I like you, Ethan. I really do. You do wonderful work. You are a great craftsman. But this is the last of it. This is the last of our disagreements over style. I do not want to have to deal with another situation about you making a decision that has not been approved by me. Are you okay with that?”
“But the trim is perfect, CeCe,” he said, now emphasizing her first name. “This is the same trim as what was here originally—and what’s still here in all the other rooms of this house. It would be so unified, and so much simpler.”
“Why does it matter to you, Ethan?” CeCe asked, imploring. “It’s my house. Are you willing to lose this job over your loyalty to what somebody did over a hundred years ago? I mean, really—are you?”
Ethan looked in her eyes, his eyes unwilling to give in, but after a long, long moment, he eventually nodded and replied with as much anguished resignation and defeat as he could muster. “If that’s what you want.”
CeCe sighed, loud and dramatic. She sighed often—at least while supervising Ethan and his crew. “You’re taking all the joy out of this, Ethan. I love this house. But I don’t want to fight over everything that goes into it. I don’t want to fight with you, especially. I hate to say this, but I’m beginning to dislike coming here—because it’s always a battle with you. You’re too loyal to the past. The past is past. You have to let it go, Ethan. Get on with life. Or simply let me get on with mine. Okay?”
Ethan waited a long time to answer—time enough, he hoped, for CeCe to soften and to change her mind. None of that happened. It was only when he realized that she would not give in, that she would not use the authentic, historically accurate trim, the one that honored the past and her great-grandfather, that he finally nodded.
“Okay. We’ll do it your way.”
He knew it was obvious from his tone that he still considered her way wrong—dead wrong, absolutely wrong—but he had to complete this job or dire consequences awaited. She wasn’t making the right decision, but she did hold all the power. Ethan did not like this feeling. He wanted to say that he would install the authentic, historically accurate, architecturally correct trim on his own dime, because that’s what this house needed, called out for—but he said no such thing. He could not absorb that expense. And CeCe knew it.
“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear,” she stated.
It was nothing at all that Ethan wanted to hear.
Apparently, there would be no more discussion. Everything was now decided.
And it was nothing that Ethan liked.
Cameron woke early on Sunday. Arising early, in itself, was not unusual for her, but she was up, out of bed, showered, dressed, with minimal makeup, having consumed her typical breakfast of a bagel and cream cheese with coffee and juice, and was ready a full hour before the church service started. That was unusual. Totally atypical.
She had always been somewhat of a morning person and had been a rather early riser, but just barely qualified as a true morning person. For a starting time of 8:00 a.m., Cameron considered 7:15 to be a sufficient time to arise. It was true that Cameron was punctual, but always just punctual. On time, to Cameron, was just on time, never even more than a couple of minutes early.
Being awake on Sunday for church was different; being early for church was just that much more unusual for her. It was not that Cameron had ever positioned herself against attending church. Her family went sporadically and occasionally enthusiastically, but Cameron, while considering herself a Christian—whatever that really meant—did not consider herself a card-carrying churchgoer. Church was fine, she said, for those who needed it. She had seldom felt as if she needed it all that much.
Now … well, now she was reconsidering her position on church.
Here it was, a cold winter Sunday, gray and overcast, and Cameron was looking forward to the act of going to church.
Odd, isn’t it? she thought.
She s
at on her window seat, sipping her coffee and leafing through a magazine, and checked her watch every few minutes until it was time for her to leave. It would take her no more than five minutes to walk there. Church started at 8:30. She left her house at 8:10.
Walking briskly up the wide brick steps of Franklin Community Church, she entered the building. She didn’t expect to see anyone she knew—other than, hopefully, the kindly old man who greeted her during her last visit. Maybe this week, she told herself, maybe this week would be different. Last week, the pastor had asked everyone to stand and shake someone else’s hand and introduce themselves. Cameron did that, of course, along with everyone else in the church, and immediately forgot the name of the middle-aged couple who first offered introductions. Cameron told herself that this week would be very, very different and that she would remember someone’s name for more than a few seconds. Maybe she needed to meet some new people, and this was a good place to start.
“Miss Dane.”
Cameron looked around for the source of her name.
“Charlie Ochs. We had coffee last Sunday. So nice to see you again.” He took her hand as enthusiastically as before. “I know the coffee wasn’t that good, so you must be back here because of me.”
He smiled with his grandfather’s smile—warm, inviting, and just a little mischievous.
“Of course,” Cameron replied, hoping that Mr. Ochs shared her sense of humor. “Only because of you, Mr. Ochs. I don’t remember anything about the sermon. Something about the Bible, I bet.”
Charlie grinned. “Sometimes that is the case. But our new pastor is good, isn’t he? Even I remember the sermons—most of the time, that is.”
Others moved through the doors, removing coats, looking for hangers, rubbing hands together from the cold, calling out names, extending hands, or sharing hugs. Greetings and hellos spread out like the warmth from an unseen fireplace.
“I better find a place to sit down before the singing,” Cameron said. “You don’t want me to get on the bad side of the worship director, do you?”
Charlie waved his hand in dismissal. “Not to worry. He’s a nice fellow—but that ‘breaking the worship mood’ stuff … pay me no mind. I’m just a fixture around here.”
“More like a pillar, I would say.”
He handed Cameron a bulletin and held open the interior door to the sanctuary. “The sermon today is all about forgiveness. Let me tell you, Miss Dane, that’s the secret to a long life.”
Charlie led her to a pew on the left side of the church, only a few rows back from the front, much closer than she would have picked herself if she had been doing the seating.
“The secret? What’s the secret?” Cameron asked.
Charlie surprised her by sliding into the pew next to her and sitting down. He wore a most uncharacteristic serious expression. “Forgiving. Sometimes you’re the one who gets forgiven. I mean, we all can be forgiven, you know what I mean—in the biblical sense, that is. Sometimes in life we have to accept forgiveness, but more often, and more importantly, we have to be the ones who forgive others—or even forgive ourselves. You don’t forgive, the anger comes out as bitterness, or just turns inward and festers. Kills you early, I always say.”
“Well, that’s good advice. Living a long life is good.”
Charlie nodded, as if he were agreeing with himself. “Someone once told me, Miss Dane, that one of the rewards for living a good life is a good life. That’s part of it, for sure.” He paused. “I have a feeling … I think you need to pay attention to the sermon today, somehow. Forgiving. Accepting forgiveness. I’m old, but sometimes I get a feeling about someone …”
He chuckled under his breath. “Or maybe you need to tell somebody else about forgiveness? I don’t know. I just have this feeling.”
At a loss for how to respond, Cameron simply said, “Thank you, Mr. Ochs. You’re right. I will pay attention.”
And with that, Charlie stood up, straightened his crisp sport coat, and headed back toward the narthex, smile on his face, hand flexing, ready to be extended, ready for the next person or persons to come through the doors.
Cameron watched him as he walked away. Her aunt—the aunt who had acquired a full dose of religion later in life—often had those sort of feelings, spiritual feelings, and she would tell everybody about them, whether they were interested or not. Even while she had dismissed them—and her aunt—as being sort of nutty, this one, coming from Mr. Ochs, felt anything but nutty. This one felt … very unnutty. She was absolutely certain that she should pay close attention to the sermon today.
Elliot stared at the bucket. Then he stared at the bag of cement, placing his finger on the chart of mix ratios printed midway down the bag. The printing was a little smudged, but Elliot could make out the numbers. Then he stared at Chase, who had taken a three-by-five index card and appeared to be focused on an intense math problem.
“I figure you need to do six variations,” Chase said as he placed the carpenter’s pencil behind his ear.
“Six? That sounds like a lot. Can we do like four instead?”
The boys were in the Willis basement. Since the house was well over a hundred years old, the foundation walls were made of stone. With the low ceiling, still air, and few windows, a tiny hint of mildew always seemed to be pooled in the chilled darkness.
Chase picked up a paint stirrer. “No. We can’t do four. I mean … you can do five. But six will look better. And you need a good grade on this, right?”
Elliot pulled an old metal stool closer to the workbench and lifted himself up, pulling even closer, the metal legs squealing on the concrete.
“I guess. But a B would be fine. Would five varieties get me a B?”
Chase looked at his friend and shook his head. “Elwood … you are such a prize, you know that?”
Elliot grinned. He liked being called “Elwood.” He’d told Chase he often wished his parents had named him Elwood instead of dumb old Elliot and that once he turned eighteen, he would legally change it. It was a boast both knew was just a boast, especially since Chase knew Elliot had no idea of how someone would go about legally changing his name.
“Well, no sense in overworking—especially if five would get me a B. My mom would think I could, like, make it into Harvard if I came home with too many As. And you don’t want to disappoint her, do you?”
Chase lightly hit his friend over the head with a paint stirrer. “Just get busy gluing these together. We need six of them, okay?”
In a few minutes, several miniature troughs were glued and clamped. The boys added a strip of cardboard to each end. Once the glue set, they would begin to mix the concrete in small batches or varying consistencies and pour each concrete mixture into a small form. It was detailed work, work Chase enjoyed and Elliot merely tolerated.
“Are you sure I couldn’t do a science project about blowing things up with firecrackers? I would like that.”
Chase piped a thin line of glue into the last form. “Are fireworks legal in Pennsylvania?”
“No,” Elliot replied. “But I know where we can get them. Arnie’s older brother knows a guy who knows a guy.”
Chase fastened a clamp over the form. “So we could use illegal fireworks in a school science fair?”
Elliot thought for a long moment. “Oh … yeah. I guess not. It would be cool, though.” He used a thin strip of duct tape to hold the cardboard ends in place. “My mom asked me about hockey. She asked me if I wanted to play.”
“Really? Your mom asked? I didn’t know you were interested in hockey.”
Elliot was less than a graceful skater, but his mother continually tried to get him to expand his horizons.
“And I thought she said you couldn’t afford it,” Chase concluded.
“We can’t. But somebody at the beauty shop or grocery store said that somebody�
��s kid had a full set of gear they wanted to give away. I think she thought I could use it. Like it would fit me. Can you see me on the ice in that?”
Chase looked at the bag of Sakrete again. He lined up six large plastic cups. “These will be for the concrete mix. We need another six for the water. Did you ever tell your mom you wanted to play hockey?”
Snorting back a laugh, Elliot pretended to wobble off the chair. “No. I hate skating. I’m afraid of thin ice. Speaking of hockey—did your dad sign you up?”
“Nope.”
“Come on. You said he was, like, some ace in hockey when he was your age. Doesn’t that automatically make you like some sort of legacy ace or something?”
Chase ran his hand over the workbench. “I don’t think so. I don’t think hockey is inherited like that. And, like I said, I’m not playing this year. I don’t care what he was when he was a kid or what he wants me to do.”
Elliot made a whistling noise. “You talk tough now. But you’ll play. You’ll have to play if he spends all that money on registration.”
“Nope, ain’t going to happen, my friend. Now, get that measuring cup. We need to measure out twelve cups of this mix.”
Elliot took the cup and was about to rip at the bag.
“No. Not that way,” Chase said. “You see that little white string?”
“Yeah.”
“You pull that.”
Elliot pulled it and it unraveled, and he kept pulling and pulling, and the top paper seam simply fell away. “Cool. That was cool. I would have just ripped it open.”
“Easier when you know the secret,” Chase said.
Cameron walked into the office on Monday morning carrying three coffees and a bag of muffins. The office had its own coffeemaker, but Cameron imagined that it had had its last thorough cleaning during the Clinton administration. She drank that office coffee only in emergencies—when nothing else was available and she was fighting exhaustion. If anyone on staff wanted good coffee, that person brought his or her own.