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Brett
After confirming with Rod that he didn’t hire me to work on the Cottages because of my mother, I made her promise not to show up on site. I don’t know that she would have anyway, but better to be safe. You never know with her.
Over the past couple weeks, I’ve only grown more and more happy that I took this job. It’s a great project and has been absorbing enough to give me a semi-decent distraction from the problems with my ex (we’re a mere four days from our next hearing, thank God). Other than when I have little Max with me, I’ve been putting in plenty of hours and we’re clipping right along. Rod and I have finished drawing up the first draft plans for most of the cottages, save those that have been occupied this entire time by long-term renters. It’ll be awhile before we can get inside them, so we’re going over the plans we have now so we can get started on the actual work.
Rod, Elizabeth Rivers, and I are gathered around a big, lacquered table in cottage six. The table’s in a state of organized chaos, stacked full of preliminary plans, photos, and detailed price quotes. Each cottage is a little different from the others, so the plans for each are necessarily unique. Plus, Elizabeth wants a variety of offerings. Some cottages will have enough rooms to be suitable for groups, while others will be spacious romantic getaways for two. Regardless, because the layout of these structures are so outdated, they’re all getting gutted to one degree or another and rebuilt from the shell up.
“I want to assure you,” I say as we spread out the plans for cottage one, “we’ve kept these documents top secret. No conspiratorial madwomen have been allowed to look at them.” For some reason, the few times I’ve seen Elizabeth, I’ve felt the need to poke at her a bit. I maybe shouldn’t, except that underneath her straight-faced reactions, she doesn’t seem too ruffled by it. In fact, she usually returns my serve with a lob of her own.
“I’m more concerned with the conspiratorial madman who drew them up,” she says.
“You’re not including me in that, are you?” Rod asks dryly.
“She definitely meant you,” I say, and Elizabeth rolls her eyes.
“Are you done,” she asks, “or can we go over this now?”
I smile, but in short order we get down to business. There’s plenty to discuss, and I don’t forget that Elizabeth Rivers is our client and we need to make sure she’s happy with our work. We spread everything out on the table, showing her plans and photos for one cottage at a time. She sinks into focused concentration. With all the self-assurance you’d expect from a Rivers, she gives clear indications of what she does and does not like.
For the most part, she approves of things, and even praises us for doing good work at one point, but we get hung up on cottage seventeen. It has a funky layout and some other strange things going on, so the necessary remodeling is more or less going to wipe out much of the historical character it had on the interior.
“What about the alcove?” she asks. “I thought we’d agreed to keep it.”
Rod explains all the complications we ran into and why the alcove has to go. He and I had discussed it at length. She doesn’t look any happier about it than we are.
“There has to be something we can do.” She’s pressing her fingers to one temple and scanning the blueprint more closely.
Even as she’s saying it, I get an idea. “Wait.” I cock my head a bit. I put both hands on the plans and turn them a bit, starting to visualize an adjustment to what’s on the paper. God, could it be that simple? How did we not see this before? “What if we rotate all this?”
“How do you mean?” Rod asks.
My idea is crystallizing more with each passing second. “What if we put that wall here instead of there?” I draw my finger along the plans to indicate. “That would enable us to save the alcove and expand the bathroom.” It’s really more of a closet than a bathroom, so expansion has been a must all along and one source of our frustrations.
They both lean in, taking a closer look.
“Huh,” he says, as if to say, Well, I’ll be damned.
“Um... where would the other two bedrooms go?” she asks, tilting her head, apparently struggling to envision the rotation of the layout I’m suggesting.
I pull out a drafting pencil and draw straight, neat lines to indicate.
“Oh.” She sits back a bit and nods at the paper. “I see. Rod, what do you think?”
“The supporting wall is over here,” he says pointing, “so it would still work.” I nod in agreement. He glances at me. “Then all we’d have to do is scoot the electrical over a foot or so right here.”
“Exactly. And we could keep the alcove,” I tell Elizabeth.
She smiles. “I love that about this cottage.”
“Me too.”
“Though, the plumbing for the bathroom would get a little tricky,” Rod says. He explains what he’d have to do differently from the plan that’s in front of us.
“So it’s not tricky as much as it is costly,” she says when he’s finished. “Is that about right?”
She’s pretty astute, I’ve noticed.
He nods. “Yeah. About.”
She grabs the price quote for this particular cottage and looks it over. Because of all the strange things about cottage seventeen, the cost for getting it up to code and functional for the resort’s purposes is already high. This is one of the more expensive quotes. Much higher than Rod or I would’ve liked.
“Anything else about this change that would drive up costs?”
“No.” He looks to me for confirmation and I shake my head.
“What would the price difference be?”
Rod punches out some numbers on his calculator, then gives her an estimate.
“Well.” She looks over the plans and considers things for longer than I would’ve thought. If the rumors are to be believed, money really isn’t an object for this family. At the same time, I’ve yet to see her do anything to waste it. She doesn’t seem to throw it around like I’ve seen some wealthy people do, as if they’re trying to make a point about something. It’s not what I’d previously expected from her, to be honest.
“The layout itself works either way,” she says, seeming to think aloud. “The only reason we’d be switching things around would be to try to save some of the historical character, is that correct?”
Rod and I both nod.
She sighs, then looks between the two of us with those bright, green eyes of hers. “That definitely puts me outside the margins for this particular cottage. It was already pushing it, but...still. I think it’s worth it in the long run. That alcove has such great personality, and I’d really hate to lose all that history.”
I’m relieved to hear her say it. I’d hate to lose that history, too.
“You sure?” Rod asks.
She nods. “Yes. Let’s do it. Good thinking,” she says to me.
I smile, pleased. “I figure I need to earn my keep. I can’t just sit around annoying you all the time.”
“But you’re so good at it,” she says, without missing a beat. She just might mean it too, but I grin at Rod, who shakes his head at both of us.
It’s supposed to be Jessica’s weekend with little Max, but she called at 2:15 on Saturday afternoon to tell me to come get him because she’s had an “emergency” come up. I was forty minutes into a movie matinee at The Flicks, an old theatre that shows a mix of mainstream and Indie films. Watching a movie solo is one of those pleasures I discovered back in my single days, and it used to be one of my favorite things to do when there’s not a soccer game on. I haven’t been here in months and Jessica is the reason why. Half the time when I make plans, she finds a way to screw them up. I think that’s why it’s easier to just keep myself occupied with work. I can leave at any time and it’s not a big deal.
I’m standing at the front door to her boyfriend’s house, trying to comfort Max, who’s upset because his mother promised him a trip to the park today. He’s young enough that he still gets his hopes up over her promises, no matter how many times she’s broken them.
Hell, I did the same thing when we were married, there at the end. I was a lot older and should’ve known better, so I can’t fault this little guy for wanting to trust her. He should be able to trust her, just like I should’ve been able to.
No, the person I fault is Jessica. She’s in jeans and a worn Queen t-shirt. She’s always loved Queen (but who doesn’t?). Her hair, which is currently purple with blue streaks, is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her asshole boyfriend is lounging on the couch, the TV blaring the Packers game. He looks annoyed, as he usually does.
When she called, she spun me a rather entertaining yarn detailing her supposed “emergency.” She’s gotten better at lying over the past few years, thanks to her frequent practice, but I’ve gotten better at spotting it too. My guess is her boyfriend doesn’t want to “deal with” Max today and she’s giving in. Hell, maybe she doesn’t want to deal with Max either. She looks worn and flustered.
I always have mixed emotions when she pulls stunts like this. On the one hand, I’m more than happy to have Max with me because then I know he’s being properly looked after. I never know what the fuck might be going on when he’s with her. And all she’s doing is giving me even more ammunition. I have a long list of scenarios where she’s bailed on her parenting schedule, and having another incident just three days before she’s facing the judge can only work in my favor.
But on the other hand, it kills me to see Max get the raw end of the deal. He’s a pretty energetic, easy-to-please kid, but stuff like this is really hard on him. That, too, works in my favor when we’re standing in the courtroom arguing that it’s better for him to be with me, but when I’m here, with my crying boy clinging to my leg, it just sucks.
“We can still go to the park, Max,” I tell him. Still hiding behind my thigh, he shakes his head hard, his mop of thick, curly hair shuffling too. “We can kick your soccer ball around. How does that sound?”
“It’s broken,” he says.
“It got a nail in it and went flat,” Jessica says dispassionately.
“I told him to keep it out of the weeds,” Kurt pipes up from the couch, eyes still on the screen.
“It was an accident,” Max says.
I’ve seen that backyard and it’s damn near all weeds. I don’t know how they expect a four-and-a-half year old to keep a ball out of it. I try to be careful about what I let him bring over here, because of the number of items that have been damaged or lost while he’s in their care, but balls are inexpensive to replace and he really wanted to be able to take his to the park.
“Flats happen sometimes, buddy.” I rub his shoulder. “No worries. If we can’t fix it, we’ll get another one.”
This has only a marginal effect on his mood, which is still pretty distraught. I’ve learned through long experience that if I can’t distract him to get him to calm down, there’s usually another reason why. “Has he had lunch?”
“We haven’t gotten to that yet,” she says defensively.
It’s damn-near three o’clock. “Jesus,” I mutter, but not loud enough for Max to hear. It takes an epic amount of willpower sometimes, but I try not to argue with his mother in front of him, or say anything negative about her when he’s in earshot.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Can we get McDonald’s?” He looks up at me with his round, blue eyes, starting to settle a bit.
I try to keep the fast food to a minimum, and over the past several months finally started keeping a few quick meals on hand at home precisely because she doesn’t always feed him Sunday dinner like she’s supposed to. But as far past lunch as it is, I’m not inclined to make him wait the twenty minutes it’ll take to get back to my place. There’s a McDonald’s just a few minutes from here.
“Sure,” I answer.
“See?” she says. “Problem solved.” I narrow my eyes at her but she kneels down and opens her arms. “Come here, Maxey. Give momma a hug.”
He does go to her, and her hug is warm enough that it gives me a glimpse of the mother she used to be. God, where in the hell did that woman go? Sometimes I can’t believe how much she’s changed.
“We’ll go to the park next time, okay?” She pulls him back and looks him right in the eye. “I promise.”
And there she is again, that lying mess we’ve become all too familiar with.
“Alright, Max. Let’s go.”
We spend the next couple hours getting Max some food and a new soccer ball, which we kick around at the park down the street from my house as promised. He felt better once he got some food in his tummy, but he’s been a little off all afternoon, getting upset over small things that wouldn’t normally bother him.
Once we’re back to the house, I’m determined to get this kid to sleep. He still needs afternoon naps, but resists them, so I more or less have to trick him into it.
I put Finding Nemo in the DVD player, and tell him he can choose to lie down on either the floor or the couch to watch. He settles onto the couch cushions next to me, resting his head on my lap, and is out like a light in three minutes flat.
I put my hand on his warm little shoulders, lean my head on the back of the couch, and take a deep breath. This stuff with Jessica always takes something out of me. I’m so worn out, I feel like I’ve been running top speed all day, instead of just kicking the ball around with my boy. Still, it’s not long before I’m indulging in a nap of my own.