It’s my turn to be silent because I don’t trust my voice. My face is split with a huge ass smile, and I’m afraid she’ll hear it. I clear my throat and pull it together.
“Um, Miss Del—”
“Millie,” she interrupts.
“Okay, Millie.” I say her name and smile again. How did she end up with such an old fashioned name? But maybe it suits her. She has a lot of responsibilities for someone so young. And it’s different. I don’t know anyone else named Millie.
I sweep these thoughts aside and focus on her kitchen. “We can’t get started until everything—all of your dishes, cookware, furniture, everything—is cleared out,” I explain, picturing the new footprint. “The first thing we’re going to do is rip out the cabinets and counters.”
“Oh shit,” she mutters. “I… didn’t think of that.”
I’m glad she can’t see me because my grin would probably piss her off. “So do you need the weekend to do that?”
She groans. It would be sort of cute if she didn’t sound so overwhelmed. And miserable.
“We’renotready, Mr. Valencia.”
“Luc.” My name comes out soft, and I clear my throat again and speak with more force. “Call me Luc.”
“Well, Luc, we won’t be ready for Monday,” she says, disappointment heavy in her voice. “We’ve got too much going on this weekend.”
A light bulb goes off. “Soccer tournament Saturday.” Mami mentioned it Monday night.
“Yeah, and piano recital Sunday.” From her weary tone, I don’t think she’s looking forward to either.
I rub my forehead and think about the other jobs I have waiting in the wings. Maybe I could shuffle around a small one to give her a few weeks to get ready. I reach for the laptop beside me.
“Just give me a sec…”
“Sure.”
I cradle the phone between my head and shoulder as I type, but even though the speaker is not pressed directly to my ear, I don’t miss a loud chorus of barking that mutes the background music of Millie’s breath.
I chuckle. “You at work?” I ask, scanning over my waiting list.
“How’d you guess?” she asks dryly.
“Here’s one.” I open up the plans for a closet makeover. That’ll take three weeks. Four tops. “What if I shift some jobs around and get back to you next month?”
She gasps. “What?! No! Oh, please, no.” She sounds almost desperate. “We’re all looking forward to it. I-I still have tonight and tomorrow night. I’ll get it done.”
I frown. I can picture her doing it. Standing on a stepladder in her scrubs, taking down platters and Pilsner glasses from the highest cabinet. By herself.
I have the urge to offer to help her. And as soon as the impulse strikes, I really,reallywant to.
But she’s a client.We don’t listen to clients breathing and we don’t offer to help them pack up,the voice reminds me.
But this time, I argue back.What about the remodel we did for the guy with the spinal cord injury? Making his house wheelchair accessible?
Papi had made sure the guy and his young wife didn’t have to worry about moving furniture, picking up toys in the kids’ rooms, or emptying closets as we outfitted the whole house with wider doors. We’d done it all.
Yeah, but his skin didn’t make you think of ice cream flavors. And it’s NOT on your Daily Three.
“I just need to find enough boxes…” I hear her voice trail off, and I come back to my senses.
I have boxes. Plenty of boxes in the warehouse. The ones for light fixtures and ceiling fans are probably the size she needs. I could drop them off on my way home…
Stop.
