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Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I downloaded the attachments and pulled them up on my gallery. Dad peered over my shoulder as I swiped through them. They were mostly peeling wallpaper and cracked paint, a light in need of fixing, the floors in need of decent carpeting or flooring, but the last few were the ones that held the real problem: the mold on the walls.
“That’s pretty bad,” Dad said, tilting the screen. “They might need new windows, and they certainly can’t sleep in those rooms or they’ll get sick.”
I nodded in agreement. “And it could be his lucky day. Well, he’d have to wait a week, but I can do it next Saturday and probably start the following Monday.”
“Quiet on the books?”
“Once I’m done with the repaint of Susie Michaels’ guest house, yep. That’s no bad thing, though. I could have used the break, but he obviously needs my help.”
Dad patted my shoulder and moved away. “Sure does, Kali. Want me to come and help you check the place over?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m not sure Mom would be too impressed if I dragged you away next Saturday.”
A puzzled look flitted across his face. “Why?”
I blinked at him. “Uh…Dad? It’s your wedding anniversary.”
He froze, eyes widening at my words sank in. “Oh, shit.”
I smirked, leaning against the worktable. “There’s a bunch of her favorite flowers reserved at Nova for you to collect at seven a.m., and I booked you a table at The Coastal Boulevard. Seven-thirty reservation, and yes, they already know it’s your anniversary.”
He visibly deflated, sighing out in relief. “What would I do without you?”
“Get in a lot of trouble with your wife.”
“I can’t argue with the truth. Talking of—we should go back inside before. Dinner is probably ready.”
I nodded. “Let me just reply to this email. I’ll be right in.”
Dad left me to it, and I opened my email.
To: Brantley Cooper ([email protected])
From: Hancock Handyman Co ([email protected])
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear Mr. Cooper,
Thanks for the photos. I can see your problem. Unfortunately, I’m booked this week, but I’m free for a consultation next Saturday. Is that soon enough?
I can point you in the direction of other relatively local contractors, but I doubt many would be able to get you in so quickly.
Hope to hear from you on this soon.
Best wishes,
K. Hancock
His response within seconds—before I’d even left the workshop.
To: Hancock Handyman Co ([email protected])
From: Brantley Cooper ([email protected])
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear K. Hancock,
That’s sooner than I was expecting. Does ten a.m. work for you?
Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I responded, confirming the time, and advising him to not have his children sleep in the room. I also offered a common solution to remove the surface mold on the walls and the windowsill. He responded appreciatively, so I tucked my phone away and headed back inside for dinner with my family.
***
Mom handed me a glass of wine. I had to handle it carefully thanks to her tendency to actually make a glass of wine a full glass, and I was never more thankful than right now that I could walk home from my parents’.
“Any news on the dating front?” she asked, taking the other seat on the sofa.
Dad had long retired to the workshop to play with his table leg, so she was able to ask me the questions she really wanted to. I was twenty-six, but that didn’t mean my father was comfortable around these questions.
“Do you mean news other than “oh, look, another date with a fuckboy?”” I replied, sipping my wine.
“At this point, honey, fuckboys aren’t news. They’re the norm.”
I groaned in agreement. “It’s all the same, all the time. And the guy I went out with on Wednesday? He just proved he didn’t read my bio at all.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Oh, dear? Oh, shit, is more like it.” The thing I loved about my stepmother: She had a potty mouth to rival a sailor’s, and while I had to watch it most of the time, when we discussed dating, all bets were off.
Besides, crapboy just didn’t sound as good as fuckboy.
“That bad?” She looked at me with sympathetic eyes.
“The worst yet, maybe.” I pushed my hair from my eyes. “First, he was late, which I forgave because he said he’d got caught in traffic.”
“In Rock Bay? Was the traffic seagulls on the road?”
“He said he lived out of town, so whatever. Even though he never apologized.” I sipped again. “Then, five minutes in, he asks me what I do. I told him I ran the family building business since Dad is semi-retired, and he goes, “Oh, you’re the secretary?””
Her eyes widened.
“I said, “No, actually. I’m the builder,” and if I could have captured the look on his face, I’d have blown it up and taped it to the side of the mayor’s building.”
“What did he say to that?”
My face wrinkled up as I said it. “He complimented me on my excellent bicep muscles and went to “take a phone call.””
