Chapter 2
Mac
"It's such a shame about your dad," Mr. McGee says as he shakes my hand in front of the vacant old building in downtown Lindell.
"Thank you," I tell him with a gentle dip of my head.
My father has been gone for ten years and counting, but maybe it makes sense for Mr. McGee to mention him, as I can't recall seeing or speaking to the man since he passed.
"Now, he was an incredible contractor."
I hear the hint of unease in his voice, as if he's unsure that I'm capable of doing the same job my father would've done for him. It's nothing new. There are a lot of folks around town who have opinions on my younger generation, and I can't count the number of times that I've surprised people with my abilities. They even see it as a compliment when they tell me they thought I would fail or do a poor job.
So the uncertainty in his voice isn't a surprise, but it's like a scab being picked at over and over that won't heal.
"He taught me everything I know," I assure him with an easy smile.
This is my third time meeting with someone in the McGee family about renovating this property, but it seems whatever the two sons have gone back and told their old man isn't sitting right with him, hence the meeting today.
"He was a wonderful man. A man of integrity. He always gave me the best price," Mr. Mc Gee says as he fumbles with a ring full of keys.
He almost drove Hammertime Construction into the ground because of it.
My father's legacy was a mess when I took over, and there are still things that pop up now and then from more than ten-year-old mistakes that I'm paying for. But I promised the man on his deathbed that I'd see this through, so I keep plugging away at it.
"Framers, Inc. came in thirty thousand under your bid," he says when he finally gets the door unlocked, and we step inside.
"Did they give you a pricing sheet? "
"I didn't bring any of their paperwork with me. I signed something saying I wouldn't share it with anyone. Legal stuff, you know?"
"Oh, I know," I tell him as I walk deeper into the building.
This place is fantastic. It was an old theater, and it doesn't take much more than me closing my eyes to remember coming here with my old man when I was younger. I swear a deep enough breath in the right area of this front room, and I can still get a hint of butter from the popcorn he'd always buy me for the show.
"I imagine they'll use the cheapest materials they can find, which would work," I begin as I walk toward some of the walls and flick a finger at the peeling paint. The heat from Texas summers combined with the lack of circulating air has created so many problems here. "For a while anyway. Did they mention their plans for the asbestos removal?"
His mouth opens and closes like a fish when it has been pulled from the water.
"You know about the asbestos?"
"This building has been here forever. It was a saloon at the turn of the century, and it was renovated in the nineteen fifties. There's no way it doesn't have asbestos," I explain, telling him not only have I done my research on the building, but I also know what I'm talking about as far as the resources that will be needed in order to bring it back up to code. "Did they mention the removal?"
"They said so long as construction doesn't interrupt it, it'll be fine," he says as he looks away.
Is this old man seriously considering letting that company come in and do work the improper way?
When he brushes a hand over his forehead, unable to make eye contact with me, I know for a fact that he had every intention of doing that just to save some money.
Disappointment lashes at my chest. I understand not being able to do something because money is tight, but putting others in danger because you want to cut a few corners is insane. And the older folks of this community are concerned about my generation?
"Your oldest son said you wanted to knock out the wall between there," I say, pointing to the back of the room where the two theater rooms are, "and the front. That would disrupt the asbestos in the wall."
"I had this building renovated in ninety-five," he says as if he just remembered. "In fact, your father did the work for me."
"I know," I tell him. "He tied into that main wall, separating the one theater into two."
"Right," he says proudly. "Did a damn fine job."
"And disrupted the asbestos without doing proper removal."
His face falls, his eyes narrowing in my direction, but he doesn't speak.
"My dad was a good man," I begin. "He liked to help his customers out. If they were okay with cutting corners to save some money, he did that for them. It's how you got such a great price. I'm not my father. I won't break the law and put people at risk to save you a few bucks. If that's the expectation, then you might want to go with that other company. Just know, improper removal of the asbestos in this building will bring you more trouble than it's worth."
"That somehow sounds like a threat," the old-timer says.
"It's my understanding that you want to revamp this place, but keep the nostalgia. I'm all for that. People I love in town would trip over their own feet for a place like that. I won't let people I love get hurt. Have a good day, Mr. McGee."
I stand between the two sets of doors as a car pulls up outside of the building, but the woman behind the wheel is too busy dabbing tears from her eyes to bother looking up to see if anyone is witnessing her sadness.
I wait, hoping Mr. McGee doesn't walk out here and join me while I wait for her to pull off.
She seems upset, and I doubt she wants a witness to her misery.
Thankfully, she doesn't spend much time being upset before wiping her face with her hands and heading on her way.
I'm not exactly impressed with Mr. McGee's desire to cut corners on this old building. It deserves better than what he seems to want to do with it, even though money is tight for everyone. I believe in doing a job well and doing it right. As hard as it is to admit, my father cut more corners than he ever should've to keep his customers happy.
I love the guy. He was a hero in my eyes, but I don't fully understand why he did some of the things he did. I also try not to judge him too harshly, either, because I know he did his best to keep his business alive and take care of his family.
I clench my hands into fists, needing a breath of fresh air and a little distance from this old place. Who knows how much influence this place had on my dad when he worked that renovation job? Was he already sick then? Was this the place that opened that door for him?
I shake my head as I shove open the door to the old theater and walk toward my truck.
Maybe I shouldn't concern myself with a place like this, but as I drive to today's worksite, I just can't get it out of my mind. I want the notoriety that would come with the renovation. I know hundreds of people will know I put in the work and effort to restore it, and that means a lot to me. I have plenty to keep me busy, but I've always been one to take more joy in a long job, one where my real skill can be shown. Anyone worth their weight in the construction business can build what folks are calling modern-day farmhouses, which are all the rage right now. But it takes care and attention, as well as the ability to slow down and understand the materials you're working with, to do a restoration like the Old McGee Theater.
It chaps my ass in the worst way to know that some city asshole will come in and cut corners just to get it up to code. Old buildings like that deserve more respect, and I know some cookie-cutter company out of Austin isn't going to care about the legacy of the place.
"Where are the twins?" I ask Ethan when I pull up to the small concrete job we have scheduled today.
"Flu," the man says with a shrug of his shoulders, shoveling the concrete out onto the rebar grid we constructed yesterday.
If it were anyone else, I'd think they called in sick because they just didn't want to work, but as much as the Tate brothers like to party, they also have the best work ethic of anyone I've ever met. If they called and said they were sick, then they are. I have no reason not to believe them. Living together and doing everything together has its benefits, but this is one of the downfalls of the brothers being so damned close. When one gets sick, it's almost inevitable that the other one will too.
"Well shit," I say as I mentally switch gears for the day. "I have to make a few calls to rearrange my day, but give me half an hour, and I'll help finish this one out with you."
He dips his head as he continues to work. Nothing much bothers Ethan unless lunch is late, and then you see a different side of him. The man lives to eat.
Today felt like any other damn day, long, exhausting, and repetitive. It seems like months before the sun starts to lower in the sky, indicating the workday is done.
Staying home in the silence of my too-big house seems too depressing for me, so after my shower, I head to the bar. At least I can get lost in the laughter and music of others around me.