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THE REVELATION ABOUT Catherine’s ex lingered in my mind. I couldn’t pinpoint why it affected me so deeply. After all, the personal lives of contractors weren’t usually my concern. She was a stranger. I didn’t know her from Adam, but hearing her talk about what her ex did with no feeling at all made me want to kick the guy’s ass.
I shook myself, jolting back from my musing as I listened to the voice on the other end of the line blathering on about something or the other. It was an old college buddy who had somehow managed to carve out a career in corporate law. He was useful, especially when it came to matters of property and inheritance. “Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled into the phone, my mind still veering toward Catherine.
“Timothy?” He paused in his monologue. “You with me, man?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, sighing. I leaned against the weathered oak door of Gloriana Manor, eyeing the distant figure of Catherine as she explored the derelict gazebo. For a fleeting moment, I envisioned her there, not in her worn jeans and work shirt, but in a flowing sundress, her hair loose around her shoulders, the light filtering through the slats playing on her face. She was so beautiful. I wanted to know what those curls felt like between my fingers.
Snapping back to reality, I pushed myself off the door, murmuring a hasty goodbye before disconnecting the call. There was no time for such fantasies. I watched her a moment longer, admiring the way she moved with graceful purpose toward her project. She had a spark in her that fascinated me. It was more than just her physical beauty. It was her devotion to her town, her father, and even this manor.
She made me think things I didn’t want to think or feel. Unable to shake off the unsettling feeling, I retreated to my office for the rest of the day. I closed the door, a clear sign I didn’t want to be disturbed. The details of Catherine’s personal life shouldn’t have mattered to me, and yet, they did.
I had to leave the safety of my office and head down to the kitchen to get something to drink. I noticed John, Catherine’s father, talking to some of the subcontractors, discussing the ongoing work. He noticed me and waved. “Good afternoon, Timothy,” he said with a smile.
I walked over and shook his hand. “It’s good to see you, John.”
“How are you?” he asked and something told me he asked because he cared. That was a new one for me.
“I’m good,” I said, nodding. “Have you had a chance to look around and see all your daughter’s hard work?”
“I did,” he said.
“She’s an exceptional carpenter.”
I expected the compliment to make him happy. Unfortunately, the expression on John’s face didn’t reflect the pride I had expected.
“This life wasn’t the one I envisioned for Catherine,” he said, sighing. “The construction industry isn’t the path I had wanted for her.”
“Is that so?” I asked, taken aback by his confession. In my eyes, Catherine was a natural. She was an artist in her own right.
“Yes,” he said, sighing heavily, his aged eyes filled with unshed tears. “She always loved drawing and painting. She would fill notebooks with her sketches. But when her mother passed away, she started taking on more and more of the carpentry work. By the time I realized it?” He shook his head regretfully, as if challenging the past decisions.
“I understand,” I said softly, although in truth I didn’t fully comprehend his sorrow. “She’s very proud to be following in your footsteps. She told me she learned everything from you.”
He chuckled. “Oh, I know she did, but I have to wonder. If she had a mama around, would she have picked up something like cooking or maybe given more of her time to art?”
“She seems to be happy doing what she does,” I said. “She’s very passionate about it.”
“I’m sure she is,” John said, looking out toward the staircase where Catherine was deep in conversation with one of the workers. “But you should see her face when she draws, Timothy. It’s a different kind of passion. A kind I wish she would pursue.”
“I think she incorporates drawing into her woodworking,” I said, shrugging. “She put together some pretty detailed sketches. And there is an artistic element to what you both do.”
“I suppose,” he said, smiling. “She does make me proud. I just hope she isn’t pouring so much of her time into working in such a labor-intensive job that she’s missing out on life.”
“You mean a relationship,” I said.
He looked at me. “Maybe.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not trying to intrude. She told me about her ex, Scott. She seemed pretty okay with the situation, but is she?”
“That guy was an asshole. He was never good enough for my daughter. The scoundrel took off with some of my tools. Never did care for him. I had to pretend I did because she thought she was in love with him, but boy was I glad to see him go.”
I smirked. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet,” I said, finding it funny that we had bullet dodging in common.
“Yeah, she did. She’s a strong woman. She’s young and beautiful, and sometimes, the rough guys she has to boss around are not always that happy about that.”
“But she can hold her own,” I reassured him. I had seen Catherine’s clear, commanding approach with the crew and her ability to handle any kind of problem thrown at her.
“I know,” John said, his tone resigned. “But it doesn’t stop a father from worrying.”
“I can imagine,” I acknowledged, even though I couldn’t. The protective urge I felt toward Catherine was not too dissimilar. “And just to reassure you, all the guys on this job have been very respectful toward her. I don’t think any of them would dare say a negative word about her.”
“Good. That’s the way it should be. When she was younger and tagging along on jobs with me, I swear I had to threaten more than one young buck with a two-by-four if he kept leering at my daughter.”
I smiled. “I bet.”
“She might be old enough to make her own decisions, but that doesn’t mean I just stop looking after her,” he said. I didn’t miss the hint of warning.
“She’s lucky to have someone looking out for her,” I said.
“John!” someone hollered.
“I better get going.” He walked away, his body moving just a little slower than the rest of the guys roaming about my house.
I liked the man. He was a straight shooter. I got the feeling he couldn’t give a shit what my last name was or how much money I had. It was refreshing to be talked to like one of the guys and not the boss. I stepped outside to see what was going on.
I saw Catherine approaching her father. She went to his truck and pulled out what looked to be a lunchbox. John tried to take it from her, but she snatched it away and opened it. I watched as she pulled out what looked to be fried chicken. Everyone heard her lecture.
“Dad,” Catherine’s voice echoed across the work site as she tossed the chicken back in the insulated box. “You know you need to watch your cholesterol. Your blood pressure was up last checkup.”
“I’m a grown man, Catherine,” John replied gruffly, attempting to snatch the lunchbox back. His daughter backed away, leaving him lunging at air.
“You’re my father, and I worry about you.” Her voice softened but held a stubborn edge. “I can’t lose you too. I bought you all those fruits and vegetables. I brought you that chicken salad you said you liked. Why would you buy this crap? I know this is from the deli.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” It was said with a gentleness that I found surprising coming from such a burly man.
Catherine seemed to cave then, her shoulders slumping slightly. She returned the lunchbox to John, who took it gruffly.
“I know you’re not,” Catherine’s voice was barely audible as she said this. “But that doesn’t mean you can just eat whatever you want. You have to take care of yourself. You have to eat, so eat the chicken, but the rest of the week you’re eating celery.”
“Alright, alright,” he conceded.
She looked up and saw me watching. Her chin went up and she stomped back toward the house. “Did you need something?” she snapped.
“Definitely not,” I said, not daring to smile.
“I need to get back to work,” she said.
“I was talking to your father,” I said.
“Uh oh,” she groaned. “Let me guess, he told you he was disappointed in the work.”
“No. Definitely not. He did say he never wanted you to follow in his footsteps.”
“Because it’s a man’s world,” she said, smiling.
“But you’re making it your own.” I admired her for that.
She seemed surprised by my comment, her hard expression softening just a bit. “You think so?”
“I know so. You’ve got the whole crew in line and the work’s getting done faster and better than I’ve ever seen before.”
“Well, I learned from the best,” she said, looking toward her father, who was digging into his chicken while trying to hide it.
“I’m sure you did,” I said, smiling. “But you’ve also added your own touch to things. It’s impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“The work you and your team have done is really impressive. I’m not just saying it. It looks just like it did when I was a little boy. I cannot wait to see it finished.”
“I am the best, you know,” she declared with a confidence that resonated with a quiet pride. “Now, I have to get to work.”
She turned and walked away. I watched her until she disappeared back into the bustle of work before I turned to retreat back into my office. As I walked through the rooms, stripped down to their bare bones, I could see the future laid out before me, as clear as the blueprints Catherine had shown me.
I found myself sliding my hand over the banister. It was slick, smooth, and gleaming. It reminded me of a time when I was probably about six. I got the wild idea to copy something I’d seen in a movie. I tried to slide down the banister.
The memory was vivid, a snapshot of my young, adventurous self getting up to no good like my grandmother always said. I remember I launched myself forward, sailing down with a holler of triumph. Unfortunately, my thrill ride was short-lived. My grandmother had come into the room just in time to see me take a header about halfway down.
I remembered the shocked expression of my grandmother’s face and her shrill cry as she watched me tumble down. It was followed by pain shooting through my small body. Grandma had rushed over and picked me up, cradling me in her arms as she inspected me for any significant injuries. There were tears in her eyes, and I remember being more scared of those than my own pain.
She had scolded me as she carried me to the kitchen to inspect my injuries. Somehow, I had been unscathed.
