CHAPTER 7
By the time Hudson had made it back home, his father had gone off to work at the island’s lone auto garage. Even though he was technically semiretired, he still showed up every weekday, just a bit later. Hudson could hear Kimber blaring music in the workshop by the milking barn where she took care of the goats, who were currently jumping around on hay bales and bleating at each other or munching on what grass they had. He walked into the kitchen, intent on getting some more caffeine in the hope it would improve his shitty mood.
His mother was drinking coffee, apparently having had the same idea. She pointed to the pot, and he grunted his thanks that there was some left. She took one look at him and sighed.
“Guess that didn’t go well, huh?”
“He doesn’t think I have enough experience.” He stirred some creamer into the coffee, then thought Fuck it and grabbed the Hershey’s syrup out of the fridge. Sometimes you just wanted sugar, even if you were forty-two. He dumped an unhealthy amount in, then put it back and stirred his coffee viciously, until a little whirlpool formed in the mug.
His mother bristled. “Everybody around here knows your work, though.”
“Yeah, well, apparently that’s not good enough, since he’s had remodeling done in Seattle or somewhere, so he knows everything about it.” He knew he sounded bitter. He was bitter. “Basically told me that if I didn’t give him a bargain-basement bid, he’d be using someone else. To make it worse, he’s got all this gorgeous period-original stuff—you wouldn’t believe it, it just needs some love—and he’s going to toss it all away to buy some fancy stuff that will look outdated in ten years and wear out in twenty.”
“I’m sorry.” His mother’s face reflected the sentiment. “That had to hurt.”
He gritted his teeth. It did, on a number of levels.
His mother set her mouth, then gestured for him to sit down. He did, puzzled at her suddenly grave expression. “Are you sure you want to go this route?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve had a good run as a handyman, is all,” she said, and he could tell she was picking her words carefully. “You have more than enough work, especially with Kenny being an ass about jobs. Most people here don’t need a full remodel, and the ones that do, the ones that can actually afford to hire you, they’re going to expect you to be there all the time. They’re not going to understand that you have to run over to Mrs. Tennyson’s to fix the rotten step on her back porch, or go to Dan and Kelly’s because their son hit a baseball through the picture window.”
He let out a defeated huff of breath.
“There’s no shame in being a handyman, you know.” There was some steel in her voice now. “There’s a waiting list for fixes, from people who have lived here and have known you since you were a child. Even the new folk, the rich folk, have contacted you. It’s steady work. You’re making a good living.”
“I know, Ma.”
The damned thing was, he did know. He’d been doing odd jobs since he was in high school, and then when Amanda turned up pregnant just after graduation, he’d gone into overdrive and made it a true handyman business. He’d worked steady, bringing in enough to keep the kids fed and taken care of after Amanda moved out to go to law school. People on the island always needed things fixed. There were too many old houses.
But he didn’t just want to fix plumbing endlessly because Kenny was an asshole on a power trip who charged too much and did a half-assed job.
Or patch up drywall because someone’s kid had tried to golf in the living room.
Or finally replace the soffits that were rotting out under the eaves of somebody’s house.
I didn’t want to stay stuck on this shitty island with a fucking handyman!
He grimaced. He’d made his peace with Amanda, he really had. But that one sentence, the one that had finally closed the door on them, just seemed to stick with him, like a splinter you knew was there but couldn’t see.
“So you think I should abandon the general contracting?” he said. “But there aren’t a ton of old houses on the island—”
“No! No,” she quickly said. “But ... maybe you can just target building additions or things for a while? Or doing remodels that are more general? There isn’t going to be a lot of call for restoring things, and I know that every time you see something—”
“Sure there are,” he interrupted. “They’re smaller, but we’ve got those Arts and Crafts bungalows, and the Cape Cods by the beach ...” He trailed off at her irritated look. He should’ve known—she hated being interrupted. “Sorry.”
“I’m saying, rather than doing the general contracting for older houses, why don’t you do what you really used to love?” she said.
He looked at her. “Clock stuff?”
“You wouldn’t have to limit yourself to clocks,” she said with an encouraging smile. “You’re like my father. You like tinkering, fixing things. I don’t think there’s a thing you couldn’t restore, if you put your mind to it.”
He made a half grunt. She wasn’t wrong. There was a time when he would’ve really enjoyed being an antique restoration specialist. His family wasn’t aware that he’d taken some courses in clock repair and restoration, in the city, over the past few years. Nothing terribly strenuous. He didn’t know why he didn’t tell them, other than he didn’t want them asking questions. It was a private hobby, something that was purely his. Better they thought he was going to a club than that he was going to learn about pendulum quartz movements.
He did like restoration, though. It was gratifying. In a way, that’s what he did as a handyman on the island. So many parts of it were old and broken or worn down, and he brought them back to life and use.
Restoration would be a nice side hustle, he had to admit. Less physically taxing.
Not that he was having that hard a time, but he could see his future if he kept up his one-man show: grimacing and grunting as he sat down in his recliner at night, popping ibuprofen for too-young-to-be-this-old aches instead of a partied-a-little-too-hard hangover.
Didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Sorry,” he repeated, only this time, it was for being grumpy. His mother meant well, he knew that, and he literally wouldn’t have been able to do what he did, or take care of his kids, without her help. So he bit back any other curt words. “Maybe I’ll go off island tonight. Blow off some steam.”
Now she shook her head, and he groaned before she could launch into her usual tirade.
“No, Ma. I love you, but I don’t need the lecture right now. I am a forty-two-year-old man.”
“Which is my point exactly,” she transitioned smoothly, as if he hadn’t protested at all. “You’re forty-two. Your kids are grown up. Do you really still need to ‘blow off steam’? Haven’t you outgrown this ... this nail-and-bail stuff?”
“I don’t know that twenty-three is grown up,” he muttered, deliberately ignoring the fact that his mother had actually used the term “nail and bail.” He’d be brain-bleaching that for weeks. “Especially when Kimber still lives here, and you and I both know Jeremy and that girlfriend of his aren’t going to pan out.”
“You were barely nineteen when you and Amanda had them,” she said.
“And look how well that worked out.”
Of course, that was when Kimber had to walk in. He saw her look of hurt and immediately felt like a complete shit. He got out of the chair, giving her a quick, hard hug. “I don’t mean you ,” he said. “I meant how the marriage turned out. I love you, and Jeremy. I don’t regret having you one bit.”
“Thanks,” Kimber said with her usual sarcasm, even though he saw the sting in her eyes. “That makes one of you.”
He winced. “Come on. I can’t speak for your mother, not really, but we both know she—”
“Loves me, I know, I know,” Kimber said dismissively. “What’s going on?”
His mother reddened. “Nothing, sweetie,” she said. “How’s the soap going?”
“The mix is cooling,” Kimber replied after a quick suspicious glance between the two of them. “Then we’ll start the stir for the trace.”
His phone rang as they started babbling about what they were going to put in the thickening soap. He barely glanced at it, just eager to grab a lifeline out of this conversation. “Marre Island Fix-Its,” he said, moving to the living room to get some quiet. “How can I help you?”
There was a momentary pause, long enough that he wondered if he’d somehow accidentally been butt-dialed. “Um, hi, yes,” a woman’s flustered voice finally said. “I ... well, I think there’s something wrong with my stove, and the woman at the grocery store gave me your number?”
“What’s wrong with your stove?”
“If I knew,” she said a little ruefully, “I wouldn’t have called?”
He barked out a laugh. “No, I mean, what’s it doing? Or not doing? Is it gas or electric?”
“Gas,” she said. “And I don’t hear it clicking, and the oven isn’t heating. Since it’s gas, I don’t want to mess with it on my own. I don’t smell anything, so I didn’t call the gas company, although I don’t even know how long it would take them to get here ...”
“That’s smart. Don’t worry, you did the right thing,” he said to relieve his caller. “I’ll be over soon, but in the meantime, maybe open your windows, wait outside? Where are you?”
“Ah ... kind of next door, I think,” she said. “I’m Willa. We, ah, met last night? I returned your dog.”
He felt his smile spread. “Willa, right,” he drawled, leaning against the wall as his chest heated. “Of course. Well, I’m sorry your stove’s not working, but I’m happy to help. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
He hung up. It was like his brain did a complete one-eighty. He’d been pissed and exhausted and frustrated when he’d walked through the door. Now, one phone call had managed to do what a full cup of sickly sweet syrupy coffee hadn’t. He felt energized. Not just awake but pumped up, like he was ready for a night in a club ... or a longer night, with someone equally enthusiastic.
Not that Willa is either enthusiastic or interested. He thought back to his mother’s nail-and-bail accusation.
That at least sobered him up a little, but he was still grinning when he walked back into the kitchen. His mother noticed immediately, of course.
“Who was that?”
“The new neighbor, Willa,” he said, and no matter how he tried, the smile didn’t leave his voice. “Her stove’s not working, and it’s gas, so I’m gonna run over there and make sure it’s okay. Ms. Caroline was so old by the end there, I think she wasn’t using much other than her microwave and toaster oven.”
“That’s nice,” his mother said, then smiled herself ... something more catlike. “And she’s your age, you say?”
“Again: knock it off, Ma.”
“That’s what Gram was getting on you about?” Kimber said, then rolled her eyes. “You’re not still trying to get him remarried, are you?”
“He’s only forty-two,” his mother repeated with a shrug.
“Okay, I’m ...” He stopped himself. “Actually, before I leave: Do we have any extra blackberry jam I could have? Or some soap bars?”
Kimber narrowed her eyes. “Bearing gifts, huh?”
“Welcome present,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to push her. I just don’t want her scared of me. I figure if she sees me in daylight and I’m bringing some island stuff, she’ll relax a little.” He didn’t know why it was so important that she feel at home, but he also didn’t really care. He tried not to overthink that kind of thing. He just didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. About anything, really.
His dad was right: don’t shit where you eat. He’d never dated anybody on island since the divorce, and he wasn’t going to start now, no matter how sweet the neighbor looked.
“I’ll get some of the lavender oatmeal goat milk soap,” his daughter said.
“I’ll get the jam and honeycomb,” his mother said. “Oh! And we’ve got some Sungold cherry tomatoes. Maybe some vegetables?”
“Thanks,” he said, and moved quickly to help them gather his peace offering.