13. Ember #2
“I’m not just a lottery winner anymore,” I say, pulling a face. “I’m a homeowner with a very expensive plumbing problem.”
“Same difference,” she laughs. “But seriously, don’t settle for the ‘neighborly’ thing if it’s making you want to punch him in the throat. If he doesn’t start playing the game, we’ll just have to cheat.”
“Cheat?”
“I have a very specific set of skills,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Mostly involving ‘accidentally’ leaving doors opened or ‘misplacing’ his keys in your living room.”
I stare at her, my mouth hanging open.
“You know,” I say. “I’m really glad you called, Lauren.”
“I know,” she says, shooting me a wink. “I’m a gem. Now, let’s go see if your house is as much of a ‘beautiful disaster’ as you claim, or if you’re just hiding the fact that you’ve actually got a secret interior designer tucked away in that pantry.”
“I have a pile of wet drywall and a dream,” I say, walking toward the door.
“Perfect,” she says, grabbing her bag. “I love a project.”
? ? ?
Two hours later, the Gilded Goat’s front entryway looks like a hurricane made of Home Depot samples hit it.
Lauren is currently lying flat on her back on the old hardwood, staring at the ceiling, her legs propped up against the wall. She’s holding a paint chip that is a shade of yellow so aggressive it’s practically vibrating.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting cross-legged next to a stack of wet, peeling wallpaper, picking at a stubborn corner with a plastic putty knife.
“This wallpaper is a hate crime,” I say, finally getting a strip to peel back. It comes off in a satisfying, long sheet. “I think the previous owners just layered new paper over the old paper every ten years. I’m basically performing an archaeological dig of bad taste.”
Lauren rolls over and props herself up on her elbows, squinting at the wall.
“It’s like the rings of a tree, Emmy. But instead of seasons, it’s just decades of people making poor choices.
That floral print underneath? That was definitely the seventies.
Nobody should be forced to look at mustard-colored daisies while they’re trying to find their keys. ”
“I’m just glad it’s coming off,” I say, tossing the strip onto the pile. “Honestly, two hours ago I was ready to just paint over it and call it a day. But the way you keep making those disgusted faces is actually working. I feel weirdly motivated to keep going.”
“That’s the power of peer pressure,” she says, grabbing a different paint chip—a soft, dusty sage green—and holding it up to the wall. “See? Look at this. Sage. It’s calm. It says, ‘Welcome home, please don’t look at the fact that the floor is slightly crooked.’”
“It’s not that crooked,” I protest, though I know it is.
“Brooks fixed the support beam underneath this area last week. He spent three hours in the crawlspace, which is basically the most romantic thing a man has ever done for me, even if he did it while complaining about the local zoning codes the entire time.”
Lauren lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh, that’s classic Brooks. He treats home repair like a tactical mission. Did he actually talk, or was it just grunts and requests for a specific size of wrench?”
“He actually talked!” I say, surprised by the memory. “It was… humanizing.”
Lauren goes quiet, her fingers tracing the edge of a paint chip. “He’s got a lot of weight on him, Emmy. That fire changed everything for him. He started thinking he had to be the guy who fixes everything perfectly so that nothing bad ever happens again. It’s a lot to live up to.”
I stop picking at the wallpaper. “Does he know you see that?”
“Probably not. He’d be mortified if he knew I was analyzing his psyche in front of his neighbor,” she says, shaking her head. “But that’s the thing about this house. You’re making it solid again. And I think, somewhere, that helps him feel like things can actually stay fixed.”
I look at the wall, then at Lauren, and decide to pivot before things get too heavy. “Well, if I’m fixing the house, maybe you can fix the entryway. Because right now, the vibe is ‘dilapidated cottage core.’”
“‘Dilapidated cottage core’ is a style,” Lauren points out. “We just need to make it look intentional. We pull the wallpaper, we sand the plaster, we go with this sage, and we add a giant, ridiculous mirror that makes the room look twice as big.”
“And where am I supposed to put a giant mirror?”
“Right there,” she says, pointing at the wall where the worst of the peeling daisies are. “So you can check your hair and realize that the caution tape really is a bold choice.”
I laugh, throwing the putty knife into the pile of debris. “You’re relentless. I love it.”
“I’m just getting started,” she says, sitting up and clapping her hands together. “Now, get back to peeling. If we finish this wall fast, I’m going to make us the best, most over-complicated espresso you’ve ever had. And I’m not even going to let you burn yourself.”
“Deal,” I say, grabbing a new corner of the paper. “But you’re doing the sanding.”
“Deal,” she says, picking up a scraper. “But I get to choose the playlist.”
“As long as it isn’t eighties pop,” I mutter.
“Oh, it’s going to be so much worse than eighties pop,” she says, grinning. “Prepare yourself, Emmy. We’re going to be here for a while.”
? ? ?
Hours later, Lauren stands up, stretches her back with a dramatic groan, and wipes her forehead, leaving a white streak of dust across her hairline. She glances at her phone, her expression softening.
“Right. Duty calls. Sophie’s done, and then I’m back on that plane tomorrow morning. I’m going to miss this level of destruction, you know. Nobody in the city has the patience for proper wallpaper removal anymore.”
“You’re leaving me with the dust,” I point out, nudging a pile of scrap with my toe. “You’re abandoning me to the sage green madness.”
“I’m leaving you with a vision, Emmy,” she says, pulling her phone from her pocket and snapping a picture of the naked, beige wall. “And a deadline. I want a picture of that wall painted and styled by the time I land back in New Mexico. No excuses. I’ll be checking.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, mock-saluting.
She walks over to the screen door, her eyes scanning the yard. Lauren looks back at me, her grin wide and genuine. “Seriously, though. You’re doing great.”