Chapter Twenty

 

During the first week of the men working on the house, I filled my ten hours of monitoring Lana by checking on her randomly as Mr. Daley and I went over plans. She spent the first shift in the machine and I spent the nights. Far more was expected of me with the reno than I’d been prepared for.

“This website is a good one. They have tons of decorating ideas. If you keep pressing ‘Pin It,’ it’ll build pages of ideas. Good for referencing.” Mr. Daley clicked on the word “save” on the picture of a beautiful rug I’d mentioned I liked.

“Okay, that makes sense. This one’s nice.” I pointed at the screen.

“Click ‘save.’ You have to know how to do this so you can get it done when I’m not here.”

“Okay.” I clicked it and tried not to take offense to the tone with which he spoke all the time. He was impatient.

“How are you finding the work being done?”

“Good. Your men work very fast and hard. It’s impressive to see.”

“That they do.” Mr. Daley laughed almost bitterly. “They wouldn't be my men if they didn't. Jobs are hard to find around here. The economy’s in the toilet, so I’m able to be picky.”

“And as a paying customer I appreciate that,” I remarked, also laughing.

“Well, enough of this chatter and wasting time, I need to get back to work. So you keep scrolling through these sites. You need to create a page, just like I showed you for each room. The decorator will help with a lot of choices and getting us the best prices once he knows what we’re looking for.” He got up and nodded his hatted head at me before leaving the grungy kitchen table.

We spent weeks this way—me, the website, and Mr. Daley’s constant reminders to finish choosing décor for each room.

Even when I thought I had finished one, I would find something better. The sites that Mr. Daley had shown me were all easy to use and the pages I built on the Pinterest for each room were overly stocked with modern and beachy décor.

I recalled the thing Jonathan had said once about our house when we were fixing it up: he would finish it in a way that made him think he was in the Hamptons.

I tried to stick as closely to his taste as I could, honoring it as this had been his house before it was mine. It was a way of keeping him here without needing to see his ghost.

I had come to terms with the fact that he was never going to haunt me.

My husband had left the earth and gone to heaven because he had no unfinished business. It wasn’t a scientific finding, but a common sense one. He loved me and had lived a wonderful life, doing all the things he wanted to when he wanted them. He never had a bucket list; he just acted when he saw something he wanted.

The very opposite of me.

I was the one stuck with the list of things I wished I’d done. I was the one with regrets.

One afternoon as Lana slept in the machine, something she did far more than I did now, I left the room to show Mr. Daley a site I’d found with handmade wooden furniture.

He was leaning against the kitchen table, mulling over a plan and speaking to a man. The guy offered me a wrinkled nose look, possibly one of disgust, one I’d gotten used to. But Mr. Daley turned and smiled. It was genuine and lit the room up. “Emma, how’s it going?” His eyes darted to the disgusted man. “We’re done. Go show them what I mean.” His tone changed as he spoke to the man who left us alone. He softened again as I got closer. “How’s everyone feeling?”

“Good.” I smiled, offering the tablet. I noticed how dirty his hands were but his nails were clean and filed. I couldn't say the same for my hands. They were clean but my nails were chipped and stained. I didn't even know what it was; I hadn’t done any of the construction. “I found this site, they make wooden furniture and I liked one of the desks. I couldn’t save it on Pinterest, and I didn't want to order it without consulting the decorator.” I laughed. “Seems foolish to have to ask permission to buy a desk, but I would hate to disappoint him if he has other schemes.”

He laughed with me, nodding. “Safe bet there. Leave it with me and I’ll take a look and see what he says.” The sparkle in his eyes was only there randomly. Today must have been a good day.

“Thank you. They have beautiful shelves too, for the books. I’ll have to go through them all and give some away. They won’t fit in the office. I’ve got a hoarding issue with them if I’m being honest.”

“You love books?” he asked like he was confirming.

“I love books. The traveling and the knowledge and the glimpses into a stranger’s heart. Reading is the greatest escape there is. You don't have to leave your home, or worry about anything. You just crack a book and let it drag you inside. And now I have too many.”

“But if you love something, is there such a thing as too many?”

“Perhaps not.” I laughed and felt awkward as I lingered just a moment too long before turning and leaving him there.

I needed to wash my hands and file my nails.

Weeks passed and the house moved along. We could smell it in the dust and paint and drywall mud.

We never went upstairs, allowing for the surprise ending Mr. Daley suggested he wanted. It was odd imagining him wanting to surprise me, a person he barely regarded. I wished I could say the same for him but there was something about him I found challenging. I wanted to see him smile, perhaps be the one who made him smile. And not that bitter grin he offered, but a real and genuine one. Maybe because he was doing so much for me.

“The hammering is driving me insane,” Lana growled on the third week of construction. “My head vibrates every time they start again.”

“I know, mine too. But we’re halfway. It’s almost over. Once they move into the basement we won’t even hear them,” I lied.

“Yesterday one of them peed in the garden. I saw him from the window.”

“Gross.” I wrinkled my nose, disgusted and yet almost grateful they peed outside and not inside. “How is Celeste?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Wonderful. We’re discussing a second baby, she’s been so delightful. And you, how is Wentworth?”

“Breathtakingly perfect.” Heat rose in my cheeks as I contemplated one of Jane Austen’s men having sex. The fade to black just didn't do them justice, for what lingered in the dark was better than anything I’d ever had in the real world.

“You seem different.”

“Oh, I am.” I chuckled. “I assure you, I am altered from it all. A changed woman. I had no idea.” I joked about Wentworth but truth be told, the renovation had started to inflict itself on my time in the story. And I wasn't going into the machine as often as before, and I was preoccupied with the renovation when I was there.

“Hmmmm, sounds perfect.” Lana grinned with knowledge and confidence. She knew what I was talking about.

“Shall we?” I asked as I got up, bringing my tea and heading for the office we were working in on the main floor while the top floor was being completed. Mr. Daley had promised it was days away from being done.

The leaking roof and damp attic were fixed.

The floors had been redone upstairs and the plaster pulled away, replaced with drywall and paint, no more wallpaper. I’d seen enough plaster and wallpaper to last a lifetime.

We had three ensuites added to the largest of the seven bedrooms upstairs and we had them make us a proper room for the machines and beds. I had asked that it resemble my old office almost perfectly.

The windows were new, casings and all, and the doorframes were replaced with modern ones, and no more doors that creaked and groaned with every movement.

As she walked to the office, I noticed Lana was filling out again. Our improved diet and forced time on the treadmill in the guest room might actually be saving our lives. I hadn’t told her but the inactivity was essentially killing us. Every year spent sitting and lying about removed eight from our life span.

We needed more than the meager stroll about the house to get food or to use the bathroom. I was carefully and slowly implementing the changes. Having workmen about the house constantly was helping as well. We couldn't hide here and pretend everything was fine, distracted by a different world.

I pulled my thinned hair up into a bun and sauntered into the office, closing the door behind me.

She closed the drapes, another thing I wouldn't miss. The custom blackout blinds we added to the bedrooms upstairs were perfect, sleek, hidden when open, and clean. No more dusty drapes and ancient smells.

The main floor would be the hardest. The tiles were broken and needing replacement and the wood floors were damaged well beyond repair. We were stripping the entire floor: plaster, banisters, crown molding, bathrooms, kitchen, windows, and everything.

It was going to be a difficult three weeks. The demolition would be the worst of it. Dust and noise and constant shouting as they joked and laughed with one another. The crew seemed jovial enough, but they also appeared to despise the old house. Only Mr. Daley, the owner of the company, saw the older home for what it was.

The rest constantly spoke of lighting a match.

As Lana lay on the bed and began hooking herself up, I sat and turned on all the tablets and monitors. As the construction progressed, my time in the machine lessened. And when I did go in, it went by too quickly. Even Lana was doing short trips, four hours at a time.

Lana slipped off, no doubt enjoying the relaxing day spent with her husband and child, as I did a crossword puzzle by candlelight. The smell of the burning beeswax reminded me of home.

A subtle knock on the door lifted my gaze. I jumped up and hurried to the door before they knocked again, and opened it.

“It’s done.” Mr. Daley nodded his head at the stairs.

“The whole top floor?” I asked softly, slipping out into the hallway. I glanced back at Lana, certain she would be fine for the moment.

“Wanna see it?” His eyes widened, filled with emotion I hadn’t seen before.

“Of course.” I closed the door and followed him.

“We changed a couple of things: opened the attic up more so it’s now a third floor and we removed the stairs that pull down. The halls are so large we had tons of space to create a new full set of stairs. Better for resale down the road. Especially if the new owners had kids or wanted to make this an inn. The attic is massive, over three thousand square feet.” His eyes darted to my face the way they always did. “Are you feeling better?” he asked boldly.

“What?”

“Well, you two are sick, right? Like cancer or something?”

“Why do you ask?” I assumed he meant the hooking up to the beds all the time.

“Well, the treatments you get every day seem to be working. You look better. I think it’s working. When I got here you looked pretty rough.” He said this as if it were a compliment. “The guys thought you were witches. I think a couple still do.”

My insides tightened, taking the verbal blow. “Yes,” I lied. It was easier than explaining that our bodies lived in one dimension, barely acknowledged, while our spirits lived elsewhere, receiving all the sustenance.

As we got to the top of the stairs I noted they didn't wind me as before.

He smiled wide, expectantly. “Well?” He held a hand out and I brought my fingers to my lips. “It’s perfect.” The floors were done to resemble the color of driftwood and the walls were a paler version of soft sky blue, almost white blue. The doorframes were almost cream, matching the doors, done in an antique white. The knobs were antique style, but brand-new and chrome.

The sand-colored blinds were half drawn, adding softness to the hall. Each room was the same, clean and beachy. The ensuites were all done with white marble and antiqued cream-colored vanities. The showerheads were large, so the water felt like rain, with sand-colored pebble bases in the stand-alone showers with glass surrounds. The claw-foot tub in each ensuite stood off to the side, in front of the window he had matched in every room.

The floors in all the bathrooms were marble to match the countertops. Everything was crisp and bright and coordinated. The upstairs no longer smelled dank or moldy.

He led me from room to room, showing the small details he was obviously proud of. I ran my hand along the banister, an ornate wrought iron. I hadn’t been able to picture the black complementing the space but it did. In fact, it became the showcase, looking like Spanish lace on a flamenco dancer’s dress.

As we rounded the corner, I gasped again. The stairs to the attic were beautiful, done with the same banister and driftwood floor, they were wide and clean. I could see up into the attic perfectly, admiring the pale-colored cedar ceiling he’d put in with tongue and groove boards.

As we ascended the stairs, my mouth fell open. He’d made a library with massive round windows with benches in them. The walls were bookshelves, dozens of them. The enormous attic could have been a ballroom, but a library was better suited for us.

“You said you were a neurologist and I saw all the books downstairs,” he offered sheepishly.

“Neuroengineer,” I whispered as I turned, tears flooding my eyes. No more words left my lips, just breath in bursts.

“That is the response I was going for.” He beamed, folding his arms across his chest. He smiled in a way, the way I had wanted him to from the moment we’d met. He lost all the hardness and bitterness.

“Th-thank you,” I stammered.

“You are more than welcome, Emma.” His eyes glistened for a moment too as he said my name so softly. “I hoped this would make you ladies feel better. So random, two people with cancer being together. Did you meet at the hospital?”

“No.” I chuckled through the tears. “No. We aren’t together. Just friends. Sisters even.”

His eyes widened. “You aren’t married?”

“No.” I laughed harder, gripping my side as a stitch hit.

“I think everyone here sort of thought . . .” He laughed too, wiping one of his eyes dry. “It doesn't matter. I’m glad you’re on the mend and this library suits you. Wanna see the medical room now?” He grinned.

“Please, lead the way.” He offered me his arm, suddenly less standoffish. Maybe less afraid of me now that I was no longer the dreaded small-town lesbian dying of cancer.

He led me back down the stairs to the second floor as I wiped my eyes. At the far end of the hall, the one we hadn’t gone down yet, he opened a lock with a key. “I put a lock on this one.” He handed me the key as he opened it and swung the double doors wide. The office was ten times nicer than the one I’d had before, very modern and sleek with white countertops and two beds. It had shelves and units for all our equipment and a bathroom with a shower off the back. There were no windows and the lights were dimmed.

“This is wonderful. Thank you.” I reached up and placed a small kiss on his cheek. “This means the world to me.”

“You’re welcome, Emma.”

I realized then, I didn't even know his first name. “What is your name? I always call you Mr. Daley.”

“Mike.” He took my hand and shook it delicately. The calluses and toughness to his hands felt foreign against my own. I had never shaken hands with a man who was so weathered. But his hands lost my focus as the expression in his eyes altered. The softness of the honey-brown eyes became inviting, almost as if asking to be stared into.

He had the sort of smile that could go either way. It could be gentle and sweet or sarcastic and rude. I wouldn't have ever crossed him or wanted to see him angry, which I imagined he was frequently in his line of work. But to see him become soft and kind was like being around a pet bear. He was a gentle giant.

He led me back downstairs as his men put plastic up, sealing off the upstairs from the main floor. “So you ladies will be gone now, for three weeks?”

“We will be.” I nodded. “We will be back when the main floor is finished.”

“We shouldn't even be three weeks. Our crisis timeline, where we add in the extra time for the unexpected, hasn't been used. We were four days faster on the roof and top floor. I’m optimistic.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you for giving us the chance to work here. I’ve always wanted to fix this old place up. I drive by it a lot. My wife”—he flinched—“ex-wife, used to want to buy it and make a bed and breakfast. She always said she would call it the Lost in Time Inn.” He chuckled.

“You’re divorced?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“No, she passed before the divorce was finalized.” He scowled. “It was a car accident. Kind of random.”

“Mine died in a fire,” I offered, opening my chest and comparing scars.

“Fire?” He winced. “You were married?”

“Yes. My husband had an aneurysm in a fire.” I shook my head. “Also random. He went back inside the burning house for my dog and suffered an aneurysm. The firemen said he died before he hit the ground.” I had never spoke of that part. “I always wanted to believe it was my fault for letting him go in after the dog, but the truth is, he would have died on the grass in front of me if he hadn’t been in the house, I suppose sparing me that moment.”

“Emma, I’m so sorry,” Mike spoke with understanding. “I don't know exactly how you feel, but I can relate. I always thought that if we hadn’t gotten a separation, if I’d been a better husband, I would have been driving. I wouldn't have fallen asleep. I can drive for days without sleep.”

“I’m sorry, Mike.”

He sighed. “Guess we’re two peas in a fucked-up pod.” He pointed at the front door. “I better get going though. The guys want a midway celebration. Have a nice trip, Emma,” he bid politely, sounding so different from the man I met originally. Even looking it.

I sauntered into the office where Lana slept, and sat in the chair, surprised by everything the past fifteen minutes held.