CHAPTER TWO

His dad should have listened to him.

As Trace Rocklin sat outside the massive California Mission Revival structure that looked like something out of “The Munsters”, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to go in. He could just tell his dad that he delivered the estimate but they didn’t get the job and be done with it. But, knowing his dad, the man would follow up with the owners of the house and Trace would get caught in his lie, so he emitted a grunt of frustration as he turned the truck off and bailed out.

He was parked on the curb outside of the home. Going around to the passenger door, he glanced up at the mammoth structure as he opened the door and pulled out the estimate folder. It was a clear day, the Santa Ana winds blowing away the smog and kicking up the leaves of October. Slamming the truck door with his trusty folder in-hand, he hit the remote lock and headed to the gate as the truck alarm beeped behind him.

As he opened the old, creaking gate of aged wrought iron, he glanced at his watch and thought about how quickly he could be done with this. He’d told his father a million times that Rocklin Construction was better off with the larger jobs off of the Dodge sheet. They’d gotten three very large jobs off of it over the past seven months, mostly with Trace driving the estimators like a wagon master, whip and all. These home renovations weren’t worth the money, but they were something that Rocklin had built their business on, so his father was less apt to let them go. Besides, everyone in Pasadena knew Rocklin Construction and he liked to keep up that friendly, “hometown” image. Trace was trying to transition them into big projects while his dad, like his dad before him, leaned towards the smaller ones.

He glanced around the yard as he headed to the front door, noting the overgrown landscaping that had once been glorious in days gone by. There was an enormous fountain with broken-out tile in and around it, like the types of Spanish-style fountains one could find at various missions. It must have been an impressive sight when it was working. Trace paused next to it, peering closely at the works and thinking that the fountain itself must be original to the house. It was ancient, begging to be restored.

With a heavy sigh, he found himself looking at the yard surrounding the fountain, which then led his attention to the porch, which was a testament to peeling paint, leaning floor boards and turn of the century construction. He flipped open the estimate folder and took a look at what they had budgeted for the porch. When he came across the number, he shook his head because it wasn’t going to be enough. He could already see that.

Out of curiosity, he looked at the landscaping number and knew that wasn’t going to be enough, either. In fact, the entire estimate was low. He hadn’t really looked at it until this moment because this was the first time he’d seen the house. His dad had done the estimate. Frustrated, he slapped the folder shut and was about to turn away when the sound of a door opening caught his attention.

Like a fly in a trap, he was caught. When he saw the face of the woman who was doing the trapping, he didn’t mind much in the least.