Building Home

by Dee Ernst

  “So, listen, if you’re still interested in some kinda glass thing for your bathroom, Steve is looking at a probable tear-down this week. The house, what’s left of it, is pretty old, so I’ll ask him to keep an eye out.”

  I cleared my throat. “That would be good. Thanks.”

  He sat back and stretched his arm out along the back of the bench seat. If I leaned far back enough, I could rest the base of my neck right along his bare arm…

  “The doorknobs we got today? Now, they’re a real find. Gonna fit just fine. Lucky for you we saved all those old doors of yours, because they were just about the only things in good shape. Can’t beat a solid pine door like that. We’ve already stripped ‘em down, and they have a nice stain on them. The knobs should be easy, and they’ll look just fine. The hinges, now, you’re gonna have to clean them up. It’s a dirty job. No, maybe just messy. You up for it?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked, as I imagined leaning over and turning his face to mine. His lips looked soft. I bet they tasted just like…

  “Well, I know how you city girls are about getting your manicures ruined.”

  I sat up. “I do not get manicures,” I told him. “And that’s the second time you called me a city girl. Rehoboth is not exactly a metropolis, you know.”

  “True, but compared to Cape Edwards, it may as well be the Big Apple.”

  “You know, Mike,” I said, feeling a little annoyed, “You lived most of your adult life in Boston, which is not some trivial New England burg. When are you going to stop with the small-town BS? You’re not fooling me, you know.”

  “I told you, you can’t take the Eastern Shore out of the man.”

  I frowned. Just when I was thinking some pretty positive things about him, including how nice it would be to maybe feel those soft lips against mine, he had to go all aw, shucks on me, and he knew I knew it was all an act.

  “And I have no problem with hard work and you know it. I spackled yesterday.”

  He nodded. “Yep. Heard all about it. Tyler said you were pretty much covered from head to foot.”

  “Yeah, well, it was my first time! I bet the first times you ever tried some things, it wasn’t perfect.”

  He turned to me, eyes twinkling. “Well, I hate to boast, but most of my first times are fairly spectacular.”

  I had no reply. I’m fairly certain that my mouth was hanging open and I could feel the color rush to my face.

  I didn’t know whether to kiss him or smack him upside the head.

  I huffed and bolted off the bench. I could hear him behind me, making some sort of noise, but I didn’t care. If only he would stop with all that teasing, and pretending that I was some fragile flower that might get a splinter or break a nail if I did anything…

  I whirled, and he was so close behind me that we bumped before he jumped back about a foot. But that bump did it. My skin felt on fire and I knew my cheeks were red, and all I could think about was reaching up and grabbing him by the shirt and kissing him…

  “What are you so touchy for?” he grumbled. “I’m only teasing.”

  “Well, don’t,” I snapped. “I mean, is that the only way you know how to relate to women? By teasing and making fun, and, and, well, you know.” I waved my hands in the air, but I don’t think it helped me get my point across.

  He put both hands up in front of him, as though surrendering to a posse. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should not be mocking you, your hard work, or any of your efforts. In fact, I want to thank you for taking such a interest, and doing all that hard work.”

  Well…that was better. “You’re welcome.”

  The air between us was practically crackling. Couldn’t he feel it?

  “I usually don’t relate to women at all,” he said, dropping his hands. “That’s Steve’s area of expertise.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish he’d stop asking me out,” I mumbled.

  Mike looked suddenly serious. “Is he bothering you?”

  “What? No, not at all. He’s perfectly polite. It’s just, well…”

  “I know. And I get it, Chris, I really do. It’s hard enough moving to a new place, trying to build a new house, all with your ex-boyfriend camping across the street.”

  I shook my head. “Daniel has nothing to do with it,” I said.

  “Well, maybe, maybe not. You two were together long time. And he told me he didn’t want to let you go.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And did he also tell you that he’s moved on?”

  “Oh, yeah, but he said that Chloe wasn’t the kind of woman for the long term.”

  My jaw dropped open. “Chloe? From his office Chloe? She just signed on as an intern a few months before I left.”

  Mike’s eyes started to twinkle. “He did say she worked with him. A little jealousy there?”

  “Are you kidding? No. Just complete and absolute shock. She was his intern. That makes her barely legal.” Oh Daniel, I thought. Sure, we hadn’t exactly been setting the world on fire those last years together, but for him to latch on to Chloe, who could barely have a conversation about anything she didn’t find on Instagram…

  He laughed, and as he did the tension in the air faded away. “That’s probably what he meant.”

  We started walking back to the car, not talking. Not touching either, but I knew exactly where his body was, slightly behind mine as we walked out to his truck. We sat in silence the short trip back, and he pulled up in front of Terri’s.

  “Like I said, this was a good day.”

  I felt like I was jumping out of my skin. I had to do something, say something…

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I mumbled, and reached over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then, coward that I was, I jumped out of the truck and practically ran up the stairs to Terri’s.

  So much for taking chances. I could have just as easily taken his face in both my hands and let him know exactly how good a day it was, but chickened out.

  I was going to seriously have to work on that, or I’d never have a chance with him at all.

  Chapter Seven

  My house was finally looking like a house. There was a floor—plywood, but solid. Rooms were framed and there was drywall everywhere. All the electrical things were sticking out: sockets, switches, wires dangling from the beams, and various holes on the ceilings and walls. Roughed in, Tyler explained. We were all hooked up and waiting for the inspector so the Alan could finish his work and actually bring power into the house. Tyler had my tall kitchen cabinet-armoire-future-hall-closet standing in the middle of what would be my new living room and said I could pretty much do everything I needed to do, except use an electric sander.

  I had everything I needed: stripper, an approved container to put the stripper into (apparently there were rules that dealt with safety that the nice clerk at Home Depot explained to me but I didn’t understand), two brand new tarps, a metal brush, a few small paint brushes, denatured alcohol, latex gloves, disposable face masks and sandpaper in every available grit known to man. I also had metal paint scrapers in three sizes. With the money I’d spent at Home Depot, I could have had a custom cabinet built. In mahogany.

  Tyler looked at my little pile and smiled. “Got enough stuff?”

  I had watched no less than six videos of YouTube. He wasn’t about to intimidate me. I knew exactly what I was doing.

  He helped me spread out the tarps, not questioning why I had two, which was good, because I didn’t want to explain. In my mind, paint stripper was the equivalent of hydrochloric acid and I was afraid if I spilled any, it would eat through everything and leave a gaping hole in the new plywood floor.

  Then we lifted the cabinet right in the middle of the tarp(s) and he grinned.

  “Good luck.”

  The first thing I needed to do, I realized with a sinking heart, was remove the doors. For that I needed a screwdriver, which I didn’t have, but Tyler graciously lent me one. The rest of the crew watched but at least no one smirked—that mornings o
ffering had been chocolate cupcakes.

  Then I saw that the hardware had been painted over with paint so many times that it was impossible to see where to put the screwdriver. I figured that one out myself and used a bit of stripper, dabbing it on then springing back, waiting for it to explode.

  It didn’t.

  After about twenty minutes I took a closer look, and sure enough, the paint had been miraculously melted away. However, the screws weren’t Philip’s head screws, they were the plain, old-fashioned kind.

  Luckily, Tyler had that kind of screwdriver too.

  So, I unscrewed the hinges from the doors, laid the doors, which were surprisingly heavy, on the tarp(s), then unscrewed the hinges from the body of the cabinet. Then I pulled out the three drawers at the bottom, ignoring the broken pulls. That left me with a big open box with four firmly attached shelves, which had been painted over approximately one hundred times.

  Okay, maybe not that many, but it sure looked that way.

  By now, I was hot and sweaty and the hair was sticking all down the back of my neck. I was also exhausted and had to pee.

  I told Tyler I’d be back and walked down to Terri’s. I was sure that the Jonny-On-The-Spot out back was just fine, but…

  While I was there, I drank a gallon of water, stood in front of the air-conditioner, peed again and walked back. I contemplated changing clothes and maybe doing something with my hair in case Mike walked over, but I knew that after ten minutes in the heat I’d be a sweaty mess again, so I settled for washing my face and hoping he was too busy across the street to come by.

  Back at the house, I found a few scrap pieces of two-by-four and put them under the cabinet doors, lifting them up off the tarp(s), and poured a bit of stripper on the raised panel of the first door. I carefully spread it, using the paintbrush, as per the directions on the container and four of the six videos I’d seen.

  I backed away and watched and sure enough, things happened. I could see the paint lifting up and off the surface of the wood. I slowly and carefully scraped away, disposing the still toxic, possible deadly gunk in an approved container, and lo and behold, there was wood. Soft, brown wood, with a pale grain running all the way down. I sat back and grinned. I felt like I’d given birth. I was exhilarated, exhausted, starving…I glanced around. The house was empty. I looked at my phone and saw that it was almost one o’clock. Everyone was at lunch.

  I walked home, ate, cooled off, and sat for a minute on the couch. I resisted the urge to just stretch out, because I knew if I did, I’d be fast asleep.

  Back at the house, the crew was there, and Tyler was standing over my work, looking surprised.

  “Hey, this is going to look good,” he said as I walked up.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I said. “Of course it’s going to look good.” I took a picture of my progress with my phone and sent it to Mike, then stooped down to work on the second door.

  It was hot. I seriously thought about putting the whole project on hold until Alan came and finished his work, we passed the electrical inspection, and I could turn on the air-conditioning. But I looked around and saw the crew working away, most of them with their T-shirts plastered to their bodies with sweat. If they could work in the heat, so could I. But I was older than all of them and felt no guilt about walking back to Terri’s, changing into yet another sleeveless shirt, drinking lots of cold water while standing under the air-conditioning vent, and even splashing cold water all over my face after I peed. Twice.

  Back at the house, Mike was there, hands on his hips, looking down at the doors. As I walked in, he grinned, and Joe actually trotted up to me for a welcoming sniff.

  “So, I see you’re hard at work,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  I felt a little punch in my gut. Working in the heat looked a whole lot better on him. His T-shirt was wet with sweat, and was stuck to his back, and I could almost see the muscles as they moved and shifted under the fabric. I lifted my chin. “And I kept all the mess right there on the tarp. See?”

  He lifted one tarp with the toe of his work boot, noticed the second, and squatted to take a closer look.

  “Two? This isn’t exactly battery acid here.”

  I squatted down beside him. “I’m not taking any chances with my floor.”

  “Your floor is just plywood.”

  “It’s still a lot more than when I first got here.”

  He stared a minute, then stood, laughing. “That’s right. You’re first walk-through was a little rough.”

  I stood next to him. “Looking better now, though. In fact, I think I’m going to like if here.”

  He looked around. “Anything I can do for you right now?”

  You could tell me what a wonderful job I did stripping off that old paint. You could compliment me on looking cool and sexy in this blistering heat, even though there was sweat dripping off my nose and my shirt was sticking under my boobs. You could mention what a great time you had on Saturday, and how you couldn’t wait to spend some more time with me.

  I shook my head. “No, I got this. I’m going to do the drawers, next. I’ll probably have to pry the handles off with some tool I’ll need to borrow from Tyler.”

  “A crowbar?” Mike suggested.

  “No, I don’t think I need to go that big. I think I’ll be fine until I have to do the inside here. These shelves are not what I want, they’re not where I want them, and they’ll be a pain to paint around.”

  Mike looked and nodded. “Welp. I’ll have a word with one of the boys here, and we’ll just cut them out with the SawzAll, give you a nice, big, empty box. How ‘bout that?”

  “That sounds great.”

  “I gotta say, Chris. You’re doing okay with this.”

  I felt my heart start to swell. My cheeks, I knew, were flaming. Should I just bat my lashes modestly? Smile sheepishly?

  Before I could formulate a suitable reply, preferably cute and possibly suggestive, a woman came through my front door. She was, quite possibly, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in real life. She was tall and slender, but with just the right amount of boob and hip to create quite the silhouette. Her skin was clear, her hair sleek and dark in a short bob, and her eyes were bright blue.

  “You Polittano?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  Behind me, I could feel the entire room shrink back. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tyler duck into a doorway. The sounds of nailing ceased, and, quite abruptly Joe made a noise, something between a snarl and a whimper.

  Mike cleared his throat. “Well hello Amy. Good to see you, too.”

  Amy McCann was wearing a body-con dress and heels so high and pointed they could have been used as a murder weapon. She took a few more steps into the house and looked around.

  “This one of yours, Mike?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Yep. And you know about that other job of mine across the street?”

  She focused on me, taking in my sweaty clothes and the brushes and containers on the floor around me. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Stripping,” I said calmly, peeling off my canvas gloves, and then the latex gloves I was wearing underneath.

  She glared at Mike. “And what are you doing?”

  Mike grinned. “Watching her strip.”

  It unsettled her, I could tell. She frowned, and I could practically see her reformulating her approach. “I just got off the phone with Celeste Montecorvo,” she said in a neutral tone.

  I dropped all my gloves on the tarp. “And how is she?”

  “She’s just fine. But she told me that she’s still thinking about the very fair offer I made on her property a week ago, and when I asked her why she was taking so long, she told me I should talk to you. Now, why on earth would you have anything to say about this?” Amy’s voice was completely reasonable, as was her question, but I could see the impatience and irritation in her eyes. I smiled, because I knew exactly what to do with her.

  In the course of being a
realtor, I’d encountered pretty much every different type of person that existed, and I immediately knew what type she was. She was the customer who couldn’t understand why her puny budget couldn’t buy her a brand new condo with three bathrooms. She was the customer who’d get angry if I didn’t answer her phone calls at eleven o’clock at night. She was the customer who, three days before closing, came up with a to-do list for the seller, usually involving expensive cosmetic work, and didn’t understand I wouldn’t do anything with it except tear it up.

  The thing is, I still managed to sell houses to even those types of customers. I knew what they were like, what they really wanted, and better yet, how to deflect their feeling of entitlement.

  I hadn’t been in my realtor mode for weeks now, but I slid right in with no effort at all. “Well, you see, Amy—may I call you Amy? You see, Celeste was saying how she hated to think about all those lovely trees of hers getting cut down, and you know how she loves those ducks. Then we started talking about her garden, and her vines…did you know she had grapevines back there? And one thing led to another, and what else could I do but suggest that maybe, just maybe, I knew someone who might have a different vision for her land. She was so grateful, I mean, really grateful. She was torn, because, well, because of you. She told me what a shrewd businesswoman you were. And she told me how you hated to be disappointed. But honestly, what could I do? The poor woman was practically in tears.” I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s nothing personal.”

  “If you’re interfering with my business,” she said slowly, “it’s very personal.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, Amy, come on. A woman like you? I bet you have a dozen projects just waiting for your attention. The Coop? Small potatoes I’m sure.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “All of my projects are of equal importance.”