The Long Way Home

by Shann McPherson

  Chapter 10

  In all her thirty-six years, Maggie couldn’t remember a time she’d ever felt so physically exhausted. Not even after twenty-eight hours of labor with Jack had she felt as truly spent as she did right now. Pushing up from her knees, hands on hips, she arched her back to crack out her spinal kinks, taking a long hard look at the bathroom floor she’d just spent the best part of two hours scrubbing. She released a heavy sigh, allowing her tight shoulders to sag as she moved her head side to side in an attempt to ease the painful knot in her neck.

  Last night, she’d left the boys at the hotel and had come back to the house with the trunk of her car loaded with the cleaning supplies she’d picked up from the Piggly Wiggly. Through the silence of night she dusted, disinfected, mopped and vacuumed until two o’clock in the morning. Then she went back to the hotel, caught up on a few hours of sleep, and then took the boys to the bakery for breakfast before dropping them back at the hotel and returned to the house to meet the movers.

  Exhausted was an understatement. She hadn’t showered in the last twenty-four hours. Her hair, a nested mess on top of her head, needed to be washed, and she had dirt caked beneath her nails. But she was a determined woman. She wasn’t planning on stopping until every piece of furniture was in its rightful place, and every last cobweb and dust particle had been swept out of sight.

  Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Maggie’s ears pricked at the sound of an engine disrupting the quiet morning and of gravel crunching beneath tires. She moved to the big window in the bathroom, and looked down to see an old pickup truck pull up next to her car. A man dressed in coveralls hopped out, looking up at the house.

  “The contractor,” she hissed, cursing under her breath when she realized the time, and the horrible state she was in.

  Nobody outside of her sons and Tom had ever seen her so disheveled. In fact, she’d rarely even let her husband see her in such a state. Tom would have made some comment, passing it off as a half-hearted joke, but his words would have cut her deep down. It was usually best for Maggie’s self-confidence if she looked as put together as she could at all times for her husband.

  Shaking her head, Maggie snapped herself out from that unexpected thought and remembered the situation she was currently dealing with. How she looked was the last thing that mattered. Smoothing down her T-shirt, she brushed errant strands of hair from her face as she hurried out of the bathroom and down the stairs, dodging the two burly movers as they carried a mattress past her on her way out the front door.

  Outside, the morning was beautiful and sunny, and Maggie was forced to lift a hand up to shield her eyes from the glare as she continued down the porch steps, crossing the yard to meet the man who was currently staring up at the house, scratching his head.

  “Hello.” Maggie waved as she approached him.

  “Mrs. Morris?” The man held his hand out and she shook it. “I’m Ned.”

  “Please, call me Maggie. Thank you for coming at such short notice.” She pointed back at the house with her thumb. “Would you like me to show you through?”

  Ned nodded, taking a small notepad and a pencil from the chest pocket of his coveralls, pausing a moment to take down some notes. This caused her anxiety to spike. She was dreading this quote.

  ***

  “Okay,” Ned began, flicking through the notes he’d taken throughout his thorough forty-minute inspection of the house.

  Maggie watched him with bated breath, desperate to know the extent of the damage but dreading it also. Her hands trembled as she wrapped them around her coffee mug.

  “Porch steps need a full reconstruction.” He glanced up at her before continuing, “The deck needs to be replaced, too. Wet rot.”

  “Oh, really?” Maggie glanced at the deck on the front porch. It looked fine to her. She hadn’t been expecting that. She sighed heavily, knowing this was not going to be good.

  “New screening. Obviously.” Ned pointed to the torn and tattered porch screening, and Maggie nodded because that much was a given. But when he went to continue, she could sense his reluctance, and her stomach dropped. “The furnace needs to be replaced. That can probably wait now a few months, given we’re coming into summer. But you’re gonna wanna get it fixed no later than September. You won’t survive the winter, otherwise.” He grimaced at the sheer mention of winter before adding through gritted teeth, “That’s gonna be expensive … a grand, at least.”

  Maggie closed her eyes, exhaling a ragged sigh as he went on and on with everything he’d marked down in his notebook.

  “And last but definitely not least, because … well, this is the real kick in the teeth …” Ned paused, gauging her reaction.

  “What?” she asked impatiently, because seriously what else could possibly have been wrong with the place?

  “You got three major leaks in your roof.” He shook his head, glancing down at his notepad before tentatively meeting her eyes again. “The whole dang thing needs replacing.”

  Maggie gaped at him. “I need a new roof?”

  He nodded, pursing his lips.

  “Oh my God …” Scrubbing a hand over her face, she glanced up at the house—or money pit—and she wondered momentarily if she should just hire a bulldozer and plow the whole thing down. Maybe she could claim insurance.

  “I’ll prepare an itemized quote listing everything in order of urgent repairs and get it back to you this afternoon. But, Maggie, I need to warn you … it ain’t gonna be cheap.”

  Maggie winced. “How not cheap are we talking?”

  With a contemplative sigh Ned looked down at his notepad, scanning through the pages. His lips moved as he silently calculated in his head. Narrowing an eye, he glanced up toward the sky before fixing her with a look full of trepidation. “I mean, the roof alone, you’re looking at around twelve, thirteen at least.”

  Maggie sighed, her shoulders sagging with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Thirteen hundred I can handle. I was scared you were going to say …” She trailed off when she noticed the confusion in Ned’s eyes.

  He blinked at her once, twice, his brows climbing up high beneath the peak of his faded old ball cap. “Uh, no, ma’am. Sorry, I meant thirteen thousand.”

  “Wait. Did you say thirteen thousand?” she exclaimed. “As in … dollars?”

  He stared at her for a moment before nodding.

  She almost dropped dead right there in the overgrown weeds.

  “And then, of course, the furnace and the …” His voice petered out when he looked up again, clearly concerned by her reaction.

  Instinctively, she placed a hand on her chest in the hope that it might help to soothe her racing heart.

  Thirteen thousand dollars for the roof, alone. Plus everything else. And the other bits and pieces she’d been planning to do to redecorate inside and make the place look nice. After the sale of the house in Belmont and finalizing everything … she simply couldn’t afford a new damn roof.

  Maggie had never hated anyone in her life—hate was an ugly emotion—but right at that moment, she really hated her late husband for what he’d done to her and the boys, for the position he’d put them in.

  “Are you okay?” Ned asked, cutting into her overwhelming thoughts. She looked up to see his kind brown eyes flicker with sympathy. “You look a little pale.”

  “Yeah, I just …” She shook her head. “I didn’t think it would all be so much, I …” She had no words. She looked up at the three-story house that could have been a beautiful place to call home, but, now, all she could see was every last cent she had left to her name. She couldn’t help but glare at the structure, silently wishing Mother Nature might do her a solid and strike the house with a giant crack of lightning from up above and burn it to the ground.

  “Can I ask why you didn’t get a pre-sale survey done of the property?” Ned asked after a beat. He removed his sweat-stained ball cap to scratch the back of his head. “All this would’ve been picked up on inspection,” h
e said, as if it were obvious.

  Maggie looked up at him and sighed heavily with a shrug. “I was trying to save money.” She almost laughed, it was so ironic. Shaking her head, she muttered, “And because I’m a clueless half-wit.”

  “Look, we don’t have to do everything all at once.” Ned held a hand in the air as if in surrender. “We can start with the urgent repairs. We can replace the shingles and patch the holes in the roof. That might buy us another couple more years.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Why don’t I head back to my office, write up the quote. I’ll send it through to you and you can take a few days to decide.”

  “Is this place safe?” she asked, quirking a brow. “I’m moving my sons in tonight.”

  He nodded. “This old girl’s been around for a hundred and fifty years and she’ll last a few hundred more. But we gotta take good care of her. She’s been a little neglected.”

  Maggie had never related to a house more.

  “But you and your boys’ll be safe.” Ned smiled reassuringly.

  “Thank you.” She tried for a smile of her own but it was just about impossible. She thought she’d made the right decision moving out here. She really thought it was the best for everyone, that this was the way they could all get back on their feet. And yet, here she was, day two, already in way over her head.

  ***

  Maggie had been in this godforsaken hardware store for over an hour. The only other person was a pink-haired teenage girl perched behind the counter, chewing gum while staring vacuously at her cell phone. She was wearing an apron with the store’s logo emblazoned across the front of it, but she looked as if she’d have less of an idea than Maggie. So, she let the girl continue watching whatever it was that enthralled her so deeply, and carried on. She was a grown woman, after all.

  After Ned left the house, she’d had a mini meltdown. In fact, there had been nothing mini about it. She even took to the buckled porch steps with one of the boys’ old baseball bats. Not that her slight frame and limited strength did much damage, but it was good to let out the aggression that had been roiling inside of her. The movers had witnessed her momentary snap but, thankfully, they said nothing. They’d likely seen it all before. The stress of moving, and all. But just in case, Maggie gave them a generous tip. Her way of thanking them for allowing her to lose her shit in peace.

  There was a lot that needed to be fixed at the house, and it was going to cost a ton of money. Money Maggie didn’t have. She wasn’t certified to do the repairs herself, neither was she even close to capable, but there were a few things she could do to save herself some money and maybe bide some time. She could replace the kitchen cabinet handles, and remove the boards from the windows. She was even confident she could fix the buckled porch steps. There was a wealth of knowledge on the internet for a novice like her. She had spent the last few hours watching YouTube videos, and it didn’t look too difficult, she just needed the right equipment. But as she searched the wall of hand tools, reading each label closely, confusion overwhelmed her as she took it all in. Who’d have thought there were so many different kinds of Phillips head screwdrivers?

  Maggie’s newfound confidence in home renovations was vanishing with every second she stood there wondering what the hell she was doing. As she reached for a packet of screws on the top shelf, she knocked the shelf below with her breast, causing three tins of nails to go tumbling to the ground with a loud clatter, one coming open, its contents scattering all over the floor.

  “Crap!” she hissed, looking around to check no one had witnessed her mishap.

  Dropping to her knees, she gathered as many of the wayward nails as she could, bending down to try and see beneath the shelving rack. Some were well beyond her reach, and she shrugged in defeat as she pushed up to her knees.

  “You missed a few.”

  Startling from the deep, slightly humored voice behind her, Maggie turned, looking up from her position on the sawdust-covered floor to see a bearded man wearing a backwards ball cap, watching her with one raised brow and the hint of a lopsided grin.

  Her eyes betrayed her, trailing down of their own accord. An old flannel shirt stretched over a pair of broad shoulders, unbuttoned and left open over a white T-shirt which skimmed a strong, defined chest. Well-worn blue jeans smeared with dirt and grease looked as if they’d been made to fit only his thighs. Scuffed work boots completed his blue-collar ensemble.

  Realizing she was still on the floor, Maggie collected what she could of her wits. As she rose up from her knees, a big hand with grease-covered fingers appeared in front of her face. Reluctantly, she accepted the offer of help, and the man lifted her effortlessly to her feet with one swift tug of his arm.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, brushing her hands over her already filthy gray cotton T-shirt.

  “No problem.” His voice was laced with humor.

  She didn’t need to look up to know that he was smiling at her. But she did anyway. And damn. That hint of a grin had turned into a million-watt smile, and she was left a little breathless by the glint of mischief flashing from deep within a cerulean gaze.

  Clearing the sudden bubble from the back of her throat, Maggie turned back to the shelf, replacing the tins of nails with shaky hands, fully aware of his presence still lingering closely. His eyes were fixed on her with such an intensity that she could feel the sensitive skin at her nape burn.

  “Need a hand?” he asked wryly after a few beats.

  His offer to help immediately got her defenses up. He wasn’t being rude, as such. But it was as if he doubted she had any idea what she was doing. While that were mostly true, she refused to be that woman: timid, meek, and incapable of picking out a box of damn screws. She schooled her expression, throwing a curt “I can manage” over her shoulder.

  The man continued lingering for a moment longer, but she made a point of ignoring him as best as she could.

  “Suit yourself,” he murmured with a low chuckle, his steady footfalls moving away.

  Maggie released the breath she’d been holding and her shoulders fell when she realized she still had no idea what she was looking for. If she kept up this defiant attitude, she really could be stuck in this store all afternoon. And she needed to get back to the hotel to pick up the boys and check out before they charged her for another night.

  “Actually—” She spun around, finding the man only a few feet away, his broad back to her as he stared up at the wall of power tools. He turned slowly, a curious smile in his eyes despite his stoic facade.

  She sighed heavily, her face scrunching up with confusion. “I need a Phillips head screwdriver and some bugle head screws. Do you know where I might find them?”

  His brows drew together with a deep furrow, but that grin was back, ghosting at the corners of his mouth. He walked back to her, glancing up at the boxes of nails and screws. Maggie watched him from the corner of her eye. He was tall. Not quite as tall as Tom, but a good six feet. Short lengths of chestnut hair poked out from beneath his cap, and his beard was kept short. Not completely lumberjack-like; but long enough that maybe he just hadn’t shaved in a week or so.

  “What size?”

  “Huh?” She was pulled from her reverie by his unexpected question.

  The man flashed her a sideways glance, as he repeated with another chuckle, “What size?”

  She gaped at him incredulously. “There are different sizes?”

  Biting back his smile, he scoffed, “Most screws come in different sizes, yeah.”

  Maggie threw her head back with a groan.

  “What do you need them for?”

  She composed herself enough to look him straight in the eye. “I need to fix my porch steps.”

  He balked. “With a screwdriver?”

  Maggie blinked. “Yeah …?”

  Slowly, his lips curled upwards, but then suddenly he was laughing. Out loud. Really loud. Obnoxiously so. She stared at him before looking around, wondering what the big damn deal was, her brows drawn together in an
noyance.

  Thankfully, he picked up on her frustration and forced himself to stop laughing, coughing a few times to conceal the last couple of chuckles. “Okay, you can’t replace porch steps with a screwdriver. You’re gonna need an impact driver …” He stopped, obviously noticing her blank expression. With a knowing smirk, he turned, pointing to a power tool displayed on the wall behind him. “One of these.”

  “Three hundred dollars?” Maggie gasped, taking in the price tag dangling from the shiny red device. She glanced at him and sighed. “Maybe I should just pay the contractor …”

  “Contractor?”

  Maggie nodded. “Yeah … I mean, if I’m being honest, I need to fix a little more than just a few porch steps. New decking. New screening. A whole new roof! Around every corner I discover another hidden death-trap just waiting to claim its next victim,” she said with a derisive snort.

  “Ah, so you bought the old house over on Diamond Lake, huh?”

  “Yeah. How did you guess?” She gauged his reaction curiously.

  He shrugged. “Two and two. You’re new around here and I heard that place finally sold to an out-of-towner.”

  “You mean an out-of-town sucker, right?”

  He bit back a smile. “Mr. McDaniel stayed there a few years too long. His family had to get a court order to get his stubborn ass into the retirement home down in Manchester,” he explained. “Almost burned the joint down twice in the last few months he was there. That place has been empty now for a few years, at least.”

  “Well, I guess that explains a lot.” She shrugged.

  He peered over her shoulder to her buggy which was full with planks of timber, a roll of screening, two one-gallon drums of paint. He seemed to hesitate, clamping his bottom lip between his teeth before tentatively meeting her eyes. “You know, if you want, I could stop by and help you fix up a few things. I’ve got my own tools. Might even save you a few bucks with your contractor.” He lifted his ball cap to ruffle a hand through his short hair before replacing it again, his gaze flickering momentarily to the gold ring on Maggie’s finger that she was subconsciously twisting around and around. “Unless, of course, your … husband is gonna—”