The Obsession (10 page)

“I’ll take it, but I’m going to tackle some of that myself.”

“All right. Thanks for the Coke.” He handed her the empty glass. “I appreciate the chance to look the place over. If you give me the job, I’ll do good work for you.”

“I believe you would.”

“I’ll be in touch. Let’s go, Molly.”

She watched him drive off, felt the silence fall just like the sun behind the trees.

She’d do good work here, too, she thought. And went inside to make herself a temporary nest and work space.

She spent mornings taking pictures: sunrises—all those holy colors blending—the water, trees, birds. In the afternoons she hunted up secondhand stores, flea markets. She bought a desk and chair, a couple of lamps, and the happy prize of an old metal glider and matching chair.

Evenings, she’d put together a sandwich or scramble some eggs, pour some wine, and work on the photos she’d taken that morning.

She could and did sell some fine photography through her website and through a gallery in New York, but her real bread and butter came from the royalties on stock photos.

She’d learned she could work anywhere—in her car, in a campground, in a motel room. But this, working in her own house, with the quiet everywhere and the light playing on the water, felt like a gift, one made possible by her grandparents and the trust funds they’d set up for her and Mason.

Grateful, she sent them regular emails with photos. Since college she’d called them every week, no matter where she’d been, what she’d been doing.

They’d lost their daughter—twice, to Naomi’s way of thinking. She’d made certain they never lost their granddaughter.

She took before photos of the glider and chair, playing up the texture of the rust, the peeling paint, the square lines—and the pop from the bucket of purple pansies she’d planted and set on the deck with them. She’d take after shots, too, send both home—but she’d play with the before shots on her computer, put them up on her website for sale.

It took nearly a week for Kevin to bring the estimate. This time he had his six-year-old son, Tyler, as well as Molly. The boy was a mini version of his father, and so cute Naomi wished she had cookies.

“We’re on our way to pick up pizza, and figured we’d drop this off. You might want to have a stiff drink and sit down before you read it over.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. Well. Like I said, you can figure out priorities. I gave you my mind on that in there. And if you want to take on some DIY, we can save you some money. Take some time, think about it. Just let me know. I got another name in there, too. You might want another bid, and I know that company does good work. They’re out of Hoodsport.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s go, team.” The boy raced back to the truck with the dog. Kevin paused. “Don’t forget that stiff drink.”

Naomi tapped the manila envelope on her palm, took it back inside to the kitchen. A glass of wine couldn’t be wrong, she thought, and poured one, and since other than her desk chair it was her only option, she went out on the deck and sat in the half-sanded glider.

She sat a moment, drinking wine, watching the water and the bright red kayak that slid along it toward the shore.

She set the wine down on the drop cloth, opened the envelope.

“Holy shit. Oh hello, six figures.” She wished she’d gone for stronger than wine. Like a few tequila shots. She hadn’t bought any tequila as yet, but that would be rectified.

She took another deeper drink of wine, blew out a breath, and read over the estimate.

So much work. The kitchen—she’d expected that price tag. And in fact, he’d bid a little under what she’d been braced for. The windows—there were so many windows, and replacing them added up. She’d done some research there, and his price was, again, slightly under what she’d calculated.

Contractor’s discount, she mused. He was passing some of that on, and that was more than fair.

She got up, walked up and down the deck, sat down. Read on.

The plumbing, the electrical, spray insulation in the attic. Nothing sexy there, but necessary. God, the floors. So much square footage. Why had she bought such a big house?

To answer her own question, she looked up at the view. The sun hung low, sparkling over the blue. A bird, white and wide-winged, just sailed over it.

She read through the estimate again. She could take on at least some of the painting. She wasn’t afraid of hard work. There was bound to be something else she could handle. And corners she could cut.

But she didn’t want to cut corners.

She leaned back, gliding slowly. She could get a lot of photos out of the demo, the rehab. Photos of workers, of broken tiles, of tools and lumber. If she played it right, she could pull in some income even while coughing up the outlay.

She had savings, she reminded herself. She’d lived carefully, didn’t need a lot to live. Her biggest expenses before the house had been her Hasselblad and her 4Runner. She could do this.

She looked out over the water again. She needed to do this. She’d been to every state, working her way. She’d been to Europe twice, working her way.

And nowhere had ever drawn her like this spot, this place.

She took out her phone, called Kevin.

“Do you need an ambulance?”

He made her laugh. She didn’t make friends easily, but he made her laugh. “I wished for tequila shots, but I toughed it out. When can you start?”

“What? Sorry, what?”

“Let’s go for it. When can you start?”

“I might need an ambulance. Wow. Wow. Listen, I’m kicking myself as I say this, but don’t you want to get that other bid?”

“I bought this place because it spoke to me, it said words I needed. You get that. I’m going to try to do some of this—like the painting. I might be able to help with demo or something, to cut it down a little. But I’m going for it. When can you start?”

“Monday. I’m going to draw up a contract, and I’ll put in that you’re taking on the painting. That doesn’t work out, we’ll sub it for you. I drew up the kitchen design you outlined, but—”

“Yeah, I saw it. We’ll go with it, and you can tell me where I look for the countertops, the cabinets, and all that so I can figure out what I want.”

“It’s a lot to figure.”

“Yeah, so let’s get started.”

“Naomi, I might have to kiss you on the mouth. My wife will understand.”

She hoped his wife was as, well, adorable as he was. “We’ll cross that bridge.”

“I’ll come by with the contract tomorrow.”

“And I’ll give you a check for materials, like it says here.”

“I’d appreciate it. You got a favorite color?”

“Sure. All of them.”

“Good enough. See you tomorrow. And thanks, Naomi.”

She went inside, topped off her wine. And toasted herself in her soon-to-be-gutted kitchen.

He brought the contract, along with his wife—the very pretty Jenny—Tyler, and four-year-old Maddy, a sweet, towheaded version of her father.

And he handed her a pot of rainbow tulips along with the contract.

“You said all of them. Favorite color.”

“They’re great.”

Then he took her by the shoulders, kissed her. Tyler covered his eyes; Maddy giggled. Jenny just beamed.

“He’s had ideas about what needed to be done to this place longer than I can remember. And he said yours ran right down the same lines. Kevin’s the best. He’s going to make it beautiful for you.”

“Jenny’s biased.” Kevin wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “But honest. I’ve got a Dumpster coming first thing Monday morning. The crew will be here by seven thirty. We’re going to be loud.”

“I’ll deal.”

“See you Monday then.”

They piled into a minivan, and like the dog, Kevin stuck his head out the window. “We’re going to rock this place!”

Naomi put the coffeemaker in her bedroom on the desk, filled her cooler with soft drinks, lunch meats, some fruit. She could set her Coleman stove on the deck. She’d put meals together in much less cozy circumstances.

Monday, she gave herself the day off and joined in gutting the kitchen
and adjoining bathroom. She swung a sledgehammer, wielded a pry bar, helped haul out old counters, old cabinets.

And exhausted, aching, fell dead asleep before the forest swallowed the sun.

Every morning the hammering started. She’d get coffee, a granola bar, her camera. The crew got used to her, stopped posing.

She took pictures of callused hands, hands bleeding at the knuckles. Of sweaty torsos, steel-toed work boots.

Evenings, in the blessed quiet, she ate sandwiches and worked. She cropped a study of the kitchen floor, the linoleum jagged against the exposed hardwood. She played with filtering, considered other compositions, spent time updating her site, punching up her marketing.

She chose which studies belonged on her site, which should be exclusive to the gallery, which should be put up as stock.

There were dozens of decisions to be made, and she would have sworn not as many hours in the day as there’d been a week before.

She took more time off to look at slabs of granite, and ended up spending more than an hour taking pictures—those raw edges, the graining, the dapples and colors. Tired of cold meals or soup over the Coleman, she stopped and picked up pizza in town on the way home.

She’d sit on her pretty slate blue glider, breathe in the quiet, and eat loaded pizza on her bedroom deck. Then she’d treat herself to a movie on her laptop. No more work that day. And thank God the king-size mattress she ordered would be delivered in the morning. She’d spend her last night on her air mattress.

Twilight shimmered in the west as she followed the snaking ribbon of road.

The deer leaped out of the trees. She had time to see that it was a massive buck before she cut the wheel to avoid the collision. She hit the brakes, fishtailed.

She felt more than heard her tire blow, and cursed as she tried to fight the wheel back.

She ended up thudding into the shallow ditch alongside the road with her heart pounding between her ears.

The buck merely turned his head, gave her a regal stare, and then leaped into the shadows.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it. Okay, okay. Nobody’s hurt, including fricking Bambi.” She shoved open the door to see the damage.

Tire shot, she noted, but she didn’t think she’d damaged the wheel. She could change a stupid tire, but it was going to be tricky with the way she’d angled into the ditch. And dusk was falling fast now—with her on the curve of the switchback.

She opened the back, pulled out the emergency kit, lit a flare, set it several feet behind the truck, set another several feet in front, eased into the car, turned on her flashers.

Resigned to the annoyance, she hauled the jack out of the trunk.

She caught the headlights, worried they came too fast. But the truck—she made out the shape of a truck—slowed, then swerved gently to the shoulder between her car and the back flare.

Naomi set down the jack and took a good grip on the tire iron.

“Got some trouble?”

“Just a flat. I’ve got it, thanks.”

But he sauntered forward, in silhouette with the headlights glaring at his back.

“Got a spare?”

Deep voice, deeply male. Tall—long legs and arms.

“Of course I have a spare.”

“Good. I’ll change it for you.”

“I appreciate that.” Her hand tightened on the tire iron. “But I’ve got it.”

He just hunkered down to take a closer look. She could see him better now—a lot of dark, windblown hair, a sharp-boned profile under some scruff. A battered leather jacket, big hands on the knees of long legs.

“You’re at a bad angle for the jack, but it’s doable. I’ve got emergency lights in the truck.”

He looked up at her now. A hard and handsome face, a tough-guy
face with the scruff, with the thick, windblown hair, a firm, full, unsmiling mouth.

She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but didn’t detect any mean in them. Still . . .

“I’ve changed a tire before.”

“Hey, me, too. In fact, you can make a living. Xander Keaton. Keaton’s Garage and Body Works—name’s on the side of my truck. I’m a mechanic.”

“I didn’t call a mechanic.”

“Aren’t you lucky one just came along? And I’d appreciate the hell out of it if you didn’t smack me with that tire iron.” He goose-stepped over, picked up the jack, got to work. “Killed this tire good. You’re going to need a new one. I can order one for you.”

He picked up the lug wrench. “How’d it blow? It doesn’t look worn.”

“A deer—it jumped out in front of me. I overcompensated.”

“That’ll happen. Heading home? Just making conversation,” he said when she remained silent. “I can smell the pizza. You’re coming from town, so you’re not staying in town. I haven’t seen you before, and given you’re a serious looker, I’d remember if I had.”

“Yes, I’m going home.”

“New around here—because I know everybody—heading home on this road. Killer blonde. Are you Naomi?”

She stepped back.

“Settle down.” He said it calmly as he got up to get the spare. “Kevin Banner. He’s rehabbing the old Parkerson place up on Point Bluff for you. Best pals, birth to earth. Well, earth’s a ways off, unless you kill me with that tire iron, but we’ve known each other since before we could walk. You can call him, get my bona fides if it’ll loosen the grip you’ve got on that thing.”

“He never mentioned you.” But her grip did loosen, a little.

“Now that hurts. He was my wingman, I was his best man. I’m Tyler’s godfather. His cousin Mark’s doing your plumbing, and Macie Addams—who I was madly in love with for about six weeks in junior year—is one of your carpenters. Does that clear me?”

“I’ll know when I ask Kevin tomorrow.”

“That’s a cynical and suspicious nature you’ve got. I have to like it.” He tightened the lug nuts on the spare, gave it a testing spin. “That’ll do.”

As he lowered the jack, he looked up at her again. “How tall are you?”

“Five-ten. And a half.”

“You know how to wear it.” He rose, fitted the jack and the tools back in their compartments.

“Do you want me to take the tire with me, order you another?”