4. Chapter Four Joe
Chapter Four: Joe
T he on-site labor at Poppy Minton’s cottage doesn’t begin for another week. In the meantime, there are design plans to finalize and materials to be ordered and various details to coordinate with Misha. Even though my professional title is General Contractor, it’s nice to be able to stretch my architect muscles, since that’s what I studied in college.
Thankfully, Ms. Minton—or Poppy, as she insisted I call her—is highly responsive over email and text. I shouldn’t be surprised. Girls like that are always glued to their phones.
“Are you sure you’re not judging her too harshly?” Flo asks me on another early Monday morning. Her short, silver-gray hair is pinned back with dark velvet clips, and she’s dressed in a burgundy three-piece suit.
Flo, also known as Florence Jean Reddington-Mansfield, is not the average grandmother to my boys. At least, not on the surface. She’s fifty-nine years young —her designation, not mine—and is a high-powered corporate attorney with a dossier of extremely important clients up in Boston. Growing up, she was always the kind of mom who was no-nonsense and blunt at the best of times, but anyone who is lucky enough to catch a glimpse past her hardened exterior knows that Flo has a heart of gold. She’s been through a lot, given that my dad passed away when I was just a kid, and she is, without a doubt, the strongest human being I know.
I don’t know where I’d be without her. Unfortunately, we both know what it’s like to lose our spouses too soon.
I frown at my mom over the lid of my coffee mug. It’s seven thirty on a Monday morning, and I’m due to be in Mermaid Shores within the hour. The boys have field trips at school today, though, and she insisted on signing up to be a chaperone for Cody’s, so she’ll be bringing them to school for me. I tried explaining to her that most chaperones don’t dress like they’re ready for court, but she waved me off.
While the boys are wrestling in the living room, blowing off some steam from their excitement about not having “real school” today, I explained my first altercation with my newest client to my mom.
“I’m not judging her,” I insist.
“It certainly seems like you are,” she remarks lightly.
“Well, can you blame me? She answered the door in a satin pink robe and diamond earrings.”
“Sounds like she’s got fantastic style.”
“And she wants me to build a balcony with Greek revival columns.”
“Sounds like she’s got amazing taste.”
“Ma. You’re supposed to take my side.”
Flo snorts loudly. “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder, son, and it’s probably my fault. You’ve worked so hard to provide for those boys since losing Ellie because you’ve had no other choice, and I fear it’s made you a little spiteful of people who haven’t had to sacrifice so much of themselves for mere survival.”
I blink at her. She’s always full of this sage wisdom. I think part of it is because she’s a regular patron of Miss Maisie, Mermaid Shores’ wise woman of the beach. All those tarot cards and blessed crystals makes her think that the universe has given her a glimpse into secrets the rest of us aren’t privy to.
“It’s not like that,” I grumble.
“Hm? Well, I hope not.”
“And why would that be your fault, anyway?”
She shrugs. “Because I went through the same thing and had to overcome the same prejudice. I should’ve tried to prevent it happening to you.”
“It’s not happening to me. I don’t have a chip on my shoulder. This client is just… difficult. She really is.”
“Alright. Perhaps you should be on your way, then? You don’t want to be late meeting her a second time.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her. There’s no point in reminding her that it doesn’t even matter I was late to my first meeting with Poppy Minton, since she had to be roused from her royal slumber with several pounds of my fist against the front door.
“Yeah, I should go,” I mutter.
Flo smiles, apparently satisfied with our conversation. “So should we. Boys! Stop pummeling each other half to death and go get in the car! We have a fun day ahead of us and I’d prefer it if we’re all still in one piece by the end of it!”
Eli is the first to come barreling out of the living room. With his backpack slung over one arm, he hurtles past me, shouts a “Bye, Dad!” over his shoulder, and throws himself out the front door. Cody follows a moment later at a slightly slower pace, pausing long enough to give me a hug before darting after his older brother.
Flo tuts her tongue, but she’s grinning now. Her grandsons are her pride and joy. As they should be. After I was widowed, she stepped in and helped me raise them.
“I’ll see you later,” Flo says to me. She lifts her travel mug in a salute, gives me a wink, and heads out.
I allow myself exactly five minutes to enjoy the peace and quiet of the empty house before I drag myself out to my truck and start the engine. It’s late May, but the mornings are still chilly, so I grab my hoodie from the backseat and shrug it on. There’s a coffee stain on the arm and a streak of red paint on the cuff from a school project I helped the boys with, but it’s going to be a messy day anyway.
After all, before I can build Poppy Minton the princess palace of her dreams, we have to demolish the parts she doesn’t like.
And, goodness, there’s certainly a lot that she does not like.
***
Thankfully, I arrive at 1315 Atlantic Lane before my crew. I’ve only got two guys scheduled to meet me out here today, since this is the very first stage of the renovation process. Soon enough, I’ll have a whole team trucking into Mermaid Shores. I won’t need as many guys as I did for the Beaufort Manor project I did last summer, but it’s no question that the labor on this job isn’t going to come cheap.
Not that Poppy Minton seems to care about cost.
When I pull into the driveway, I’m greeted by the sight of a massive shipping container resting in the gravel.
Poppy, fully dressed this time in a pair of black jeans and a pink cable-knit sweater with short sleeves, is standing around the opposite side of the container, hands on her hips. Her pretty face is twisted into a puzzled frown. She doesn’t even seem to realize that I’ve arrived.
I take a deep breath and then hop out of the truck.
“Morning!” I call out.
She glances over at me, blinking in surprise. Her sleek blonde hair, light as cornsilk, is pulled back in a ponytail.
And she is, of course, wearing her diamonds.
“Hi, Joe,” she replies, her voice so warm and familiar that you’d think we’ve known each other for years. I never understood how people could be like that. Then again, I’m not much of an extrovert. Really, I’m only a people person when the job absolutely requires it.
“Is there a problem?” I dare to ask, coming around the shipping container to peer into the other side where the large metal doors have been propped open.
Only when I’m on this end of the driveway do I notice that the garage doors are also open. Inside, a pastel blue Ford Bronco, glossy and modern and effortlessly cool, is parked inside. It’s a gorgeous vehicle, undoubtedly the latest model. I estimate it cost her about ninety grand and try not to outwardly flinch.
“My things were delivered around six this morning,” Poppy informs me, gesturing to the contents of the shipping container. “I hired movers to unpack it for me today, but there was a scheduling conflict and they had to cancel, so now I’m wondering if I should just leave everything in there, given that you’re about to start a huge renovation on the cottage, except that the shipping company needs to come and pick this container back up in three business days, so it has to be empty by then, and I’m just not entirely sure what to do with all my stuff.”
I stare at her for a moment. “That has to be the longest sentence I’ve ever heard anyone say in one breath.”
She laughs. “Sorry. I get a little too verbose when I’m stressed.”
I wouldn’t think that a ditzy California girl would even know how to properly use the word verbose . Maybe Flo is right—I am judging her too harshly.
Still, who dons pink cashmere and a sparkling tennis bracelet this early in the morning?
Someone who has no intention of personally handling her own stuff. That’s who.
Still, she hired me to help her with this cottage.
I peer inside the container. It’s mostly full of labeled cardboard boxes and random bits of furniture. If I expected the interior of Poppy’s shipping container to explode with taffeta, glitter, and jewels, I’m deeply mistaken.
It’s actually impressively organized.
Not that I really believe Poppy did any of that organizing herself. She definitely hired someone.
I clear my throat. “I mean, I could help you get some of this in the garage today, then tomorrow I can bring a few extra hands with me and we can empty out the rest?”
Poppy beams as if I’ve just offered her the greatest prize. “Really? You’d do that?”
“It’s no problem,” I answer with a shrug.
“Of course, I’ll pay you all for your trouble.”
“You’re already paying us, ma’am.”
For some reason, she giggles. “Yes, but I mean I’ll pay you extra.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She tosses a lock of hair over her shoulder. “Well, you can’t stop me.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I simply step forward and grab the closest box. Rhett and Jacob will be here in about twenty minutes, so I might as well keep my hands busy until it comes time to focus on the cottage.
Carrying the box, labeled Kitchen - FRAGILE , I carefully set it down in one corner of the large, clean-swept garage. I expect Poppy to simply stand there and watch me, but when I turn around, I see she’s hauling a box of her own.
Even though I’m hardly one for small talk, I find myself nodding my chin toward the Bronco and saying, “Nice car.”
“Oh, thank you! Isn’t she gorgeous? I bought her last summer. You know, I was going to drive her out here, but I decided I’m not much of a road trip girl.”
I haul a heavy box labeled Books - NonFic into the garage.
“It’s a long drive from California,” I remark, mostly because I feel like I have to in order to avoid slipping into awkward silence.
“Gosh, I know ,” Poppy gushes, nodding as if I’ve said something incredibly intelligent. “I mean, Malibu is practically about as far west as you can get, and Mermaid Shores is nearly as far east as you can get. Google Maps said it would take me almost a week!”
So, I was right. She really is Malibu Barbie.
Except, now that I’m getting a good look at her—since, the first time we met, I was trying to avoid eye contact with her and her attire—I’m realizing that she looks oddly familiar.
It’s something about the shape of her blue-gray eyes, and maybe her chin, which has a little dimple in the center of it. And her hair… I’m not exactly an expert in these things, but I’m pretty sure that’s a natural blonde. All those features combine into something that feels somewhat like déjà vu.
Still, there’s no way I’ve met this woman before.
But do I know anyone with the surname Minton? It’s not that unique.
While I’m lost in thought, there’s a heavy thunk in the garage behind me.
“Oh, shoot!” Poppy exclaims. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
I whirl around, expecting to find her sprawled on the ground for whatever reason, but she’s gazing down in horror at a box she just dropped.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m so stupid,” she whispers, ignoring me. She drops to her knees. “I knew I shouldn’t have tried to carry such a heavy one. Oh no. ”
I step closer, fearing that she might be on the edge of tears. The box is labeled vaguely: a simple JM 1999 written on the side of it.
Without acknowledging me, Poppy yanks off the tape holding it closed and rips open the box. Foam peanuts spill out as she paws through the contents. I try to imagine what might be inside, since I can’t quite see from my current angle, and all I can think is that she must’ve dropped a box of her most expensive shoes or jewels or whatever.
Poppy reaches into the box. There’s a long moment of silence, and then she deflates in relief.
“Oh, phew . Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh, thank you .”
Whatever is inside, she doesn’t pull it out for me to see, but I’m glad it’s still in one piece. For a minute there, she seemed truly devastated.
Finally, she looks up at me.
“Sorry,” she says. “This is just—it’s really important.”
I nod. “Glad it’s alright.”
While I head back toward the container, I hear her pushing the box across the concrete floor. She starts humming under her breath, the momentary panic forgotten in an instant. The tune she’s humming sounds familiar, though. It’s an old song—one I haven’t listened to in years. I can’t put my finger on the name of it.
I carry another box, this one labeled Books - Fic , into the garage and deposit it beside the open JM 1999. Poppy is rummaging around inside the container, still humming as she dives deep into the organized chaos.
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I lean forward and peer into the mysterious box.
There are no jewels inside.
Instead, half buried in packing peanuts, is one of seemingly multiple golden trophies shaped like gramophones.
Grammy Awards.
My curiosity wins out and I crouch down to get a closer look at the inscription at the base of the award.
National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences
SCHISM
Album of the Year - 1999
“Poppies At Dawn” (Album)
The breath rushes out of me. There’s only one reason why this woman would have old Grammy Awards won by one of my favorite bands.
Poppy Minton… Jack Minton , the lead singer of Schism.
She’s not just any California heiress. She’s British-American rock music royalty.
She’s the daughter of a legend.
I haven’t listened to Schism in years. It’s a painful experience for a lot of old fans, honestly.
I still remember how devastated I was the day I learned that Schism would never be making new music again.
About fifteen years ago, when I was barely seventeen, the entire band was aboard a private plane that crashed a few miles away from the southeastern coast of England. Every single person aboard perished.
The world lost a musical genius that day.
But Poppy lost her father .
That’s why she looks so familiar. Jack had the same light blond hair and big, round eyes. Her same chin, too. I know because my childhood bedroom walls were covered in posters of Schism.
“You really shouldn’t snoop in people’s personal belongings.”
I stand up so fast that my thirty-two-year-old spine twinges in painful protest at the sharp movement.
Poppy stands a few feet from me, her lovely face frozen like stone into a harsh glare. I deduce right away that I haven’t just insulted her by snooping. It’s evident that her father is still an extremely sensitive subject for her.
“I apologize,” I tell her. “Profusely.”
She continues staring at me, eyes flashing between the JM 1999 box and me. Schism won countless Grammys over the years, not to mention the hundred or so other kinds of awards they were bestowed during their twelve-year career. I’m sure plenty of those boxes in the shipping container are full to bursting with them.
“I should have minded my own business,” I continue, sensing that I need to offer a more thorough apology. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I wholly respect your privacy, Ms. Minton—I mean, Poppy.”
She purses her lips. I brace myself, wondering if I’m about to be fired from a job for the first time since I started this company.
Except, in the end, all she offers is a chilly, “It’s fine.”
She turns on her heel, heading back toward the container. At that moment, Rhett and Jacob pull into the driveway in the van full of demolition gear.
The day hasn’t even begun yet, and I’m already walking on thin ice.