Chapter Two #2
We worked each corner higher until the dolly rolled free. Shay measured the recess again, checked the cabinet, and reached for a level.
The bubble settled a little left of center.
“I need a thin shim on the back corner,” she said.
I handed her one from the neat stack beside the wall.
She tapped it into place and checked again.
The bubble rested in the center.
Shay sat back on her heels and smiled. “That’s perfect.”
Her smile hit me harder than the pale-blue dress had that morning. She’d taken a falling-down bungalow and made it solid again.
“What?” she asked.
“You know what you’re doing.”
“I told you that.”
“You did.”
“And you didn’t believe me?”
“I hadn’t seen the work yet.”
“That’s unusually reasonable for a Calhoun.”
“I could say the same about a Luttrell with permits.”
Shay’s smile faded. “Every permit is legitimate.”
“I believe you.”
“I didn’t use Daddy’s office. I submitted everything through the regular process, paid the fees, and hired independent inspectors where I could.”
“You don’t have to prove it to me.”
Her fingers tightened around the level. “You asked about the inspections.”
“I asked because I wanted to know whether the place was safe before I started moving things around. I wasn’t looking for a reason to catch you doing something wrong.”
She set the level down carefully.
“My family will,” she said.
The words came without the quicker rhythm she used when she was joking.
I didn’t tell her they wouldn’t. I’d met Mayor Luttrell.
“Is that why they don’t know?” I asked.
“It’s one reason.”
She stood and brushed dust from her jeans. “The lower cabinet needs to be secured, but I want to check the upper section first. If the shelves don’t sit square, I’d rather fix it before I attach anything.”
“That makes sense.”
Shay studied me. “You’re not going to ask why the mayor’s daughter is restoring a bungalow on her day off?”
“You bought it because you wanted to.”
Her expression shifted.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“Was there supposed to be another answer?”
“Most people have several.”
“Most people haven’t seen what you’ve done here.”
She picked up the tape measure from the windowsill. “Help me lift the upper section.”
We carried the shelf unit to the recess. It was lighter than the cabinet but awkward, and Shay had to stretch to guide it above the base.
“Wait,” she said. “The left side is catching.”
I held the weight steady while she ran her fingers along the casing.
“There’s old plaster behind the trim.”
“What do you need?”
“Another quarter inch.”
I shifted the shelves toward me.
“Hold it there.”
“I’ve got it.”
Shay slipped a flat bar behind the loose edge and eased away the plaster without damaging the wood. Sweat dampened the curls at the back of her neck. A faint streak of dust crossed one cheek.
“Try it now,” she said.
We lifted again. The shelves settled into the recess with barely any gap.
Shay stepped back. “That’s how it was supposed to look.”
The built-in framed the opening between the living room and kitchen, old wood against new paint and pale stone. It belonged there.
“You going to stain it?” I asked.
“Paint. The wood beneath those six layers isn’t worth exposing, and the original finish is long gone. I’m using a warm cream so it doesn’t disappear against the walls.”
“You kept the old hardware.”
“I’m cleaning it. I could buy replacements, but these fit the doors.”
“And you already paid for them.”
Her eyes brightened. “Exactly.”
“You have a budget.”
“I have five spreadsheets for this place.”
I remembered her telling me she numbered sober thoughts too.
“Only five?”
“The sixth is for the next property.”
She said it lightly, but she turned away too quickly and reached for the level.
I didn’t ask about the next property.
We secured the lower cabinet and checked the shelves. Shay marked each screw location before drilling a pilot hole.
“Hold the shelves steady,” she said.
I braced one side while she drove the first screw, then moved to the next mark.
“Let go.”
I did. She checked the level, adjusted one corner, and drilled again while I stayed out of her way.
By the time the built-in stood secure in its recess, my shirt clung between my shoulder blades and the sunlight had shifted across the kitchen floor.
Shay took off her safety glasses and set them beside the drill. “I owe you lunch.”
“You don’t.”
“You gave up part of your day.”
“I stopped because I wanted to.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m letting you leave hungry.”
“I’ve got food in the truck.”
She tilted her head. “You carry emergency meals?”
“I work on a ranch.”
“What happens if you miss lunch?”
“I get hungry.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It can turn ugly.”
“Then bring it in. I have iced tea.”
I retrieved the small cooler from behind my truck seat. When I returned, Shay had spread a clean cloth over one end of the quartz counter and set out two glasses, a pitcher of iced tea, and a bowl of peaches.
“You keep dishes here?” I asked.
“The kitchen is finished.”
“I can see that.”
“You sounded surprised.”
“I was wondering whether the dishes have their own spreadsheet.”
“They have a shelf.”
“Seems risky.”
She laughed and poured the tea.
I unpacked two brisket sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper, pickles, and a bag of chips.
Duane had put them in the cooler before I left the bar. He’d packed food for two without explanation, which meant I’d hear about it later.
Shay unwrapped one sandwich. “This is from Sin & Tonic.”
“It is.”
“You brought me lunch without knowing I’d be here?”
“I brought myself two sandwiches.”
“Of course you did.”
“I’m a large man.”
She glanced at my chest before she picked up her tea.
“I noticed.”
Shay took a long drink. Color rose along her cheeks, but she didn’t take the words back.
I sat on the other side of the counter.
The first bite of brisket was smoky and sharp with pepper. Outside, cicadas filled the pause while a ceiling fan moved warm air through the kitchen.
“You really work the ranch every day?” she asked.
“Most days.”
“And run the bar.”