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Chapter Two
Ryan
“What time do we meet with the Hazeltons?” I ask, dropping my tool belt onto the plastic chair across from Mary.
“They’re meeting you onsite at four,” my faithful office assistant replies with a stern look.
“What?” I ask, following her line of sight down to the tattered remains of one of my only good pairs of khakis.
“I thought the boss wasn’t supposed to get dirty when he’s ‘checking’ on a job?” she asks, using air quotes to emphasize the word checking.
“Orlando called in again. His wife’s not doing well, so I helped unload drywall.”
“You ripped holes in your pants by carrying drywall?” The look she offers reminds me of one my mother used to give me when I was caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing. Great. I’m already in trouble, and it’s only three o’clock on Monday afternoon.
Pulling a cold bottle of water out of the mini-fridge, I take long, deep pulls before returning my attention to my right-hand woman. “Once we got the delivery truck unloaded, I helped hang a few sheets. No big deal.”
“It wouldn’t be a big deal, Ryan, if you weren’t an hour away from meeting with your largest client yet. You wore khakis and a button-up for a reason, you know.” I don’t even have time to speak before she continues. “How is Paula doing?” Mary’s voice is as sober and wretched as we all feel.
“Not good. They don’t think she has much time.” I relay the details of my early morning conversation with one of my first hired employees when I moved to Jupiter Bay a little over a year ago. His wife of twenty years is in the end stage of breast cancer. She has fought a long battle, spanning the last two years, but the cancer is winning. “I told him to take as much time as he needed. His job is secure.”
“I still can’t believe it. She just turned forty last month. Their daughter is going into her senior year of high school.” Mary shakes her head, tears filling her wrinkled blue eyes, as she verbalizes the sorrow we’ve all felt over her fight with this horrible disease.
“Me neither.”
“It’s good of you to hold his job,” she adds, her voice soft and full of compassion.
“It’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Make note to send over some food for them later in the week,” I say, Mary quickly jotting down something in her ever-present notebook.
“Consider it done. Are we on track for the Fredrickson family to take occupancy on the first of August?” Mary asks, flipping to the page labeled with the corresponding job site. I’ve tried to convince her to utilize the computer collecting dust on her desktop, but she refuses to learn. She says her pen and paper are more reliable than the piece of electronics taking up residence in front of her.
“Yep. Drywallers are mudding tomorrow and the flooring should be here by the end of the week.”
I watch as she makes notes, noticing the slight tremor in her hand. It’s not as noticeable in the morning as it is in the afternoon, but it’s there nonetheless.
Mary was one of the first residents of Jupiter Bay that I met when I moved to town a little over a year ago. She was waiting tables at the diner, busting her ass for tips, while on her feet for ten to twelve hours a day. I was immediately drawn to her spunky attitude. Sara, my girlfriend at the time, was taken aback by the quick-witted quips and sassy comebacks from the older waitress. Me? I was fascinated.
After having lunch or dinner in that diner for two weeks straight, I decided that when I got my small construction business off the ground, I was taking Mary with me. She doesn’t take any shit from anyone, least of all me. And, honestly, from the very start, I grew to care for the ol’ woman, and I was anxious to see her off her feet and bringing home a steady, solid paycheck for her husband and disabled son at home.
Mary runs my office. She answers the phone, is the first contact for potential clients, and keeps me well organized. Not to mention handling payroll, paying the bills, ordering material, and picking up the slack wherever needed. Just the thought of having to do all of this shit without her makes me shudder. Not only does she handle my office, but she effectively handles me. I’ll admit it. She makes sure I’m where I need to be, when I need to be there. She’s like my mom, but without riding my ass for not calling enough.
Depositing my tool belt in the office I rarely occupy anymore, I gather up my notes and binder with the Hazelton blueprints. Their home will be a massive four thousand square foot Tudor home, with four bathrooms, six bedrooms, and an indoor pool and spa, all nestled discreetly along the Bay. It’ll be the largest home I’ve contracted since starting Elson Developments a year ago.
The first few months consisted of a few small remodeling jobs to help get the word out and bring in a little income. Fortunately, it didn’t take too long for word of mouth to spread and my crew of three transformed into a crew of ten. Business grew rapidly, especially with the only other building contractor retiring six months ago and relocating to Florida. We currently have two crews working different projects at the same time, and a list of three new homes, a business expansion, and six remodels waiting in the wings. I’ve got enough work to keep my guys busy for the next year and a half, and that helps me sleep a little easier at night.
Heading towards the door, I throw a quick wave over my shoulder. “I’ll be back after the meeting. Leave whatever checks I need to sign in the drawer and I’ll sign them when I get back.”
Mary nods in understanding before reaching for the ringing phone.
“Don’t forget it’s Mrs. Hanson’s birthday,” Mary hollers, phone cradled in her hand, as I walk out the door and into the bright sunlight.
Mrs. Hanson is my elderly landlord and neighbor. She’s the sweetest old lady on the planet and is constantly bringing me cookies or casseroles. Her husband passed away years ago, and her kids are all grown and moved away. I’m pretty sure she’s lonely, so I do what I can to stop by every now and again to visit her.
Knowing that I need to run home and freshen up before my meeting, I head towards my truck with purpose. I throw the truck in gear and drive towards my condo, making a mental note to stop and grab something for Mrs. Hanson on my ride back to the office.
***
It’s almost five when I pull out of the lot where we’ll soon start construction on the Hazelton homestead. Robert and Carol are ready to get their new home project started. Robert comes from money. His family owns shipping vessels that move cargo from one end to the other along the entire Eastern seaboard. While Robert is still very much a part of the company his family has owned for three generations, he is slowly turning over operations to his son.
