The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,42
idea for some guys who can do the painting. Do you mind hiring a couple of ex-cons?”
“Uh . . . sure. If you’re willing to vouch for them. The more the merrier, right?”
“Glad you feel that way. Because these are the only guys you can afford.”
My stomach clenched. “Oh. You don’t think the budget is big enough?”
The figure had seemed pretty generous to me, but what did I know about remodeling? The most ambitious home repair job I’d ever tackled was when Steve and I moved into our new apartment. We’d painted an accent wall in the living room, added some wooden trim to a set of IKEA bookcases so they’d look like built-ins, and installed a new light fixture and some dimmer switches. That little project took nearly six weeks to complete, went three hundred dollars over budget, and came close to ending our marriage before it got started, which, in retrospect, wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.
“Well, it’s tight,” Lorne said, shifting his shoulders. “But it’s . . . doable. I think.”
“Gee. That’s reassuring,” I said.
“I just meant that we need to save where we can.”
“By, for example, hiring felonious housepainters.”
“Red and Slip do good work.”
“Red and Slip? Seriously? Am I hiring the cast of The Shawshank Redemption?” I laughed and threw out my hands. “Okay, sure. Bring on Red and Slip. But is there any chance you could start work on the inside first? I need to move in as soon as possible.”
Lorne turned toward me and frowned. “You’re planning to live here during the remodeling? That always complicates things. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your hotel?”
“Definitely,” I replied. “There’s nothing not to love about Zero George, except that I can’t afford to stay there, or anyplace else. The remodeling budget isn’t the only one that’s tight.”
Lorne’s frown deepened, furrowing his forehead. He shook his head slightly, then walked down the goat trail that led toward the front door, peering as best he could into the rooms that adjoined the center hall, each packed floor to ceiling with Calpurnia’s hoard. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, stared into the middle distance, and popped his lips again. I felt pretty sure he was having second thoughts.
“You understand that I’m not talking about cleaning out the whole interior right off,” I said. “Maybe just the first floor?”
He sniffed and shuffled down the goat path in the opposite direction. I followed behind, negotiating. “Or a couple of rooms? Or even one. I just need someplace to camp out while the work is being done. In fact, I can clean out a room for myself.”
He kept pacing and popping his lips, saying nothing, ignoring me. My anxiety fizzed and bubbled over into irritation. I was done negotiating.
“Here’s the bottom line: I can’t afford to stay in a hotel so I’m staying here. That’s the deal. Period. End of discussion. If you can’t live with that, then I’ll just find myself another contractor.”
“That so? Who?”
He turned toward me and grinned, calling my bluff. I spread my feet and planted my hands on my hips.
“Somebody who wants the job. Somebody who doesn’t have a record.”
That was kind of a low blow, I’ll admit. But his patronizing attitude pushed me over the edge. Lorne’s grin disappeared.
“Sounds like you’ve been up north so long you don’t remember that you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar. At least in Charleston.”
“I didn’t forget,” I said. “I just never believed it in the first place. Now do you want this job for not?”
I took the contract out of my bag and held it out. Lorne considered me for a moment, then took a pen from his shirt pocket and the contract from my hand, set it down on a waist-high stack of yellowing newspapers, and signed his name and initials in all the right places. His smile reemerged.
“Here you go, boss.”
I didn’t smile but I let my face relax. “When would you like to start?”
“Tomorrow morning okay with you?”
“Sounds good.”
“And when would you like to move in?”
“Same time,” I said.
He bobbed his head. “Sounds good.”
Dear Peaches,
If I am lucky enough to be your mother and if you’re lucky enough to grow up in Charleston, someday somebody who is trying to get you to give up or back down, or to make you feel bad about having an opinion contrary to theirs, is going to tell you that “you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar” and urge you to “be sweet.”