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“We try to slow down around the holidays.”Must be nice.
Brock hadn’t taken a vacation in years, not since his innovative substance abuse clinics had taken off and the once rocky startup had grown by leaps and bounds into every state in the nation. Thanks to his grinding pace and relentless work ethic, he planned to triple their footprint within the next year.
Once he’d finally found a company willing to do the renovations, Brock had used what he’d learned building his business—he’d sweetened the deal with a little extra cash to keep the crew on task. He wanted the job done before Christmas, so he’d have time to get his grandfather’s place move-in ready before his pawpaw arrived later in the week. It was the least Brock could do to help the only relative who’d never asked him for anything.
He walked into the master bedroom ahead of the two guys carrying the king-size bed Brock would later assemble and pointed to the wall where he’d determined the bed should sit. “Set the box right there, guys,” Brock said. “Right between the windows.”
The room carried the chemical smell of fresh paint and new carpet, a headache-inducing combination he hoped would lessen in the next few days. Too bad the weather was so cold and snowy, or he could have opened the windows and aired the place out. Brock had his work cut out for him with the guys unloading their truck faster than he could tell them where everything went.
He shed his coat and tossed it onto an unopened box, prepared to rearrange and unpack the kitchen before the stacks of boxes created an impenetrable wall. He looked for the box cutter he’d purchased from Harley’s Hardware along Cherry Creek’s Main Street while retracing his steps through the house.
Considering his grandfather had grown up poor—holes in his shoes, working by age ten, going hungry when there wasn’t enough food level of poor—Brock had admittedly low expectations for the town of Cherry Creek. Driving through on his way to CCR, his perception had changed. The picturesque community featured a restored theater, a handful of quaint shops and restaurants, and a gorgeous snow-covered cherry grove fronting the historic courthouse. Cherry Creek, Tennessee, looked like a postcard for homespun goodness.
Realizing he must have left the box cutter in his car, Brock sidestepped the movers and squeezed outside, his breath steaming against the frosty winter sky. He spotted the bag on his passenger seat, reached across the console to grab it, and shut the door, eager to make his way back inside. Brock startled at the booming voice bellowing behind him.
“Hello there, new neighbor,” said a burly man who was standing at the base of Brock’s driveway wearing a black pea coat and matching fedora with funny looking flaps over his ears. He held the leash of a black and white dog that was sniffing the snow around his mailbox.
Brock gave a quick wave and turned back toward the house.
“How’s the move going?” the man asked.
Brock stopped, turned, and tried his best to be pleasant. He didn’t have the time or the interest in socializing with the neighbors. “The move is going well. Thanks for asking.” He attempted to escape once again.
“I’m Harry Hafner.” The man pointed over his shoulder. “Two houses down. Good to have you in the neighborhood.”
“It’s my pawpaw’s place,” Brock called. He would have bridged the gap between them, but without his coat on, his fingertips were going numb. “I’m just here to facilitate the move.”
“You were quick on the draw,” Harry said, oblivious to Brock’s discomfort and impatience. “I’ve got some friends who’ve been trying to move into the neighborhood for almost a year. This house sold before I even knew it was on the market.”
You snooze, you lose.The words were on the tip of Brock’s tongue. He would never have pulled himself or his family out of poverty by waiting for good fortune. He learned a long time ago if he wanted something to happen, he had to work harder, smarter, and faster than everyone else. “We caught it early.”
“What’s your name, son, and where are you from?”
This guy may have nothing better to do than stand around in freezing temperatures shooting the breeze, but Brock certainly did. He eyed the movers setting the couch opposite the spot he’d picked out. “Brock Bartlett, and I’m from Nashville. My pawpaw grew up in Cherry Creek.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.” Brock shifted from foot to foot and rubbed his arm with his free hand. If he stood outside any longer, his teeth would start to chatter. “Listen, it was great to meet you, Mr. Hafner, but I’ve got to run.”
“Of course, of course, don’t let me keep you. Tell your pawpaw welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Will do. He’ll be here on Friday.”
Harry gave a formal tip of his hat. “I look forward to meeting him.”
Brock would have sprinted up the driveway if his feet weren’t halfway frozen in his new leather oxfords. He quickly walked across the yard and zipped inside, grateful for the updated heating and air unit and the blast of warm air that greeted him. His breath came out on a shudder. “Nosey old coot.” He stopped the movers before they could return to the truck. “Hey, guys. How about we move the couch over here by this wall?”
The look he received told him he’d gotten to them just in time. The sooner they could empty the truck, the sooner they’d call it a day and probably hit the local tavern back in town. Their tip would reflect their less-than-enthusiastic attitude.
The guys lifted the couch, deposited it by the wall, and made their way back outside. Brock set the box cutter on the kitchen counter and started rearranging the boxes. As much as he’d like to multitask and get busy unpacking, his jaunt outside had taught him he couldn’t afford to get distracted and leave the movers unsupervised.
Between directing the movers and going behind them to adjust the furniture, Brock marveled at the difference between the residents of Cherry Creek Reserve and his upwardly mobile Nashville neighbors. He’d lived in his condo for over two years and hadn’t said more than three words to anyone living in his building. He hoped his grandfather was prepared for the kind of prying in Cherry Creek that his family provided on the regular—something Brock suspected was the impetus for his pawpaw’s move.
Brock and Pawpaw shared a mutual disdain for the constant requests of his freeloading family. He’d rather take time off work to help his grandfather move than spend Christmas Day defending the tough love tactics he’d had to employ throughout the years whenever anyone came asking for money. Brock had done enough to get them out of their deplorable living situations. The rest was on them.
An hour and a half later, Brock watched the truck pull away from the drive and turned around to assess the damage. Boxes sat stacked three and four deep in each room, but thanks to his oversight, the furniture was where it belonged. He yanked his sleeves up to his elbows, grabbed the box cutter, and made his way to the guest bedroom.
The kitchen would have to wait. With the sun slipping closer to the tops of the white-capped mountains in the distance, he needed to set up the guest room so he'd have a place to rest his head when he eventually ran out of energy.
