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Of course, it has to be thirty degrees Celsius when I need to complete the hardest part of the demo. My hardest part anyway, since all I’m allowed to do is remove the appliances and cabinet doors.
I have thick work pants, a long sleeve shirt, steel-toed boots, goggles, and gloves on. I won’t be making holes in the drywall, but I don a face mask just in case. The only inch of skin showing is my ears and I’m a sweaty, disgusting mess.
I’ve already hauled the ancient electric oven to the dumpster and I’m strapping the fridge to the dolly to take it outside. After that, I have the cabinets to take care of, then I’ll enjoy a nice long break in the backyard on the swing.
This fridge is much smaller than what we’re used to today, yet it weighs a lot more. It definitely weighs more than me, and since I’d rather land this hunk of junk in the dumpster rather than the middle of the street, small stutter steps move me along the ramp I built over the outside stairs. Every muscle is screaming by the time I’ve cleared the ten-foot slope. I pause at the bottom of the ramp to lower my mask and shake out my arms and quads before continuing the rest of the journey to the dumpster.
For the past two weeks, I’ve become a pro at evading my next-door neighbour. His schedule is predictable, and since he works on the residence he’s living in, he doesn’t go out often. I’d gladly keep avoiding him until he moves out, but a noise from the dumpster in front of his place prompts me to check what’s happening. We get a lot of people adding their own household items to our bins to dodge hauling them away themselves or paying someone else to do it.
It’s clear I don’t like Owen, but I like cheap, lazy bastards even less.
I exchange my work gloves for the phone in my back pocket and get the camera ready to make an example of the culprit. As silently as I can in clunky work boots, I move towards the opening on the far end of the bin. I’m about to peer inside when a voice, cold and hard like an ice pick, slams into my spine, sparking chills throughout my body. I startle and drop my phone when I spin around to face a laughing Owen. Well, smirking anyway. I’m not sure he knows how to laugh. Or fully smile.
“Snooping on the competition?” he asks.
Guaranteed, any idea I have is way better than what he will ever come up with. Every muscle in my body clenches at his arrogance and my uninvited reaction to him. I swear, I’m going to get six-pack abs before he moves out.
Why do I care that he looks like he’s about to pose as a model for the next Work Authority catalogue?
Good thing his shitty attitude helps distract from his faultless looks and will keep me centred.
“No.” I hiss as the last pulses of discomposure morph to aggravation. I pick up my phone and examine the screen for cracks.
“There’s someone in there.” I say as I’m strutting away, questioning why I bothered trying to be nice to him. He can deal with whoever is tossing their elliptical trainer or other equally disused piece of exercise equipment in there for disposal on Owen’s dime.
“You mean me?”
Argh! As if dealing with one Black Ladder employee wasn’t enough, Scott comes striding out of the dumpster.
“Dumpster diving, Scott?” I tsk. “Owen, I heard you like to cut corners, but surely you can treat your employees better than this.”
“I don’t cut corners.” His words are forced over our shared property line with a bellowing huff.
My retort gets him like a paper cut between the fingers. The work on the Morrow house is impeccable and, if I can judge from that one project alone, he takes a lot of pride in his trade.
“Hey lady, he doesn’t cut corners.” A small voice comes from the front steps behind Owen.
“Tommy,” Owen states in a serious but gentle tone. “Be respectful to Ms. Holt.” He turns to me using the same inflection, “Even if her accusations are unfounded.”
“Sorry, Ms. Holt,” the young boy says, eyes turning downward.
I am stunned into an Owen-state of silence. He’s got a kid?
Scott grabs Owen by the arm and attempts to spin him away from me and into the house before things escalate. Or to prevent me from asking questions because that’s Scott’s kid?
Scott’s efforts are met with the same result as if he were trying to twist a fifty-year-old spruce out of the ground with his bare hands. Doing my part to spare the child witnessing the downfall of his hero—whichever of the two that is—I go back to the old fridge.
Owen doesn’t feel the need to protect his young in the same way, and his eyes burn holes in the back of my shirt, making me want to run, not walk. It doesn’t matter how many times I get into it with him, I still resent the confrontation. It’s made worse when a child is around to witness it. I tip the dolly to push the beast towards its final resting place along with this sidewalk chit chat.
“Don’t break a nail, Princess.”
“So nice of you to show concern, Owen. Better not make a habit of it or you’ll give me the wrong impression.”
Scott laughs and shakes his head before tugging on Owen’s arm again. “She got you there.”
When Owen still doesn’t move, Scott goes inside on his own, calling to me that he’ll see me soon. Unfortunately, that’s probably true.
What was Greg hoping I’d notice in Owen? He said something at the pub about how Owen’s lost sight of things. Was he a good guy once upon a time? Is it possible that hiding somewhere behind that black-clad, sharp-edged, tattooed exterior is a nice person looking to build dream homes?
I cast one last look at him as I climb my makeshift ramp and into the house. He’s still standing in the same place, arms folded across his puffed-out chest. His hard eyes follow my stride up the walkway, and I tighten my abs around the flapping butterflies once again.
Nope. Nice guys don’t make their neighbours feel this way.
***
I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF taking off cabinet faces when there’s a knock on the door.
“Hang on a minute!” I holler and twist the screwdriver faster to loosen the screw from the bottom hinge. I drop the tool on the counter, rest the cabinet face on the floor, and pull my mask to hang around my neck.
“Hi.” I’m more than a little surprised to have the kid from next-door standing on my front stoop.
The boy extends his hand for me to shake. He has a firm grip, and I see when my gaze travels from his hand to his face that he’s looking me in the eye. This kid is on a mission, and if I had to guess, he’s here of someone else’s choosing.
“I’m sorry for being rude, Ms. Holt.”
I laugh. Not at his apology, he apologised earlier and that’s good enough for me. I laugh at his delivery. He’s so formal and succinct and sounds way older than a boy his age should.
“Thank you. Tommy, is it?”
“Yes, Ms. Holt.” He drops my hand and bounces on the tips of his toes as he peers around my body. There’s the youthfulness I’d expect.
“You can call my Izzy if you’d like.”
“The guys call you Princess.” He smiles, knowing that he’s telling me something he shouldn’t.
I sweep my hands down my dusty clothes. “Princesses don’t dress like this, do they?”
Tommy shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t read fairy tales. Whatcha doing in here?” His inhibitions fall away as quickly as the formalities, and he steps inside to get a better view.
I’m sure Owen sent him here to spy, but I can’t deny his cute curiosity. Besides, there’s nothing top secret to learn.
“Wow.” The word falls out over several steps as we go into the kitchen. “Look at those colours.” His eyes are wide. “They’re so cool. Black Ladder houses are always white and grey. Bo-ring.”
“That’s the style now.” I watch him looking around and can’t contain my smile. “Bright colours were the style in the 1950s—way before you were born. Have you ever seen a house like this?”
“I’ve seen this house lots of times.” He says it like I’m crazy for asking, crinkling his face to match his tone.
“This house?” I point to the floor, questioning if it’s this house specifically or one like it.
“From the outside. Owen and me have drawings for the house that’s going to go here one day.” Oh, really? My palms feel the bite of my nails. “I’m going to change them now ’cause I like the colours you have. I didn’t know houses could be colourful.”
“A house can be anything you want it to be. As long as it’s yours.”
He doesn’t catch my meaning, nor should he. Why would Owen tell Tommy he can design a house for this lot when Owen doesn’t own it? For someone who seems bent on teaching this child to be respectful, it’s a prick move.
“How long have you been working with Owen?” I ask with sarcastic amusement.
My question makes him laugh, and his big curls bounce as he shakes his head. “I don’t work with him. I’m only in grade five.”
“But you draw up plans together,” I say.
Tommy walks away from me, moving into the living room to see what’s there.
“For fun. He never builds the houses like I want him to. I told him this one should have a rocket launcher in the backyard, but he won’t build it.”
Because he has something against space travel or because this land doesn’t belong to him?
“The houses are pretty close together in this neighbourhood. You wouldn’t want to upset the neighbours with the noise.”
“That’s exactly what Owen said.” Tommy’s eye bulge as if I’m a mind reader. This kid has a noble spirit and couldn’t be more opposite to his mentor.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yup.” He’s as curious about the question as I am about the answer he’ll give.
“Who is Owen to you?” Father is off the table since Tommy keeps calling him by his first name.
“My brother. My big brother.” He clarifies in case I was confused at which way the age gap went.
His response catches me off guard. Tommy is a ray of sunshine with his glowing blond hair and cheery personality. Owen is, well, nothing like that. I suppose with the difference in age, they wouldn’t have grown up under the same circumstances.
I escort Tommy to the door because I have a feeling he’d stay all day if I let him.
“If you ever have questions about colour combinations, you come visit me, okay? I love talking with other creative people.”
“You think I’m creative?” His face lights up like I told him he’ll rule the design world one day. My heart cracks for him. All children should think they can be the best at something if they work for it.
“Yes, I do, Tommy.”
“Thanks, Izzy.” He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me in for a hug. I rest my hand on his head, flattening his wild blond curls. “I’m going to get an ice cream from 7-Eleven. I’ll share with you if you want.” He’s too sweet for words. Too sweet to be corrupted by Owen.
“Thanks, but I have work to do today. I’ll take you up on the offer another time, alright?”
“I’ll be here next weekend,” he says as he runs out the door like I should put it in my calendar. “Bye, Izzy!” He turns and waves enthusiastically before running down the ramp.
I can’t wipe the smile from my face after my unexpected visit, even though I’m sure I’m being manipulated.