19. Lydia
19
LYDIA
“ D o you need anything, Tony?” I asked the handyman I had hired for the week.
I had budgeted carefully and was knocking out as many medium-size projects as could be completed during the week. I focused on smaller issues like making sure all the door locks and keys were functional, while Tony patched drywall and pressure washed the brick walls around the back half of the building. Neither of us thought the decorative shingle siding would withstand pressure washing. I painted a few closets, and he tackled bigger paint jobs like the front and back porches.
He was currently painting all the detailed woodwork with another coat of white. Someday, maybe after one of those grants came in, I could paint Sweet Mountain in all the colors and be a painted lady like the library.
Aunt Ruth had really done the inn, and me, a real disservice by not allowing me to learn how to maintain this place. She had kept the inn limping along on the bare minimum. It broke my heart how much of my mother’s efforts had come undone in the past ten years. Sweet Mountain Inn needed to be brought back up to a certain level of repair, and then regular maintenance would keep her in good shape.
Logically, I knew I wasn’t going to have her back in top condition in less than a year, but in my heart, I really wanted this lovely old place in peak condition immediately. In my business plans, I was looking at five years to undo the past ten years’ worth of damage, and another five after that to get her into showplace quality. If any of the grants I applied for came through, maybe I could get the Sweet Mountain Inn in top shape sooner than ten years.
I was doing as much as I possibly could. Even before I got pregnant, there were tasks I couldn’t manage, and that’s why Tony was here.
“I’m good,” he said.
I watched for a minute as he worked the paintbrush with small taps to get the paint into the filigree areas of the gingerbread woodworking around the edges of the porch roof.
“I made myself a sandwich. Let me know if you change your mind.” I sat on the porch steps and ate my sandwich. It wasn’t anything fancy—bologna, a slice of cheese, mayonnaise, and white bread. It reminded me of my childhood. Once upon a time, a sandwich like this out on the front steps of the inn felt like the best lunch ever. Mom always cut the bread into giant triangles, and if we had potato chips, I would have a handful of those, and maybe a pickle spear or two.
I glanced down at my plate. I had forgotten the chips and pickles.
I pushed up to my feet.
“Hey, Tony, I’m going to go get some chips. Are you certain I can’t make you a sandwich?”
He wiped his brow, smearing a slash of white paint across it. “Yeah, I could use something to eat. What you got, PB and J?”
“Bologna,” I said.
“Can you put yellow mustard on there for me? And a big drink. You got some lemonade or something?”
“I have iced tea,” I mentioned.
“Sounds perfect.”
I returned to the kitchen and put together a few more sandwiches. I made myself a second one, since I was hungry. This time, when I carried lunch out to the porch, I remembered chips and pickles.
I returned to my spot on the stairs. Tony sat a few steps below me. At first, we ate in silence and then he got chatty.
“You know, a few coats of paint aren’t going to fix the problem. Half of this decorative molding is rotted out,” Tony said.
“I know. But it’s not something I can buy at the local hardware store. I would have to custom order it, or make it myself, and my woodworking skills are nonexistent.”
“You’re running the Historical Society. Haven’t you managed to get one of those grants you tell people to apply for?”
I let out a bitter laugh. I hated admitting it, but the entire grant process was a lot harder than I had expected. I couldn’t just write an essay outlining why the Sweet Mountain Inn deserved an infusion of cash. I had to provide data about the history of the building and how many people stayed there on a regular basis. I needed to provide projections regarding the economical impact it made on the town.
“I keep applying, but the process is much more complicated than I expected.”
“Have you talked to that group, the Carlisle people, about selling?” he asked.
I knew Tony asked in all innocence. But I had to take a moment before answering him before I did something rash and jumped down his throat. I couldn’t afford to have him quit with the porch only halfway painted.
I bit into a pickle spear, giving myself the few moments I needed to regain some form of composure.
“I’m not selling. This place was my mom’s,” I started. “I lost her when I was young, too young. She loved this place.”
“Did it come from your family? Or did she buy it?”
“A little of both. It was in my father’s family.”
“So, it was your parents’ inn?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just Mom. So my dad was some kind of deadbeat loser, and his own family didn’t even like him. So after he left town with his girlfriend, his great uncle who owned Sweet Mountain asked if my mom wanted to run the place. I guess at some point, he had plans on my father being the one to take over, but everyone disowned him.”
“So he just gave the place to your mother?”
“Technically, he sold it to her for one dollar, or maybe it was five dollars. There was something about not having to pay inheritance tax or something by doing that. And that’s when we moved in.”
“You have a really good memory,” Tony said.
“Hardly. I was too young when all of that happened. I remember what people told me.”
“So your great-great uncle made sure you got the family inn,” Tony said.
“I guess so. I had never really thought of it that way. Wow, I guess it has been in my family the whole time. You know, I tend to think of Mom and Aunt Ruth as family and my father as someone who just happened to me. But his family history is mine.”
This new revelation would be a great piece of information to include in all those grant applications.
“Now I really need to save the old girl. Not only do I see Mom in all the details, but I’ve got a family history to maintain.” I stood, my food finished.
Tony handed me his empty plate. I carried the dishes in one hand and bent to pick up a bucket of drywall joint compound. A new delivery had come in earlier, three five-gallon buckets, and was taking up space on the porch. It was heavy, but I could get it inside one-handed. After that, I’d have to put it down, take the dishes to the kitchen, and come back to carry it with both hands.
“Let me get that for you. You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things in your condition.”
I set the bucket down with a thunk. “My condition? That obvious, huh? I can still carry heavy things.”
He started hemming and hawing. “I mean, no, not really obvious. Well, I’ve been watching the way you move all week. Couldn’t help but notice, and well…”
I grimaced. Couldn’t help but notice? Yikes.
“I’ve heard some folks talking,” he said. “I normally don’t pay that kind of chatter any attention, but then seeing you…”
I nodded. The rumor mill had me in its grasp. “People would figure it out eventually,” I said. “It’s not like I’m not up there parading in front of meetings every other week. Someone was bound to notice. I thought it wouldn’t be noticeable for a bit.”
Tony bent and lifted two of the buckets as if they didn’t weigh a thing. “Where do you want these?”
I pointed to the floor. “Put those down. I’m perfectly capable of moving the buckets. What I can’t do is climb up on a ladder and paint. You paint, I’ll move the buckets.”
He gave me a bit of side eye, but he set the buckets down.
I took the dishes to the kitchen before returning to the porch to grab the drywall joint compound. I moved the three buckets, one at a time. But I did it. It would have been easier to let Tony drag them in. He was clearly stronger than I was. But I wasn’t going to let this pregnancy get in the way of pursuing my dreams of getting this inn back into shape.
This place had been Mom’s pride and joy. I wanted to honor her. I wanted to think she was watching me and being proud of my choices. Okay, maybe getting knocked up hadn’t been the best plan. But it wasn’t planned, thus proving the whole failing to plan is planning to fail idiom. Mom raised me on her own. I liked to think she wouldn’t judge me too harshly. I knew there were more than enough people in this town who would. I guess it was time to confess to Evie about this pregnancy. Of course, if Tim knew, Evie already knew.