2. Chapter Two Joe
Chapter Two: Joe
“ D ad, I can’t find my shin guards!”
“I don’t know why you’re telling me, bud. You’re the one who last wore them.”
Eli grumbles something unintelligible before rushing into the mudroom.
“They’re not in here!” he calls back to me.
“Well, you better find them soon, because we were supposed to be out the door five minutes ago!”
Cody comes wandering in, his soccer bag slung over his skinny shoulder. I know I’m not supposed to make such judgments, but he’s definitely the more organized brother.
“Actually, I think I left them outside!” exclaims Eli, darting through the kitchen toward the back door and flinging himself out into the dewy yard.
His younger brother lets out a long-suffering sigh. I check my watch. I’ve got a meeting out in Mermaid Shores in twenty minutes that I really can’t afford to be late for. It’s a new client. And a huge project, by the sound of it.
A minute later, Eli comes barreling back into the kitchen, holding his shin guards over his head like trophies. “I found them. They’re all wet, though. It must’ve rained last night. Oh well!”
Cody, with all the disdain of an elderly gentleman contained in the body of a nine-year-old, wrinkles his nose. “You’re going to play with wet shin guards?”
I clap a hand on his shoulder and, before Eli can retort, say, “He doesn’t have much of a choice, does he? This is why I tell you boys to—”
“Take care of our belongings,” Eli finishes for me. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry for making us late, Dad.”
“Don’t you worry about it, kiddo. Just go get in the truck.”
The boys scamper off, leaving me alone in the kitchen for a brief moment. I take a deep breath, screw on the cover of my travel mug, and take a sip of fresh black coffee. I’m starving, but if I stop at Judy’s Diner for a breakfast sandwich, I’ll definitely be way too late for this meeting. At least the boys already ate, bickering and joking in equal measure with their mouths full of Cap’n Crunch. My best option is to snatch a protein bar from the pantry and pray that it holds me over until I finish dealing with this new client. I do that and walk outside.
The truck rumbles to life. In the backseat, the boys are having an intense discussion about Roblox. I only vaguely understand what that is, so I tune them out as I speed along the familiar route to the boys’ schools. I drop them off every morning, since Eli really struggles with waking up early enough to catch the bus. Plus, Cody gets pretty bad motion sickness on the bus, so it’s a win-win for both of them. I don’t mind the extra stop in my morning commute—it gives me a little bit more time with them.
School ends in a few weeks, though. That means I’ll switch to transporting them to various day camps and friends’ houses, or carting them off to work with me if their grandmother can’t babysit for the day. Summers are challenging when you’re a single parent who runs his own business, but we make it work. In a few years, the boys will be old enough to fend for themselves during the day.
Until then, I find myself being approximately ten minutes late to the job site most mornings.
I pull up to the curb in front of the elementary school, muss Cody’s head as he hops out the back, and then I swing the truck around to the other end of the lot to drop Eli at the middle school.
“I’ll come get you after soccer, okay? Have a good day!”
“Bye, Dad!”
With the boys taken care of until about four thirty this afternoon, I take a deep breath and direct the vehicle into the swarm of Monday morning traffic heading in and out of Barnstable.
“Alright,” I mutter to myself. “It’s go time.”
I take a swig of coffee and launch past a line of confused tourists trying to get off at the wrong exit. Happens every summer. It’s only May, but the entire Cape is about to be packed with out-of-towners. I don’t begrudge them, though. It’s those out-of-towners that make up the bulk of my clientele. As a general contractor, there’s always some beach house or forested cabin or glamorous mansion to fix up.
I head down toward the coast on the southern curve of the Cape. I’m looking forward to this project. I always look forward to working in Mermaid Shores. It’s a great town. If I had the money, I’d buy some property there. I’m sure the boys would also love to move closer to the beach.
“Thirteen fifteen Atlantic Lane,” I murmur to myself as the familiar sensation of tingling warmth passes over me when I cross the town line.
It’s early, so Main Street isn’t difficult to navigate yet. No reckless tourists darting across the street, paying no heed to pedestrian walkways or bothering to look both ways. That’ll come soon enough, though. The people who vacation here sometimes forget that normal rules of the road still apply in paradise.
1315 is easy enough to find. Atlantic Lane is the main stretch along the beach, famous for its collection of luxury cottages and fancy manors owned by America’s elite. The locals live further inland, which means that this part of town is usually dead during the offseason.
I pull into the gravel drive of a gorgeous white cottage with vinyl siding—admittedly in need of a soft wash—and classic green shutters. There’s a stunning porch that wraps around two sides of the house, and I can tell even from inside the truck that it’s a decent piece of craftsmanship.
The new owner is a woman named Poppy Minton. I don’t know much about her except that she’s from California. That could mean anything. Given the type of people who gravitate toward Mermaid Shores every summer, she could be an Oscar-winning actress that I’ve never heard of, or some generationally wealthy heiress. She could be a no-nonsense career woman, or a hippie from one of the more rural areas.
I try my best not to pass judgment without good reason. I’m happy for the business no matter what.
Still, I sincerely hope she’s not some valley girl princess who only drinks matcha lattes and wants me to install marble columns inside. Those people are always the most difficult types to work with.
With a sigh, I glance at my watch and realize that I’m seven minutes late. There’s one other car in the driveway—a sensible Camry with Massachusetts plates. I recognize it as Misha’s car right away. She’s a talented interior designer that I’ve collaborated with on a bunch of projects before. She’s also in high demand, which means that the owner of this property must have a lot of money to toss around.
Misha, dressed in a magenta suit, is standing on the porch. She turns toward me when I hop out of the truck, her brow knitted with concern.
“Morning!” I call out. “Good to see you again!”
“Hey, Joe. You’re looking handsome as always. You sure you’re not aging backwards?”
I snort, accustomed to Misha’s flirtations by now. She’s about twenty years my senior and happily married. This is just how she talks to people, thick Russian accent and all.
“Pretty sure,” I answer, climbing the porch steps. “What’s going on? What’s the frown for?”
Misha sighs, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “We are supposed to meet at eight thirty, yes?”
“Yep. I know I’m a little late, but—”
“It seems Ms. Minton is late, too,” she interrupts, gesturing dramatically at the front door.
“Pardon?”
“I have knocked and knocked for ten minutes now, and there is no answer! There is no car in the driveway! No lights on inside! She is not here, Joe! I have driven all the way down here from Chatham! Oh, these people! These out-of-towners always give me migraines.”
I do my best not to chuckle at her dramatics. Misha, like many artists, is highly reactive. Her sensitivities make her a great designer, but it takes some getting used to.
“Let me try,” I suggest, walking to the front door.
My work boots thump against the chipped planks. Already, I’m making mental notes of the small improvements that this fantastic piece of property needs. Honesty, if it were me, I’d leave it mostly as is. It’s in great condition. The front lawn could use some TLC, and it looks like the side gate leading toward its private beach access is a little crooked, but it really is a beautiful cottage. I can’t even fathom why this client apparently wants to change so much.
I knock on the door three times, loud enough that it’ll echo throughout the house, but not so loud that it’ll come across as aggressive. I’m already a tall, broad-shouldered guy. I don’t want to scare anyone off based on first impressions.
Misha and I wait a minute, but there’s no answer.
It’d be a shame if we were stood up. It’s happened to me before, usually from the rich, flighty types of people who think that the entire world—and everyone else’s schedules—revolve around them.
But, still. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
“Did you try giving Ms. Minton a call?” I ask Misha.
“Yes. She did not answer! Went right to voicemail!”
“I see.” I knock again. Four times, just a little bit louder. Shouting through the thick oak, I ask, “Anyone home?”
A moment later, a heavy bang echoes from within.
“Oh my,” murmurs Misha.
The first bang is followed by another, then a thwack, a thunk , and a snap .
Thundering footsteps clamber down a staircase—carpeted, by the sounds of it—and a feminine voice calls out, “One second!”
“Ah, so she is here,” mutters Misha, crossing her arms against her chest. “She likes your knocking more than mine.”
I smirk at the older woman. She pouts at the door.
“Shoot!” exclaims the feminine voice within. “Darn it! Crap!”
The stranger continues cursing, accompanied by a chorus of scrambling sounds, then the slick tapping of heels, and a very loud exhale.
At last, the lock clicks and the door swings open.
For a moment, all I can do is stare.
The woman on the threshold is younger than I expected. Definitely still in her twenties. She has sleek, platinum-blonde hair, which is tucked neatly behind her ears, the lobes of which twinkle with diamonds. With large, bluish-gray eyes, a pert nose, and pouty lips, she looks like a doll come to life.
Not in a creepy way. It’s just… she’s very pretty.
But then I see what she’s wearing: a pink satin robe, which is modest enough, I suppose, and a matching pair of kitten heels adorned with feathers. She looks like Malibu Barbie.
I rack my brain, trying to think if I’ve seen her face before. If she’s a model or a popstar or an actress. I come up blank.
Still, there’s no denying it. This girl walked straight out of Hollywood.
“Oh my goodness ,” she says, tossing a lock of blonde hair over her slender shoulder. “I am so sorry. I’m still on Pacific time, and so is my phone, so when I set my alarm, it still thought we were in SoCal. I’m, like, so embarrassed. Whew! Anyway, come on in!”
With dainty hands adorned in more gold and diamonds—does she sleep in her jewelry?—Poppy Minton ushers us inside her cottage. Her heels click-clack on the glossy pine flooring as she leads us further into the large, high-ceilinged front hallway.
With glimmering confidence, she turns to me and thrusts out her hand.
“Let me guess,” she croons. “You must be Misha, my interior designer.”
I blink at her in surprise, then glance at Misha, who is gazing at this flawlessly tanned creature with pure amusement.
“Uh, no—” I begin.
Ms. Minton bursts out laughing. “Kidding! I obviously know you’re Joseph Mansfield.” Numbly, I shake her hand, and then she smiles at Misha. “And I know you’re Misha Roklov because I follow you on Instagram and you are way too gorgeous not to recognize immediately.”
“Oh, hush,” murmurs Misha demurely, shaking our client’s hand as a blush rises to her cheeks.
Seriously? She’s that susceptible to empty flattery? She’s usually the one doling it out, so I figured she’d be immune.
Ms. Minton’s smile is too bright and cheerful to be genuine. It has to be fake. Just like her blonde hair and her tan and her thick eyelashes.
“You can call me Joe,” I tell her, finally regaining my voice.
For some reason, she laughs. “Well, Joe , you can call me Poppy. And I hope you’ve got an army behind you, because I desperately want to change, like, so much about this place.”
Even though it bodes well for me, financially speaking, I find myself frowning at her. “Really?”
“Oh yeah.” Poppy nods emphatically. Her skin is glowing. Literally. As in, I think she fell asleep in a puddle of glitter. “Like, for example, these stairs—they have got to go. They’re so… suburban. Way too soccer-mom chic, you know?”
I didn’t realize soccer moms coincided with a particular kind of staircase.
Misha, thankfully, jumps right in.
“I absolutely agree,” she says. “You would like something sleeker and more modern, yes? Something classier.”
“ Exactly , Misha. You totally get it.”
And thus ensues a tour of the house, during which Poppy describes which walls she wants to knock down, which rooms she’d like to gut, and where she’d like to install a grand balcony with custom French doors. She waves her hands around like a fairy casting enchantments, describing tasks that will cost thousands of dollars as if it’s nothing at all. I add up my estimates in my head, and the total becomes more staggering with each passing minute.
Clearly, money doesn’t mean anything to this woman. In fact, I have a feeling nothing really matters to this woman. Nothing but her image. How she’s perceived by others.
But it’s no big deal. I’ve handled irresponsible, careless socialites before. I’m practically a seasoned veteran. Despite that, it’s going to present some added challenges.
For example, there’s no way we can build a balcony. There are zoning laws we need to obey, especially this close to the beach. We’d have to get a permit from the town, which is difficult and expensive and unlikely to be approved.
And yet, I keep my mouth shut for now. It’s a battle for another day.
The bright side is that at least me and my staff are going to be nice and busy for the next couple months.