Chapter 13
I ’ve gotten a couple of chapters into my book when my phone pings with two new emails.
Squinting against the sun even with my sunglasses on, I see that they’re both from Daniel McKinnon.
One is a forwarded message from Alan Gregson.
I scan that one first. It’s an estimate of what Alan and his team would charge for the work we discussed this morning: reinforcements at the back of the house and in the attic, plumbing repairs in the bathroom.
The estimate is just over eleven thousand dollars.
Feeling numb, I open the other email from Daniel. He’s helpfully provided the names of some paint suppliers and painters, a flooring supplier, and his “floor guy.” My eyes jump down to the end of the second paragraph.
If you use the folks I recommend, based on some of my past projects, my estimate would be about five grand.
I have such a visceral reaction to this number that I almost chuck my phone into the pool.
It’s an investment , he continues, but like I mentioned this morning, with a little polish you’d get a lot more interest from potential renters and could charge slightly above market. If you’re interested, I can also send over some ideas for new kitchen appliances.
“No, Daniel, I am not interested!”
I glance around to see if anyone noticed me yelling at my phone. Indeed, two white-haired women are looking at me from their lounge chairs a few feet away.
“Hi,” I say to them. They just stare. “It’s my property manager.” I attempt a nonchalant shake of the head, like getting frustrated with people who work for me is a normal part of life. The women exchange a smirking glance that clearly says, Young people .
I feel nauseous. I lie back and cover my face with my hands, thinking.
I know homeowners have to go into debt sometimes—or as Maeve said when they remodeled their basement, they “pay it off monthly.” But I just finished paying off my parents monthly.
I was looking forward to having some expendable income.
I sit up again and send a quick email back.
How much could I charge if I don’t do any of these things?
I lie down again, not expecting him to reply anytime soon.
Inheriting Pebble Cottage was supposed to be a windfall.
Instead, it’s a money pit. Even aside from the terrifying thought of spending so much money on the house, the thought of ripping up floors and all that makes my skin crawl.
I just want to be back in my clean, orderly apartment, surrounded by curated objects that bring me joy.
That’s what I want to spend my hard-earned money on: stuff.
Pretty, comforting stuff. Not paint and dishwashers and structural reinforcements, whatever that means.
Ping.
Oh no. He can’t have responded already. I don’t want to think about this anymore. I want to think about being on the flight home tomorrow, drinking a crisp Chardonnay and watching a movie that’ll make me forget about real life for two hours.
I flip over onto my stomach and reluctantly tap open the email.
Ok if I call?
I frown at my phone. Daniel can’t be more than a few years older than me; shouldn’t he have the same millennial loathing of phone calls? I guess his line of work requires a lot of… communication.
I could tell him that I can’t talk right now. Or I could not respond.
But I’m a grown-up , and a homeowner . I heave a sigh and force myself to respond with two letters: Ok .
He calls a second later.
“Hey, hey, enjoying our sunshine?”
Goodness, his voice sounds like sunshine itself. It’s… jarring.
“Are you always this perky?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“What’s not to be perky about?”
I say nothing. This seems to remind him that he just emailed me asking me to part with an ungodly sum of money.
He clears his throat. “Well. I thought it’d be easier to address your question over the phone.
Look, without the aesthetic improvements, you’re looking at nearly half the monthly rent you could otherwise charge.
Ethically, you really can’t rent the place without the maintenance Alan recommended.
Since you have to do that, in my professional opinion, you might as well do the whole shebang. ”
“How much more could I charge with the improvements?”
He names a number that’s almost double what the last tenant paid. I do some quick mental math. Even with the higher rent, it would take me at least a couple years to pay off this investment.
I bury my face in my arms to stifle a groan. The sun burns into my shoulders. I never signed up for this much responsibility. I’ve only ever had to take care of myself, and I just recently started doing an okay job at it.
“You still there?” Daniel asks.
“Yep.” My voice is muffled with my face still squished against my forearms.
“If it helps, Alan offers a monthly payment plan to clients who meet the credit threshold. And I’ve had clients opt to do home improvements themselves to save a chunk. So that’s something to consider.”
A shrill laugh escapes me.
“Daniel. I don’t even know how to hang a picture on the wall. I can’t do home improvements myself.”
“You don’t know until you try.” He sounds like he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet as he talks. What does he put in his coffee?
“I do know. I had to call my dad for help with one measly floating shelf. I did put together an IKEA bookshelf by myself once, but I put the shelves on backward. I cried for half an hour and then just left it like that.”
“You—you left the shelves on backward?” Now he sounds like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“It’s a sore subject.”
“I get it.” There’s a pause, and then he continues, “My mom was a chemistry teacher, and when I was a kid she used to say she didn’t have a creative bone in her body.
But when she retired, she decided she wanted to change that.
She watched a YouTube video about needlework—like embroidery and stuff—and decided to teach herself.
Boom. Now she’s an expert in all things needle and thread. She has an Etsy shop and everything.”
“I—wow.”
“So…” Daniel’s tone implies that I’m missing the obvious. “If my mom can teach herself how to embroider and crochet and quilt after the age of sixty, what’s stopping you from learning how to paint a bedroom?”
Okay, when he says it like that, I’m almost offended. It does sound simple.
And… “to save a chunk.” How much is that? I look back at his first email to see his estimate for paint and floors. If I keep the cost of the paint and floors but subtract the cost of labor… It is a big difference.
“And I could save a chunk,” I say.
“A chunk,” he confirms.
I wouldn’t even know where to begin doing that stuff myself. But it is interesting.
Ugh, what am I thinking? I have to go back home, to my apartment and my job. Maybe I’ll just do the necessary improvements and rent it out cheap. Daniel clearly doesn’t like that option, but hey, it’s my house.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it. It’s complicated, because I have to go home. Tomorrow.”
“That does complicate things, doesn’t it?”
Am I imagining it, or is he implying that it complicates things with the house and… with us? No, I’m definitely imagining it. Because there is no us. Obviously.
“Well, let me know what you decide,” he says. “There’s no rush, of course.”
No rush for him. But for me? I could definitely use the rental income to start covering these costs. The numbers and the impossibility of the situation make my head spin.
“Okay.”
“Lucky planes,” he says.
“What?”
“It’s what we say in my family before someone boards a flight. You know, safe travels and all that.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
I want to ask where this saying came from, and whether he traveled a lot as a kid, or whether he does now—because I don’t want to hang up the phone. Again. What is this power his voice has over me?
But I don’t ask any of those things, because that wouldn’t be professional.
Instead, I say, “I’ll be in touch after I’ve made a decision,” which comes out sounding like I have a stick where the sun don’t shine. Why can’t I just sound normal for once in my life?
“Looking forward to hearing from you,” he says smoothly. “Bye, Mallory.”
Back at the condo, Gramps is still asleep.
I curl up on the couch and watch out the sliding glass balcony doors as the promised thunderstorm moves in.
The clouds churn, darkening to a purplish gray.
The gulf roils up to match the sky, dotted with white peaks.
I grab my beach towel and tuck it over my knees like a blanket.
That’s one thing about Florida: People never have enough blankets.
The rain rolls in, and it’s a true summer downpour.
It’s so loud that it drowns out the sound of Gramps snoring in the other room.
Nature’s white-noise machine. I tap my phone and check my calendar.
Tomorrow’s a full day of travel—I might need to lie to Kat and tell her I’m taking a sick day.
The next day, Wednesday, is packed with meetings from nine to four.
Skimming the meeting titles with words like “OP planning” and “milestone check-in” fills me with a faint sense of dread.
Faint, because I’m used to it, and because I really, really need the paycheck.
Dread, because it’s all mind-numbingly boring, and because my mind has been so far from work the last few days that it might take some effort to get back into it.
There’s a sudden bright flash, followed immediately by a crack of thunder. It makes me drop my phone. Heart pounding, I retrieve my phone from the plush rug, and then tiptoe to the door of Gramps’s bedroom.
I crack the door open slightly and peer inside.
He’s sleeping on his side with his hands tucked under his cheek.
The thunder doesn’t seem to have woken him.
As I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath, I’m filled with some kind of feeling that I’ve never felt before.
It’s tender and achy and peaceful and nostalgic all at once.
I guess that it might be similar to how Maeve feels watching her son sleep.
And then I picture myself driving off to the airport tomorrow morning, waving goodbye as Gramps stands back and watches me go.
I imagine him coming back upstairs, alone.
Looking around the empty kitchen, pulling out his newspaper, putting it back down, climbing into bed to sleep the day away.
Crack. This time I feel the thunder in my chest. Gramps doesn’t stir, so I close the door and return to the couch.
I check my calendar again, and something clicks.
These meetings are virtual. I do them all from my living room at home.
Why couldn’t I do them from Gramps’s living room instead? Kat wouldn’t even need to know.
As much as this idea terrifies me—I learned my lesson the hard way, back in my wannabe-digital-nomad days—it also fills me with relief.
I don’t have to leave. My apartment will be fine without me for a few more days, but Gramps needs me.
Sure, I miss the comforts of home. But this condo isn’t so bad.
Plus, I have my laptop, meaning I can still watch Outlander before bed.
I grab my phone again, open the Pottery Barn website, find the fluffiest blanket they have, and order it to be shipped here. And then I cancel my flight.
This was the right decision. Everything will be fine. There’s no way Kat will find out I’m not where I’m supposed to be.