in his path out of the way for this moment. Moving every heavy stone.
He was under-resourced in every way. Manpower. Money. Time. Staff. But he’d found a way around every hurdle. Moving subs around. Finding subs who could work within the price range. Finding different subs when it became clear they weren’t licensed and insured. Juggling the sub schedules and needs to fit within the Barter’s tight deadline for renovation. Making sure the subs didn’t overlap when carpet needed to be ripped up just as walls needed to come down. Trying to find a bid number that was low enough to beat his competitors—most with the insider commercial discounts he couldn’t yet reach—yet not low enough to destroy his profit margins—and him.
It was all hard. It was all a puzzle. It had all, at times, pushed him into dead ends.
And yet here, today, he had done it.
“Line item, line item, line item,” Mr. Richardson read, his eyes scanning the sheet in his hand. “Ah. And here we are. The total estimate for Anderson Builds is running at $2,734,860.”
As Mr. Richardson set the paper on the table in front of him, Chip glanced at several faces. Of course, they were all attempting to gauge everyone’s opinion of the bid. It was high. Quite a bit higher than Chip’s, but then, Anderson Builds estimated so high on these things everyone often wondered aloud why he even ventured.
One look at each man’s expression gave Chip a few clues about what to expect from the following envelopes. Gilbane Contracting was out of the running; Chip could see it in his defeated expression. Huber was already walking out the door. ACL Construction and Hobbs held their poker faces. But his father and Pete, well, they were doing something he hadn’t seen before. Pete looked cross as he whispered to his father, and from the few hand motions, Chip guessed Pete was trying to convince him to take back the envelope.
But that didn’t make sense.
They couldn’t achieve anything by taking it back. They couldn’t write newer, lower numbers to try to secure their bid. That was why the bids were done this way, in person, announced aloud. This method ensured no shady dealings were going on behind closed doors, no undercutting, no wasted hours on complex bids.
Regardless, whatever Pete’s frustrated expression and terse whispers meant, his father remained stoic and silent, his gaze fixed ahead. Pete might as well be trying to convince a concrete statue.
“And now for ACL Construction. Let’s see.” Mr. Richardson removed his glasses and squinted at the page. “The total comes to $2,399,000.”
Raised brows went around the room as he caught the surprised expressions of the others. Two thirty-nine was good. Terribly good. So close Chip felt the ax sweep past him, the rush of wind as it took off the hairs from his forearms.
Close.
But not close enough.
The bids were read for the remaining contractors except Redpoint and McBride and Sons, and all came in too high. Finally, Chip saw Mr. Richardson pick up his envelope. He watched as Mr. Richardson opened the letter and scanned to the bottom.
A smile crept across the man’s face before he opened his mouth. “And Redpoint Construction has come in with an estimate of $2,350,679.”
That’s right. Down to the last nine dollars. He had whittled and whittled that number down to the final dollar, and when he thought he couldn’t lower it by fifty cents, he went line item by line item for a place to drop it again.
Mr. Hobbs whistled and sat back in his chair.
It was done. Chip’s bid had been read. It blew the others out of the water. Every contractor but his father and brother stared at him, ready to declare it.
He’d won.
“Of course, we do have one final bid here,” Mr. Richardson said, reaching for the crisp white envelope. For the briefest moment he gave Chip a look that said for the sake of procedure.
One glance at Pete confirmed what it would say inside. From head to toe his body was taut, his flexed forearms crossed over each other as he sat like a thirty-eight-year-old CrossFit toddler in the middle of a silent tantrum. Pete had known Chip would be competitive. Pete had known they should’ve done a lower bid. And now, they would lose it. To his little brother.
“Oh.” Mr. Richardson cleared his throat. “McBride and Sons have put in a bid”—he paused for the briefest glance to Chip—“at $2,199,999. It seems . . . they have won.”