Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
Killing Me Softly (7 page)
The closing is at nine a.m. I can't believe I'm doing this. Rob's death and the chaotic aftermath over the past three months certainly gave me some perspective. No matter my age, no matter my dating status, no matter my ability to kill innocent (or not-so-innocent) people, I need to get on with my life. I need to live for the now. And that, for me, includes buying my own house. And the day's finally here.
After hibernating for a few more days after the wake debacle, I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and got on with my life. Years of watching HGTV has left me with a hankering to own my own place, where I can knock down walls and re-tile something. I started looking for a house—three towns over from where I currently live. I could stand the longer commute in exchange for a change of scenery. I'd still be close enough to go to the nursing home every day after school but I wouldn't have to see the same people all day every day. I probably wouldn't run into students after school.
And I'd be able to focus on my house. My HOUSE! I'm going to own a house. It's an adorable little Craftsman bungalow. Best part—it's blue. Worst part—it needs a whole lot of work. My dream is to restore it to its former glory, with all the modern conveniences, of course. It's gonna take a lot of cash and even more elbow grease. I'm going to do as much work as I can by myself. Yes, I know I'm a girl, but it's no longer the dark ages. And I'm a girl who spent almost every Sunday in my dad's shed, assisting him on one project after another. He was always working on the funeral home, trying to restore and keep up the old house.
Sure, I will need help with the big things, and I'll hire out for those. While waiting for the house to be mine, I've been watching YouTube video after YouTube video on how to do a lot of the projects I have on my to-do list. Here's the secret—I've been in love with this house since I first laid eyes on it. It's just down the street from a bookstore and coffee shop. Far enough off the beaten path but close enough to keep me in the swing of things. It's in a neighborhood that has restaurants and shops as well. I love everything about it. And with the long Memorial Day weekend coming up, I'm ready to start ripping out carpeting and renovating.
Once the closing is done, I head to the nursing home to share my news with Dad. Just like everything in my life, I want to share it with him. "Dad! I'm finally a homeowner! Everything's signed, sealed and delivered. I own 6258 Grove Street. You would totally love it. It needs tons of T.L.C., but you taught me well, and I think I'll be okay. I hope I'll be okay."
I flop down in the chair and wait for a minute. I know there will be no response, but I like to pretend. "It was a steal too. Not a steal, but undervalued to say the least. It was a bank foreclosure. Good thing too, because I need that extra cash for renovations. I guess all these years of tutoring during the week and waitressing all summer have paid off. I have a home because of it."
Stroking Dad's hand, I try not to notice how old it seems. He's only been here a few years. Four now. Some days, it feels like he just got here. Others, it feels like he's been here for decades.
"Hi, Sadie. How are things today?"
Helga's grown on me in the last few months. "Great. I closed on the house today. As soon as I leave here, I'm going over there to get started. There's a bit of work that needs to be done before I can move in. Carpets to tear up, hardwoods to refinish. Stripping, sanding, and painting. Lots of painting. I think I may need to look at some wiring as well. The bathroom needs an overhaul."
"What about the kitchen?"
"The kitchen is fantastic. It's what made me fall in love with the place."
True story. The previous owner re-did the kitchen before he ran out of money. The cabinets are a mint green and may be original to the house, restored and refaced. There's a tile backsplash that pops against the tangerine walls. Sounds hideous I know, but in reality, it's spectacular. And, it's so me.
"Who's working on the place?"
"Yours truly." I try to ignore her raised eyebrow. "Dad here taught me well. I'm a pro with power tools."
"Are you going to hire out at all?"
"I'm sure I will, if it gets to that point."
"Let me give you my son's number. He's a contractor, so he's very good with his hands."
Ick. Not the endorsement I want to be hearing from someone's mother.
"You know I'm not looking to date anyone right now, Helga. Not after this year."
"I know, Sadie. This is purely business. Trust me, you need to call him. You won't be sorry."
Famous last words.
*******
Let me set the scene for my life's latest disaster. I put a call in to Helga's son. He agrees to show up after he finishes on his other job site to do a walk through and come up with estimates for both time and price. Great. I've got time to do a few things before he shows up. But, as with any home improvement project, it's all the 'but firsts' that get you. For example, I need to clean the leaves and garbage out of the front yard. The house has been vacant for a while. So I sweep and pile it all up. To finish the job, I need to get to the garbage cans that are at the end of the alley next to the house. But first, to get to them, I have to pick up the cardboard and debris that are blocking access to the cans.
So this is what I'm doing. I've got a large pile of stuff right in front of my front door to be collected. I look, and the garbage cans are totally blocked by this massive stack of cardboard, like a year's worth of recycling left to disintegrate. So, I start pulling up the cardboard. Which then reveals a bees' nest. And boy, are those bees pissed that I disrupted their hiding spot! Oh, have I mentioned that I am allergic—severely allergic—to bees?
With about fifteen minutes to go until Helga's son arrives, I find myself in a swarm of bees. Naturally, I'm wearing shorts, as this warm May day would dictate. So, it's not surprising when a bee, very displeased to be disturbed, flies up my shorts' leg. And stings me. In my groin.
Within moments, my leg—well, my crotch—begins to swell. I hobble into the house, dig some Benadryl out of the box labeled for my bathroom. How I manage to find that box so quickly, I will never know. I take about four pills, hoping to ward off anaphylaxis. The welt in my privates has grown to the size of a softball or large grapefruit. I hobble to the kitchen and procure some ice to put on my groin. For future reference, the words 'ice' and 'groin' should never be used in the same sentence.
The massive dose of Benadryl has started to make me a little—lot—loopy, which is why I accidentally answer my phone when it rings. It's my mother, and if I had been in full possession of my mental faculties, I never would have answered the phone.
"'Lo." I slur.
"Sadie? Is that you?"
"You called me. Who do you think it is?"
"Are you alright? You sound drunk?"
"Nah, I just had to take a bunch of Benadryl. I got attacked by bees."
"You should call 911. You could die!"
"Naaaah. That's why I took so many pills. I have a guy coming to give me an estimate on the work, and I can't miss it."
"I'm not far away. I'll be right over."
"I'm okay, Mom ..."
The next thing I know, my mother is shaking me awake. "Dear God, Sadie? Are you okay? Sadie, do you know where you are?"
I look at her and focus. Shit, she came to my house. This is supposed to be my sanctum away from my crazy family. "Why are you here?"
"I was on my way over anyway."
"Wait, what? Why?"
I'm sitting in a chair at my kitchen table. It's really the only furniture I have in here at the moment. My cat jumps up on the table and I reach out to pet him.
"Sadie, you know, allowing the cat on the table is really in poor form. And look at his fur! It's all matted! Don't you ever brush that thing?"
I try really hard to focus on my mother. She looks at me and shrieks. "Oh dear Lord, look at your face! You got stung right in the middle of your forehead!"
I hadn't even noticed this one. Apparently, when your crotch is on fire, you tend not to notice a little forehead pain. So, here I am, my groin the size of a football, a welt the size of Kansas in the middle of my forehead, in a Benadryl coma, with my mother criticizing my feline grooming skills, when Helga's son walks in.
I'm sorry I called Helga's son. I'm sorry he showed up. I'm sorry I swore off dating for fear of killing another boyfriend. I'm sorry I didn't let Helga fix me up with her son years ago. I'm sorry I had a welt the size of a football on my hoo-ha when he showed up.
Helga's son is Max. You know, Cupid from that fateful Valentine's Eve before my life went in the shitter.
Not that it's not in the shitter right now. I am so confused. It's got to be the medicine, right? 'Cause I'm waiting for Mike to show up. Mike, the name on his business card. So when Max shows up, I get all confused.
"Hey! What are you doing here?" I slur like a drunken skunk.
"Coming to meet you, I think. Are you the homeowner here?" He looks like he wants to bolt.
"Yeah, I'm Sadie Perkins. I called you. I know your mom."
"And I'm Sadie's mom, Carol." Of course my mother has to butt in.
Trying to keep my eyes open, I point to my mother. "That's my mother and she's leaving now."
She turns in a huff but makes sure to call out before she leaves, "Remember what I said about the cat." 'Cause obviously grooming my cat is high on the list of priorities right now.
"I know you." His brow is furrowed as he's searching to place me. Considering I look like the Elephant Man, it's no wonder he doesn't remember me. Oh, have I mentioned that because of the groin issue, I'm sitting with my legs spread apart, the right one on a chair, the groin on full display, covered only by the bag of ice? Which, as it turns out, is really a bag of peas. Guess I won't be having those for dinner after all.
"The B&B Valentine's weekend. I saw you as Cupid. You saw me the morning after my boyfriend and I broke up."
"Oh, right. Sadie."
"Yeah, but you're Max not Mike. You have to explain. But go slow, because things are a little fuzzy right now. I may or may not have taken an entire package of Benadryl."
He sits down on a chair across the table from me. I try not to notice how nice the worn jeans look on him or how his biceps are displayed in his fitted black t-shirt. He runs a hand through his dark hair. He's again sporting a five o'clock shadow, which is fitting since it's after five. I wonder if he ever shaves.
"Oh, I'm being rude. Do you want something to drink? Water, soda, beer?"
"I'd love a beer, but you don't look like you're in any shape to get up. Tell me where and I'll get them."
Now, I probably shouldn't be drinking after taking the Benadryl, but I don't want to be rude. I wave in the general direction of the fridge and he retrieves two. He hands me my beer, and I say, "What? You're not even going to open it for me? What happens if I break a nail?" Oh crap, I shouldn't have said that. Now he probably thinks I'm some prima donna diva.
Then, opening my beer, I actually do break a nail. Dammit. Probably because my hands are not the most dexterous at the moment. Honestly I couldn't care less about the nail. What I do care about is that it seems like the universe just fired a cosmic warning shot across my bow. I mentioned something, and it happened. Cute guy in my kitchen; I cannot get involved.
"So, here's the deal. I have some renovations to do before I totally move in. I need to tear up the carpets in the living room, hallway, and bedrooms. That's no biggie. The wood floors will need to be refinished. I want to gut the bathroom, replacing everything but the clawfoot tub. That has to stay. All the woodwork will need to be sanded down, some of it repaired and refinished. There are a few windows that need to be repaired as well, and I think I'm going to need to rehash—rehab—them for energy efficiency, and replace the storms. I'm sure other things will spring up, as they're known to do."
"What's the budget?"
"In my head and on paper, sufficient. In reality, I'll be woefully short, I'm sure, because I know complications will arise."
We discuss the finer points of fees and schedules. Mike—Max—whatever his name is, works at the B&B as a caretaker and does contracting work in his free time. Depending on the business and projects at the B&B, he has varying availability.
"Okay, but what do I call you? Your business card says one thing, but you introduced yourself to me as something else. I'm confused. It doesn't take a lot. Especially not right now."
"Call me Max."
"What's with the Mike thing then?" I'm too damn nosy for my own good. Plus, if I didn't get these details, Therese would have my hide.
"My given name is Michael Andrew Xavier Schultz. Sort of a mouthful for a little kid. My uncle gave me the nickname 'Max' when I was a baby, and it's stuck since. I have to put Michael on the business stuff, since it's my legal name and all."
"Fair enough. Max it is then."
He looks over his shoulder at the living room. "Nice place. Lots of potential."
"I know. I love the style, the architecture. I mean, it's blue, which is great. But most of all, I fell for the kitchen. The previous owner re-did it in the original style and color palate of the house. I think he ran out of money or something, since this was a foreclosure."
"This is fabulous."
"I know, right?"
"Are you okay? Like really okay?"
"I'm allergic to bees and got stung while trying to clean up the side alley. I may have taken too much Benadryl."
"I got that already. Tell you what. Why don't you go sleep it off, and I'll look around the outside. I've got some spray in the truck, and I'll take care of those bees for you. I'll call you tomorrow with my thoughts."
"That sounds like the best idea I've heard all day."