I need time to myself in the empty space. Time to visualize, to dream, to stamp out my misgivings. To prepare for my first steps in this new life. Instead, I face another round of strained conversation with the contractor. Shoving my car fob into my shorts pocket, I dawdle, checking the flower beds for weeds on the way up the walkway.
Years ago, Dan Foley made my teen heart flutter from his perch on the lifeguard chair at the public beach. Brown curls sun-kissed by honey highlights. Tan skin stretched tight across a chest that looked more like a man’s than a boy’s with its tuft of hair. Cool sunglasses and a whistle that he’d twirled around his fingers over and over.
Not that he’d ever noticed me. He’s four or five years older and had been surrounded by plenty of girls his own age who competed for his attention.
In July, when the broker handed me a list of contractors for the planned renovations, Dan’s name had jumped out like a shot of confetti. I remembered him as an affable guy beloved by many, and assumed he’d be the type to help someone new integrate into town. But from our first meeting, it became clear he wouldn’t be part of my welcome wagon.
Perhaps it was foolish to expect him to be that perfectly laid-back, pleasant boy from the beach. Decades of life’s disappointments weather us all and expose our jagged, broken pieces. Jaded I can handle, but judgmental is trickier. It’s clear from our many exchanges and my several requested change orders that he considers me a persnickety outsider. I might be both, but this house is the foundation of my and Katy’s fresh start, so it needs to be flawless.
“Hello!” My voice echoes throughout the empty space.
Dan peeks out from the kitchen. “Hey, there. Didn’t expect to see you today.”
He forces a polite smile, but not quickly enough to convince me that he’s actually pleased to see me.
“I dropped my bags at the hotel but couldn’t resist checking out the progress.” I crouch to stroke the refinished hardwood floors, admiring the rich espresso stain warmed by golden sunrays streaming through the large picture window behind me. “These old boards look amazing.”
Being here also brings back fond memories of my grandpa. This is where he taught me the jitterbug to old Elvis Presley songs. Rock step, slow-slow, rock step, cuddle, send you across . . .
After I lost my mom when I was eight years old, my father shipped me to Gram and Grandpa that summer and the ones that followed so he wouldn’t need to hire a sitter while he was at work. I didn’t mind because it was cold living in the shadow of my father’s grief. I almost dreaded the weekends he would come down to visit, sorrow rolling in with him like thunderclouds. Not to mention the thin tension between him and Gram. Thank God for her and Grandpa, who doted on me, which I so needed then—much like Katy will need now to help her cope with the loss of life as she knew it.
“Glad you’re happy.” Dan’s voice wakes me from my reverie. He sounds relieved and a bit surprised, rubbing his chin while giving the floor another look. It may have taken seven attempts to formulate the precise blend of stains, but one can’t argue with perfection. “I was concerned the color would close up the space, but the big windows bring in tons of light.”
“The warm tone is comforting.” I stand and begin to mentally place my furniture and artwork around the room, pleased by the way the new slate facing and live-edge mantel update the old fireplace.
“Are you sure you want to move in before we finish the kitchen and master bath?” He presses his lips into a firm line. I recognize that tone—like a parent trying to get a kid to rethink the decision not to wear a coat in December. “It’ll be a few weeks until that work is completed. A short-term rental might be best until then.”
After years of being micromanaged by Richard, I won’t be second-guessed by another man who apparently can’t credit me with a basic understanding of the pros and cons of my own choices.
“My daughter needs to be settled when school starts. She’s . . . struggling with all the changes.” My face is hot because, regardless of what Richard did, Dan knows that on some level I didn’t satisfy my husband. In fact, Dan probably empathizes with my ex and is equally as eager to leave me behind.
“Guess that’s one good thing about not having kids. My divorce was a clean break.” His mouth pulls into a sort of lemon-faced frown, having apparently let that comment slip.
I had no idea he’d ever been married. Lucky for him, I’m not up for trading divorce stories today, so I revert to the conversation about the house. “We’ll be fine here. I’ll share the upstairs bathroom with Katy until the master is complete. We’ll use the new patio and grill as our kitchen as long as the weather remains mild.”
A dubious gaze clouds otherwise luminescent eyes the color of rich amber beer. His attitude is discouraging, but it’s better than him being a charmer who tells me what I want to hear. In my vulnerable state, a flirt could mess with my head much worse than Dan’s doubts do.
“Hopefully your crew can work fast to install the cabinets and appliances.”
“Well, there’s good news there. We’ve already got the kitchen down to the studs. Wanna see?” He waves me over.
Dan had initially tried to persuade me to knock down walls and create an open floor plan. That might be all the rage these days, but I still prefer a bit of separation between the kitchen and other spaces. We compromised by enlarging the archways to create a more open feel.
I also replaced the kitchen window above the sink with an oversize box bay. Not only does it offer a pretty view of the butterfly bushes separating my yard from my neighbor’s, but it also doubles as a sunny ledge for potted herbs. Large-pane french doors now lead out to the patio and flood the relatively small kitchen with natural light.
“Oh, this will be fabulous.” I hug myself to hold on to a moment of happiness.
“I hope so.” Dan rests one hand high up along the arch, inadvertently showcasing his chest and biceps in that snug T-shirt. Sometimes the position of his eyebrows makes that scar on his forehead look like a lightning bolt.
For an irrational moment I wonder what I’d do if my curmudgeonly childhood crush hit on me. I’m not beautiful, but I’m attractive enough. Daily walks and weekly yoga have kept me trim, and I thank God for my mother’s Italian skin. Not that I’m at all ready for a tour of the Tinder store.
My stomach sours as it dawns on me that, from now on, these are the reservations I’ll have—the games I’ll be playing—with men. Careless boys trampled my heart in my teens, and then Richard and I rushed into marriage so young because of Katy. I’ve got zero experience with normal dating, but I’d venture a guess that it isn’t easier in one’s thirties. That goes double with the serious trust issues Richard’s betrayal left in its wake. It’s a pointless worry, though, because I’ve got Katy to keep me occupied. She’s the song in my heart and real love of my life. I don’t want to miss a minute of what little time we have left together before she goes off to college.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go with the white-and-gray palette,” he says.
I’ve no interest in my home being a carbon copy of the taste du jour. For the first time in forever, I don’t have to answer to Richard or fight for my taste. This house is like a canvas of a sort—a new medium of expression that I don’t need to sell to others or impress them with. That is this woman’s definition of heaven and a definite upside of divorce.