Holiday with You - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,3
The Riley’s kitchen, watching them fight over a renovation they didn’t need to begin with. This isn’t about the house. They can change the whole place, demolish it, and build a castle, but that won’t fix their problems. Their struggle is their lack of communication.
Been there, done that, and got the divorce papers as a souvenir.
Remi, my ex-wife, and I fought about different silly things. Our problems were never about not squeezing the toothpaste properly, not picking up the toys, or not remembering her favorite drink. But at least we had the dignity—the respect for each other—to avoid airing our dirty laundry in public.
The same certainly couldn’t be said for the pretentious couple in front of me. The Rileys might come to some agreement. Either they pay the fee to change the cabinets, or they have to live with something they hate. My suggestion is couples counseling or a good divorce lawyer.
I wait a few more minutes. More like I witness how poorly they treat each other before I have to remind them they aren’t alone. “Mr. and Mrs. Riley, we need to be at another site by noon. We could amend the contract and change the colors. I’ll order the new cabinets as soon as you pay for the change charges—”
“I’m not paying one more cent for this,” Mr. Riley growls. “You’re going to make the changes without asking for another penny, or we’ll cancel this job.”
These people make my brain hurt. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Riley. If you want me to make changes, you have to pay. If you want to cancel the job, we leave the site as it is, and we won’t return the fifty percent down payment you gave us.”
He huffs and shakes his head. “You can’t make any other changes after this, Sandra.”
In the end, Sandra cancels the job and threatens to write a bad review. I’m sure she’ll be calling next week or early in January to ask me to come and finish her kitchen.
The guys drive the cabinets to the small warehouse I rent in Newberry Falls. I have to be back in Winter Valley by noon to pick up Perry from preschool.
All of that’s before the accident that closed the highway for almost an hour.
Morgan, my brother, volunteers to pick up my little girl. He plans to take her to the library for story time and buy her hot cocoa from the bakery across the street from his body shop.
This gives me enough time to drive to Snowmass today to a job site since, according to the weather report, a blizzard might be hitting us as early as five in the morning. That will keep my work around the area instead of hours from home.
On my way back to the house, my phone rings. Oliver Preston’s name appears on the dashboard screen. He’s one of my best friends from New York and my former partner at BKMP, the construction company we built after we graduated.
“Should I be concerned?” I answer instead of greeting him.
Although I sold my part of the company, he still calls me when working on some of the projects I led before he took them over when I left.
“Why do you always assume there’s a problem when I call you, Bradford?”
“Umm”—I pinch the bridge of my nose—“lately, you’ve only called to ask questions or make me solve your issues because, and I quote, ‘Bradford, you put me in that position.’”
“You did.” He laughs. “Nah, I’m just calling to check on you. Making sure your decision is still in place.”
“After a year, I’m pretty sure it’s a done deal. I doubt your new partner would want to sell my old piece back.”
“We could each sell you a part and have you back,” he offers. “We miss you, man. Things are working well, but it’s different, you know?”
It hadn’t been easy to walk away from my partners. Knowing they all missed us . . . was nice. “I feel you.”
It’s hard to get used to a new person, a different rhythm, or in my case, a clean slate. Oliver was with me when my marriage fell apart. He was one of five babysitters who’d carry Perry around when I was on-site because my wife couldn’t be bothered to split the responsibility of our baby. We hired nannies, but with her attitude, they quit within a couple days. Childcare was more expensive than the rent of a luxury apartment in the city.
“How’s my girl?” he asks.
“She’s doing great,” I answer.