5. Chapter Five Poppy
Chapter Five: Poppy
M y second week in Mermaid Shores begins with a bang .
Literally.
I’ve purchased a lot of properties, but performed only minor renovations on them, and yet I know as well as anyone that the first step in a project like this is demolition.
Within two days, the cottage is pure chaos.
Maybe it should freak me out. All of my worldly possessions are locked away in the garage and my primary living space has been overtaken by burly men with big hammers for about eight hours every day. There’s dust and debris and everything is exceptionally ugly all of a sudden.
Despite that, I’m excited. It’s kind of thrilling, all this bedlam.
Something’s missing, though. For the most part, I’ve tried to stay out of everyone’s way. I’ve spent the past couple days down on the beach or roaming around town or overstaying my welcome at the Marx abode down the road.
Today, however, I want to get my hands dirty. I want to know that I actually played a hands-on role in remaking this cottage. And not just in the sense that I’m choosing the paint and the curtains and the furnishings.
So, on Wednesday morning, after some yoga on the beach, I slip past three buff guys with thick Boston accents and head upstairs to shower. I’ve already been warned that, in about a week or so, they’ll begin tearing down the staircase. Which means that, for a while, the second floor won’t be accessible.
For now, though, it’s a slightly quieter refuge from the work going on downstairs.
Yesterday, while I was browsing through a local boutique, I found a pair of adorable overalls. They’re a size too big, but the bagginess adds to the overall aesthetic of a super down-to-earth girl who definitely knows her way around basic construction tools. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for. Maybe if I look the part, it’ll come more easily.
Fake it until you make it. If I’ve learned anything useful from living in Los Angeles, it’s that.
I slip on my running shoes—the most practical pair of shoes I have—and pull my hair up into a ballerina bun. Smiling at myself in the mirror, I carefully remove my jewelry. I hardly ever take it off, and I feel a little naked without the familiar weight of 24k gold and twinkling diamonds. Still, it must be done.
A few minutes later, I find Joe in the kitchen. The major appliances have been removed, and are now stowed safely in the garage. The granite countertops were hauled away yesterday. It’s impressive how fast Mansfield Contracting gets stuff done.
Joe is crouched on his knees under the sink, muttering under his breath. He’s alone in here, the rest of his crew dealing with the demo needed toward the back of the house.
“Everything okay under there?” I ask.
Clearly, I’ve startled him, because he lurches upwards and knocks his head against the top of the cupboard before managing to fully pull himself out from under the sink. He sits back on his knees, rubbing the back of his head.
Then, when he sees me, he halts. Feeling weirdly self-conscious for perhaps the first time in my life, I watch as his gaze takes in my outfit. I swear his eyes linger on my wrists and neck and earlobes, which are usually adorned with gold and diamonds.
“Uh, yeah,” he finally answers. “I’m just not a great plumber.”
“That’s comforting to hear,” I joke.
He cringes. “Right. No, sorry. You have nothing to worry about. It’s just that Gerry wasn’t able to make it out here today and—”
“Gerry?”
“My plumber.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, so he talked me through how to shut off the water down here in the kitchen, and I really hope I’ve done it right. I guess we’ll find out.”
I can’t help laughing. This man has no idea how funny he is. The way he talks is just so blunt and nonchalant, and yet his handsome face and warm brown eyes make him look as sweet as an angel. He’s like a grumpy teddy bear.
After that weird moment Monday morning, I thought he might have written me off once and for all as a snobby brat. Especially since he now knows who my father was.
Thankfully, he seems just as eager as I am to move past it and pretend it never happened.
“Can I help?” I ask him.
He rises to his feet. His work boots are scuffed and dirty in the cool and rugged sort of way that so many indie wannabes in LA tried to emulate.
“Pardon?”
“I want to help,” I clarify. “I’d really like to contribute, I mean.”
Joe raises his eyebrows, then glances down at the wrench in his hand. “I really think it’d be best to leave this to the professionals, ma’am. For liability reasons.”
“You keep calling me that.”
“Sorry?”
“You keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel like I’m twice my actual age. You should call me Poppy.”
“Apologies… Poppy.”
“And as far as liability issues go, am I not the one currently paying home insurance on this property?”
“Um…”
“So, if I get hurt, it’s entirely my fault and I only have myself to blame. Right?”
“Well…”
“It’s not like I’m your employee. I’m just a volunteer who really wants to smash something with a sledge hammer.”
At that, Joe’s lips twitch. I’ve almost made him smile.
“Alright. Give me a minute to grab some supplies.”
I nod, watching him leave. His tool belt clinks and clanks on his way out.
In his absence, I get a little too curious. He’s got a travel mug sitting on the countertop nearby. I sneak over and pull the lid off, but there’s nothing interesting inside. Just black coffee. Boring.
Why do men always drink their coffee black? Don’t they want a little bit of joy in their lives? A little bit of sugar and cream? Something sweet to take the edge off?
Has Joe ever tried a blueberry latte before?
Would it be weird if I brought him one tomorrow morning? Maybe not, if I brought plenty for the whole crew. Croissants, too. And donuts and Danishes.
I smile to myself, making a mental note to get up extra early tomorrow morning so I can run to Lazy Joe’s and get first dibs on fresh pastries.
Joe returns a moment later, a sledge hammer in each hand. He also hands me a pair of protective eyeglasses and some gloves. I slip my hands into the gloves, which are way too big for me, but I’m not about to complain.
Instead of handing me one of the hammers, he props both of them up against the wall and then steps toward the large kitchen island. I don’t want an island in my kitchen—I don’t like that it disrupts the flow of things—so this one will need to be wiped out completely.
“The first part is boring,” he tells me, fishing in his tool belt for a screwdriver. “We have to remove the cabinet doors. We don’t want them swinging around and getting in the way. We also need to remove the drawers over here on this side.”
“Got it.” I hold out my hand for a screwdriver of my own and, after a brief moment of hesitation, Joe hands me one.
“Do you know how to—”
“Use a screwdriver?” I interrupt. “Yes, Joe. I’m an heiress, not an imbecile.”
“Right.”
We get to work. He moves a lot faster than me, but I don’t mind. There’s something comforting about the rhythmic twist of the tool and then the weight of the door dropping into my hands.
I don’t expect much conversation from him, so I search my mind for something to say that won’t set off his grumpy streak, but then he surprises me by breaking the silence himself.
“About what happened on Monday…”
I tense. I’m grateful that we’re on opposite sides of the island, crouched low so that we can’t even see each other.
“It’s fine,” I bite out.
Really, it’s my fault that he even had a glimpse into that box in the first place. I’m the one who was dumb enough to drop it on the ground, freak out, and then rip it open in front of him. Of course he was curious about what was inside.
Joe clears his throat. I hear the low rumble and clatter of him pulling one of the drawers free.
“I know you probably hear this all the time from literally everyone, but I was a big fan of your father’s band. Schism was—well, they were pretty amazing. Obviously, you know that, but… yeah.”
I soften slightly. He sounds nervous.
“Yeah, they were amazing,” I agree.
“My dad died when I was a kid, too.”
The screwdriver in my hand clatters to the floor. I’m vaguely aware of the other workers causing a ruckus in another part of the house, but suddenly all I can hear is my own heartbeat and the rush of my own horror.
“Oh,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Joe comes around to my side of the island. I still have three more doors to remove. I’m grateful for the distraction of my task and wave him off when he moves to help me. He sits back on the tile, supervising my work.
“I was really young,” he says. “I had just started kindergarten when he was diagnosed with cancer. He passed not long after that Christmas.”
I swallow hard, setting one of the doors aside. “That’s awful.”
“I don’t remember much about him, except that he was loud and funny and liked to make my mom laugh.”
I don’t know what to say, so I reach out and pat his knee. He meets my gaze.
“Sorry if that was too personal,” he continues. “I just thought—I mean, I know I made you a little uncomfortable the other day, so I wanted to let you know that I get it. I mean, our situations aren’t exactly the same, but—”
“But you wanted to let me know that we’re in the Dead Dads Club together.” I smile to let him know that I’m trying to make light of the dark topic.
Joe lets out a huff of laughter. “Yeah, I guess so.”
When I was younger, little more than a haughty teenager who was angry at the entire world, I used to wish that I didn’t know my dad as well as I did. That Jack Minton was just some guy who happened to be my biological father, and that we weren’t nearly as close as we were. I convinced myself it would’ve made losing him so suddenly and so tragically feel easier.
I understand now that it wouldn’t have made anything easier at all. And I’m also eternally grateful for all my memories of him.
Joe shifts forward and takes the screwdriver from me so he can finish the rest of the cabinet doors. This time, I let him take over.
“Were you close with him?” he asks. His voice is soft, almost like he’s not certain if he wants to keep pressing the topic.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “He was my best friend. My hero. Schism’s popularity meant he was never in one place very long, so he hired a private tutor and took me on the road with him and the band. My mom wasn’t—I mean, she’s a whole different story. But my dad… most twenty-six-year-old guys wouldn’t bring their daughters on tour with them. They’d leave them with an au pair or ship them off to boarding school, you know? And my grandmother—the British one who still lives in London—tried to convince him to let her raise me. But he was adamant that he be as involved as possible in my life. So, from the time I was really little until I was thirteen, I spent the majority of my time on tour buses, in green rooms at all kinds of venues, and in lots of fancy hotel rooms.”
“Wow.” Joe sets aside the final door and shoves the screwdriver back in his belt. “I didn’t know that. I mean, I think I vaguely knew that he had a kid, but he seemed like such a typical rockstar that I couldn’t even imagine that you were actually there with him the whole time.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “I know, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong. My dad and the guys partied like normal rockstars. There were a lot of nights where Deb—the band’s manager—would put me to bed, and then I’d wake up the next morning at, like, four thirty to my dad coming back home from whatever party or event he’d been at. But then he’d scoop me up, read me a bedtime story, and I’d fall asleep again for another hour or two. He wasn’t a normal dad, but he was a good one.”
Joe smiles painfully. “I’m really sorry, Poppy. The crash… it—”
My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Automatically, I reach into my pocket and pull it out, thinking it might be Aiden or Misha Roklov or someone important. I’m aware of Joe stopping mid-sentence as I glance down at the screen, but I lose track of our conversation as soon as I see who it is.
It’s the cockroach again.
I let out a frustrated growl and rise to my feet. This pathetic idiot is really not going to leave me alone.
“I’m really sorry,” I say to Joe. “But I should probably answer this.”
“It’s alright,” he calls to my rapidly retreating form.
“Leave something for me to smash apart, okay?” I shout over my shoulder as I hurry toward the back doors. I’m definitely going to need to take this call outside, because I don’t think I’m going to sound very sweet and charming while dealing with Percy Barclay.
“You got it, Poppy,” I think I hear Joe respond.