Cottage for Sale, Must Be Moved (20 page)

When Vito returns a few days later, he has a helper and he also has a dog. A big dog, part German shepherd perhaps, who immediately settles into a comfortable hole beside the bird feeder. Egypt and I look through the screen door in the kitchen in an attempt to categorize the nature of this threat. Egypt puffs himself up and, looking large, moves away from the door. I stay a moment longer and contemplate the end of my crush. I don’t think I could ever date a man with a dog big enough to swallow my cat whole.

For the next few days, Vito works in a vibrating fog of concrete dust. He must cut the blocks to fit as he builds the wall. The saw, he tells me, is designed for masonry. The blade is diamond-tipped. His helper moves between the cutting station and the wall, using an old wheelbarrow to haul the concrete blocks, while Vito layers block upon mortar upon block. The wall grows day by day, a beautiful perfect wall of gray and gray. Apart from its function—to connect house and cottage—I love the wall for its form, and for the steadiness and skill that hold it up. When it is complete, Vito tells me he needs a few days to think about the final connection, the bridge between the wall and the cottage foundation.

“I’m thinking of using a sonar,” he says. We are staring at the point where the walls meet. “You need something—to prevent water from getting in, that sort of thing.”

I don’t say anything. I am thinking that sonar is something like radar, and I don’t understand how sound waves will keep the water out.

“I’ve done that before,” he says, “and it worked really good. Here I’d use a half-round or maybe a quarter. Just cut the form.”

Ah, a form. A concrete form. A round concrete form. A half-round concrete form. I get it. “You’d put it right here, and pour into it?” I ask. He nods. “Well, a sonar sounds good to me,” I affirm, as if I’d known all along exactly what he was talking about. He nods, and takes me seriously. Then he calls his dog—her name is Violet, and despite her fearsome size, she is calm and gentle.

“I’m lucky with dogs,” he says. “She goes everywhere with me.”

For a moment my heart leaps. A man with a calm dog. A man so attached to a calm dog named Violet. Maybe such a man is not married after all?*

*
SONAR, I LEARN,
is really
Sono
with a south-of-Boston accent.
Sonotube
is the name on the form, the brand name of the cardboard tube into which Vito will pour the concrete. He cuts it into something close to a three-quarter round and fits it into the corner between the two foundation walls. “Perfect,” he says. I agree that it is an elegant solution. The job is finished. Vito comes into the house for the first time ever. He comes in the front door, mindful of his muddy boots, his shorts and T-shirt dusty with concrete remains. He stands in the center of the tiny entrance rug, pen and invoice pad in hand. He pulls himself in tight, as if an elbow outside the perimeter of the rug would disqualify him in some way.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Have a seat and I’ll get my checkbook.” He protests, but I insist until he sits cautiously and begins to write. He is perched on the very edge of the futon couch, still afraid to leave some trace of himself or his work behind.

“So many books,” he says. The living room is full of books, it’s true. Fiction A–Z encircles the room on the high shelf the Bog Boys built, and there are four tall bookcases of nonfiction in this room as well. I hope to move some of them out when I have the hallway, the office. I’d like to open up this room a bit.

“My business,” I reply. It is my standard response, and probably better than admitting to incurable bibliophilia.

He picks up a book on the coffee table,
A Garden in Tuscany.
“I just finished
Bella Tuscany,
” he says.

“Frances Mayes.” I respond. It’s an automatic response. Title-Author. Like many in the business of bookselling, I am a small catalogue of only occasionally useful information. We “know of” a lot more than we know.

“Did you read it?” he asks me.

“No, I haven’t.” I admit. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

“Well, you might enjoy this one, too. There’s some buzz on it already. It’s by a new writer,” I say, slipping into another bookseller habit: the if-you-liked-this, then-you-might-like-this. “Why don’t you take it?”

“Oh, no,” he says. “ I can buy a copy. I’ll write the title down.”

“It’s not out yet. That’s an advance reading copy. You can’t buy a copy. Just take that one.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t take your book.”

“Borrow it, then. I get them sometimes. Really, you’d do me a favor by reading it. I won’t have time to get to it; maybe you could let me know what you think.” With this, I imagine a date, a dinner date. Vito tells me what he has learned about Tuscany, and I sip a crisp white wine. Better yet, the wine is red, and we are in Tuscany. We are seated across from each other at an outdoor table with a view of an Italian hill town. I am wearing a black linen dress. The waiter arrives, refills our glasses; Vito orders in Italian.

Are there hills in Tuscany? I need to get my hands on one of those Frances Mayes books. I reel in my imagination, and set about the business of writing a check. We chat a little longer about books, and I wonder if I will ever see him again. I’ve given him the perfect opportunity: a borrowed book to return.

“I want to build you a fireplace for that new cottage,” he says suddenly.

“I hadn’t ever thought about a fireplace there.”

“Well, think about it,” he says. “I’ll make you a really nice one.”

“I’m sure you will.” He stands. I stand. Thanks are exchanged.

“You’ve got my number,” he says, as he opens the door to leave. “Call me when you are ready to build the fireplace.” He smiles; his eyes dance one last dance, and—I am pretty sure—they soften as he says good-bye.

THE FOUNDATION WALL
is beautiful; the concrete blocks are held together as much by Vito’s care and attention as by the perfectly smooth mortar. On our daily cottage walks, Egypt and I survey the wall; he scales it and sits atop, lending the mason’s work his official seal of approval. This wall will disappear from view once the hallway and the deck are built, and though I will miss it, I am ready to give up my daily sighting in the name of progress. But alas, there is no sign of progress, no sign of Ed or John. I leave messages for Ed, and receive no return calls. After ten days, I call John. I reach his wife, Margaret, who advises me to page him. John calls back within minutes and informs me that Ed is on vacation. Until mid-September. It is now early August.
Six weeks.

“John,” I say, “I will be very unhappy if I don’t move into my office in October.” This is a polite understatement. I am unhappy now. The cottage has been in place for more than two months, and still it sits unconnected to the house. The yard is a disaster of sand and stones. I’ve been patient. In fact, I don’t care so much about the October deadline, but only want to feel some movement, some forward momentum, the sense we are going
somewhere.

John mentions he will be finishing up a roof and a siding job in the next week or so. Depending on weather. The only weather we can depend on this summer is lousy weather. Rain and more rain. “The weather’s been killing me this year,” John says.

As we lament the bad weather, I realize that on some level, I am a little leery of working with John. Although I have gotten to know him better through the excavation, my real connection is with his father. I know John is smart and full of energy, but I think he is more interested in results than process. This job is a process job. Not to mention that I have always suspected John thinks I am a little crazy to move a cottage, that he thinks it would have been easier to build from scratch. I would much prefer to work with Ed in charge. But I want to get going, and I do not want to wait until mid-September.

“Would it help if I made a list of everything that needs to be done?” I expect John to pooh-pooh the necessity of such a document, but he surprises me.

“That would be great. Can you do that?”

I am pretty sure I can. It seems to me that my mental list is activated with every evening stroll. I see what needs to be done, and I even have a pretty good idea of the order in which I would like it completed. I am thinking that most of all I want some of my yard back, or at least somewhere to walk that is not sand or, alternatively, mud. I figure I can walk outdoors to get indoors for some time to come, but I’d like to walk on something—the deck. I want John to build it before we do everything else. I’d run this idea by Ed months back, on an earth-moving day. He told me he built the deck on his house before they finished the addition. “That way Susan could still enjoy the summer weather,” he said. “and it meant we tracked a lot less dirt into the house.” This summer’s weather hasn’t been terribly enjoyable, and I’ve all but given up on the dirt around me. It doesn’t need to be tracked in; it floats in through the windows with every ocean breeze. Still, I want a deck, and as soon as possible. I imagine having friends over, being able to walk from the front to the backyard once more. Not to mention that having a deck around the cottage will certainly make the roofing job easier.

John suggests we meet on Saturday to review the project. In the meantime, I spend three whole evenings with my laptop, creating pages of indoor and outdoor building tasks. For each item, there is a column for estimated time, timing, and date of completion. When I am finished, it is the punch list from hell. But I don’t think I have forgotten anything. Thanks to the high estimate I finally got from the plumbing company, I have a pretty detailed list for the next plumber to price for me. While I am at it, I outline the electrical tasks as well. When I reach Stan, he too seems relieved at the prospect of a list. He asks about my progress. “We’re starting the building next week,” I say, stating my hope rather than what I suspect will be reality.*

*
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK
on Saturday morning, I am dressed in a camisole tank, low-slung harem pants, and a purple coin belt. I barely hear John’s knock at the side door over the sound of oud and naay and Middle Eastern percussion. I feel idiotic and exposed, tugging on my top to cover my belly as I answer the door. This outfit, I think, will not help the already tentative nature of my relationship with Ed’s son. What if he thinks I am trying to impress him with my sweaty dancing body?

“Let me turn down the music,” I say, and I make a dash for the living room, take off the coin belt, pull up the harem pants to meet the jersey top while I crank down the stereo, then thinking better of it, turn the music off entirely. “I thought you were coming at one,” I say, returning to the kitchen. “I don’t usually dress like this. I was practicing.”

“One?” he says, and I nod. “Oh no.” He consults a little card he is carrying. “You’re right. I’m supposed to be at another client’s right now. Can I use your phone?”

I watch John drive away in a little white Miata. I thank God for small favors; for John’s error this time, not mine. Enough dancing for one day. I shower, make myself presentable, and when John returns a little after one, I am appropriately and conservatively attired. We make no reference to the Egyptian dancer who answered the door earlier. I harbor some hope he will take me seriously.

John says no thank you when I offer him a cold drink. I remember back to the days of digging, how John would never say yes to coffee, would drink it only if the coffee appeared before I asked. He never used the bathroom, either. None of the guys did, not in long chilly days of operating Bobcats and drinking coffee. Even though Ed had told me to spread out some old towels inside the front door to catch the mud from their boots, their boots rarely came inside. Most questions were answered across the sill of my office window; no need for Ed or John to come indoors to chat.

I pour John a seltzer when I pour mine. “Just in case,” I say, and he smiles.

We go through the list. When I propose we begin the outdoor construction with the deck, he listens, but he just doesn’t see doing it first. He tells me the order of the project as he envisions it. “First frame the hallway, then lay the floor joists for the hall. Put in some insulation, then the hallway decking.” By this he means the plywood subflooring. “Next frame the roof.” John is worried about getting that right, and he knows it will be a challenge to connect the two rooftops.

“I have drawings,” I say, rustling through the green binder I have been using for all things cottage.

“Until I’m up there on the roof, we won’t really know how it will all work out,” he says. He has no interest in the drawings. Part of me understands his thinking, but part of me also believes I know
exactly
how the roof will look. But I cannot build it. John’s probably right.

I submit to his judgment on the deck, and we rearrange the list. He looks over the plumbing estimate and agrees it is too high. “Plumbers,” is all he says when I ask about any subs he has used recently, but there is a telltale roll of the eyes coupled with an exhalation that tells me to forget using any of those guys. “Ask around some more,” he says, “and I will too.”

“Thanks for coming over today,” I say as he stands to leave.

“No problem. Thanks for making the list. Let’s see. I’m not sure yet which day, but I’ll see you next week.”

“You’ll start then?” I ask. I’d been afraid to ask when he could begin.

“We’ll start with the hallway,” he confirms, a step outside already.

“See you then,” I say in my most casual voice, resisting the temptation to jump up and down, to cheer—to dance.*

*
LESS THAN A WEEK LATER
John arrives. He introduces Peter, who will work with him on the project. Peter is John’s right-hand man, I learn. Another firefighter, Peter also answers to his nickname, Cappy. While I watch John and Peter together, I am struck by the contrast. John is trim and clean-cut, and he moves quickly. He has a little bit of gray in his black hair, but he keeps it cut so short, you wouldn’t notice unless you were sitting across the counter catching secret glimpses while you reviewed a project list. He’s somewhere in his thirties, but he could pass for a younger man. He’s slight, wiry, and angular in his movements.