Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  I didn’t hear his arrival and for all I know, he’s been standing beside me for a while, watching me watch her. Thinking all sorts of stupid reasons why I can’t turn away, when there’s only one reason: She’s walking towards what should be my front door.

  “Look at them all smiley and bright on this lovely summer afternoon,” he taunts.

  It’s more a commentary on me than on them. I wear black because it’s easy to keep belongings to a minimum and I scowl because that’s my face. Take it up with my parents. Like her, I didn’t choose my genes.

  “They’re tragic.”

  Scott slaps me on the back with a laugh and heads inside. “Can’t wait to hear why people who appear so happy must be headed for certain doom.”

  I follow him inside. “Her renos will fail.” I don’t believe that to be true, but if I say it often enough, it might happen.

  “I think the tragedy is that she’s with that guy and not you.” He waits for a comment that isn’t coming. I won’t engage. “Admit it, you like her.”

  I don’t like her. I admire her tenacity. I appreciate her abilities. She is definitely attractive. But she’s headstrong and stubborn and flirts with danger each time she climbs a ladder without a spotter. Worst of all, she’s in my way.

  Unlike what Pops said, she’s nothing like my mother. The lassie comes with the house. If Pops had met Princess and he had his wits about him, he’d never compare her to Mum.

  “I bet if I locked you two in a room together, you’d have each other stripped naked in under five minutes.”

  Again, attractive doesn’t mean attracted.

  “Grab the moving harnesses.” I ignore him by refocusing his attention on why he’s here today.

  Scott stops climbing the stairs. “Harnesses? You have them.”

  I pull in a deep lungful of air, trying to keep my aggravation at bay. “You were supposed to bring them from the 49th Ave house.”

  He shakes his head at me like he has no recollection of the conversation we had yesterday. I cross my arms over my chest, pumping my fists in my armpits to channel my anger. This is a waste of time. The stagers are coming tomorrow, it’s already five o’clock, and numbnuts here can’t follow simple instructions.

  “Izzy has some. Go ask to borrow them.” He uses a breezy voice, like she’d love to help us out given our good, neighbourly relationship.

  A smile creeps on to his face through his efforts to fight it. The edges of his lips quiver with the exertion of trying to keep his mouth neutral.

  Scott didn’t grab the harnesses on purpose.

  “What’s your plan?” I’m not talking about equipment anymore.

  Scott seems to have taken it upon himself to see that Princess and I get along. What’s in it for him? This goes beyond Kelsey, since I’m sure he’s already ignoring my request on that front.

  “No plan.

  That heightens my concern because he’s less likely to be predictable in his disorganisation.

  I leave Scott standing on the stairs and head for the back door, swiping my keys angrily off the kitchen counter on the way. Scott and I have never had this kind of tension between us. Since Princess took Iris’ place next-door, nothing is the same.

  “Where are you going?” Scott asks.

  “To do your job.”

  “Suit yourself,” he mocks.

  Chapter 14

  Izzy

  I squeeze Kelsey’s hand as she leads me through the front door. This is the first time seeing things since the abatement took place. As expected, asbestos was everywhere. My teeth chatter despite it being warm out. I wasn’t expecting to be anxious about this since I was prepared to do all the demo myself, yet the reality of seeing the house stripped bare has me at my nervous limit. All the drywall, the ceilings, the insulation, and the flooring have come out by someone else’s hands, leaving me to deal with the progress as a stark before-and-after.

  With my eyes closed, I can still sense the differences as we cross the threshold. The floor has more give to it since we stand on subfloor. The smell is different. It’s musty, although HEPA filters were running in here for days while the asbestos was being cleared out. It sounds different too; our footfalls have very little to bounce off, given the cavernous state of the building.

  “It’s not that bad.” Kelsey reassures me by patting the top of my clammy hand.

  I don’t know what that means. There’s practically nothing left of Gran’s house.

  “Was this a mistake?” My voice trembles with the threat of tears.

  A worrisome thought crosses my mind that Owen was right—that I should have knocked this place down and started fresh. I suddenly don’t trust that my desire to modernise Gran’s home won’t leave me disappointed. Walking into this bare box feels like I did something wrong. Like I’m dishonouring her.

  “You’ve heard the saying, ‘It has to get worse before it gets better?’” That’s her manner of telling me it is that bad. “Open your eyes, Iz. I mean, you’re going to have to at some point, right?”

  I inhale long and slow through my nose and let it out carefully from between clenched teeth. The groan that accompanies the exhale makes breathing sound painful. I open one eye first, like I’ll be less offended if I view things with half my vision. I survey the front room by swivelling my head in a large, slow arc.

  “It’s okay, right?” Kelsey’s voice couldn’t go any higher if she forced it.

  Can I silver lining this? I won’t have to scrape away too much lead paint since most of the walls have been hauled away, and I can see where the pipes and electrical are running since everything is exposed.

  “I know that look. The wheels are spinning.” Kelse bumps my hip playfully. “See, not so awful,” she says again because that’s the best thing that can be said in a situation like this.

  I concede. It’s scary, but not horrific.

  “I’ll need to tweak my budget a little since I didn’t account for this much drywall installation, but you’re right. It doesn’t seem unsurmountable.” At this point, I’m saying it more for myself than for her. It might have to become my daily mantra until I believe it. “Let’s go downstairs and see what it’s like.”

  Kelsey follows behind me, our footsteps making hollow thuds along the path. We audit the house in silence as we move towards the staircase. My thoughts are racing with design changes from what I originally planned. There are so many options and I’m second, then triple-guessing myself. With the walls open I could reorient the kitchen. Add an extra sink somewhere or change my lighting design.

  The few steps from the living room to the stairs beyond the kitchen feel like miles, and I sketch out four different kitchen options in my head by the time Kelsey and I reach the stairs to the lower level. Gran and Gramps never did much with the basement and having the drywall removed barely changes anything. It’s a fairly small space and will be perfect for my design centre. The open area will be where I host clients and I’ll close off part of it for my office. It also helps that the back door is at the top of the stairs and, with the simple addition of a wall and door to block the stairwell from my kitchen, I won’t need to lead clients through my personal living space.

  My shoulders fall away from my ears and my neck feels six inches longer than a second ago. I can do this. I can make this house amazing.

  After a quick perusal of the bedrooms upstairs, Kelse declares it’s time for drinks. Apparently, I look like I need one and can’t argue that since there are no mirrors in here to back me up.

  The timing for our exit could be better. Walking out at the same moment are Scott and Owen. Neither are wearing work clothes—and by that, I mean Owen’s black boots sparkle. And, seeing as it’s Saturday, I assume they’re heading to the local for boys’ night.

  “Hi Kelsey.” Scott smiles at her like he’s pleased at this unexpected encounter.

  Owen wears his usual sucked-on-a-mouthful-of-crabapples expression. I can’t look at Scott, irritated that Kelsey is friendly with him.
I also can’t look at Owen, because, just because.

  I hate how I want to untuck his shirt from his jeans and run my fingers down his rippled chest to determine if it feels as good as I imagine it would. I hate how I want to learn if that would make him smile. Maybe if I did it hard enough to leave red marks for days—add a few of my own designs to his already inked skin—we’d both smile.

  I’m still at war with myself over how I can find him physically attractive and personally repulsive. Not to mention how I keep picturing him as a role model for children and my ovaries thump with curiosity. Although Tommy is his brother and not son, Owen showed a different side of himself; teaching respect and house design—albeit for my house.

  Kelsey interrupts my internal turmoil. “You put the duplex on the market?” She asks Owen, despite the evidence of the sign bearing Brett’s name on the lawn.

  “Yesterday. You two should come see it sometime,” Scott offers.

  At the same time that Kelsey says we’d love to, Owen and I both say, “No.” It’s been a while since we found something to agree on.

  “Another time,” Scott says to Kelsey. “Where are you two headed tonight?”

  How can he stand here making idle conversation when half of our foursome is ready to huff and puff and blow the other’s house down?

  “For a drink. We did our first tour since the asbestos guys finished their job, and Iz needs something to settle her nerves.”

  “My nerves are fine.” There’s no way I’ll let Owen know I’m the least bit frazzled by this journey I’ve embarked upon. “If anything, the crew did me a favour and saved me the demo time,” I say with a snotty tone, edging on old-money-boarding-school levels.

  Meanwhile, I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m truly happy about going through with this when I could have bought a house that didn’t hold so much sentimental value and pressure to be perfect.

  Owen speaks directly to me for a change. “I’ll save you the rest of your trouble.” He doesn’t need to finish his statement because it’s always the same with him. One track mind. Get Izzy’s house.

  I’m bored with this rhetoric. “Kelse, if you’re done with the villains from next-door, we should get moving.”

  “You should join us at the pub,” Scott proposes. His sincerity ignores the glare so intense between Owen and me that’s likely to melt all the windows on the street.

  “No,” Owen and I say in sync again.

  Kelsey shrugs and finishes it with a gentle laugh that Scott reciprocates.

  “Next time.” Scott tries once more.

  “Not then either,” I say as I turn away from them and head towards my car.

  I don’t care if I’m acting immature. Those two will never become part of our social circle.

  “MRS. MORROW, THIS FIXTURE will be perfect in your dining room.” I amp up the enthusiasm because, quite frankly, I’m losing my patience with her. I can understand why nothing has been selected this far into the process. She can’t make up her mind. Or rather, she can, then she changes it a few days later.

  She stands beside me and peers into the catalogue I’m leafing through. We’ve gone through this one already, but I’m hoping we passed over something last week that she now finds agreeable. Especially since she’s changed all the other fixtures in the house to a different style. What was unacceptable yesterday is on the table again.

  “That is nice, but . . .” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence with an excuse. We’re beyond excuses. I’m also beyond trying to convince her she’ll love it once it’s hanging in her home above her table.

  “You know what, Izzy?” I crane my neck to look at her over my shoulder. “I want the one Scott chose in the new house they’re building. That semi-detached spec home on 16a Street has lovely finishes. Have you seen it?” She asks me with such eagerness, I’d think she decorated that house herself. Funny, too, since it was probably the Black Ladder designer that she fired who made the choices.

  “I know the one, but I haven’t been inside.” Because I stomped my foot and refused to have a look at it.

  She claps her hands. “Well, that’s the one I desire.”

  I clench my teeth and force my lips to smile around the tension in my cheeks. If this process hadn’t been so tedious, I would steer her in another direction, but at this point I’d rather ask Scott for a tour of the house than go to another lighting store. That’s telling of how desperate I am to make this decision final.

  “I’ll call Scott to get the model number and I will see you on Tuesday at the hardware store to choose handles and knobs.” I wrap up our shopping day in one final sentence.

  “Thank you, dear.” She prances out of the lighting store like making the selection was no effort at all.

  I drop my elbows on top of the stack of catalogues and press the heels of my hands into my eyes hard enough to see stars.

  Sophia, the saleslady, stands on the other side of the counter from me. “They can’t all be dream clients.”

  True. In fact, very few are. Most are tolerable, some venture into the crazy category, which at least is humorous in its frustration. Mrs. Morrow means well even if she is indecisive. In this instance, though, it’s not the client that I’m hung up on. It’s having to call Scott and ask him to let me in after proudly declaring that I never want to look at the inside of that place.

  I tidy my stack of catalogues and tell Sophia I’ll call her with the correct information once I have it. She sends me off with an encouraging smile. If she only knew how little a smile offers in this situation.

  I call Scott on my way to the car. The only reason to delay this would be to buy time for Mrs. Morrow to change her mind again. Regrettably, she looked the most determined about this choice than any of the others, even those she stuck with.

  “Scott here.” He answers the phone and the music playing in the background fades away as he lowers the volume.

  It sounds like he’s driving, which means I’ll have to schedule a time to meet him at the house. And that means Owen will find out about it and I might have to see him too. Double trouble.

  “Scott, Isabella Holt calling.” I use my most professional voice to avoid letting my personal disdain get in the way of this interaction.

  He laughs softly. “Izzy, you don’t need to be so formal with me.” I’d prefer that he was more formal with me. “What’s up?”

  In spite of his casual tone, I remain as professional as ever. “Mrs. Morrow would like me to see the dining room light fixture you have chosen for the house on 16a. Can I please schedule a time with you to see it?”

  He needles me with a quiet snicker. “Owen’s there right now.”

  “I figured as project manager for the Morrows, you might like to know about this.”

  “Not really,” comes his aloof reply. “Want Owen’s phone number?”

  No, I don’t want Owen’s phone number. I would rather Scott let me in so I don’t have to look at Owen’s beautifully smug face and arms and the rest of his body while he follows me through a house that could easily be built on my lot.

  My phone buzzes against my ear with the notification of a message coming through. I pull it away and see that I apparently didn’t object out loud and Scott has sent me Owen’s contact info already. Scott’s laughing like he’s pulled off a magic trick better than anything Criss Angel could execute.

  I mumble a thanks into the phone, then hop into my car. I’m not going to call Owen and give him the heads-up that I’m on my way. Half the battle with him is keeping the element of surprise.

  Chapter 15

  Owen

  Someone’s at the door but I’m not expecting any deliveries, and the guys all know the code to the lockbox even if it weren’t unlocked. I climb from the ladder and slide the hammer into the loop on my pants as I make my way to the entrance.

  I’m halfway there when I see through the full-length frosted glass that it’s my charming neighbour. The silhouette of her toned legs leading to her perky as
s show that she’s standing sideways, looking across my recently finished unit, into her own yard.

  I swing the door open wide enough that I can fill the space with my body, leaning one hand on the door and the other on the wall. I don’t greet her. Instead, I let her announce why she’s on my doorstep. A briefcase is clutched between her slender fingers. Has she come to her senses and drawn up sales papers?

  She keeps her stance facing sideways, like she can’t be bothered to adjust her feet; however, she graces me with eye contact. She always looks at me directly, as if anchoring to the one bright spot in my darkness.

  “Did Scott call you?” She, apparently, won’t greet me either. Her tone is cool and less than professional.

  “Nope.” I slide my hand off the door and scratch the nape of my neck as a sign of boredom and for her to get to the reason she’s here.

  She tilts her head, distracted by my tattoos. She does that every time I move my arms. At the pub, on the street last Saturday night, and now. She stares at them like she’s never seen a guy with tattoos before. Like she’s never known anyone to use their body to tell a story when they didn’t have the words to do it.

  Guys will instantly tell me I have cool tats and girls will stroke them cooing that I’m so sexy, neither gender really trying for the meaning. When Princess looks at my tattoos, she’s looking at me. She knows there’s a story behind each one and they’re more than cool images I found online.

  Good luck trying to figure me out, sweetheart. The stories on my body don’t belong to me. If she wants to know something, she’ll need my permission, and I’ll never give her that.

  I drop my hand into my pocket, settling casually into the silence that sits between us. Her eyes follow that gesture also, but it’s fleeting. She catches herself before I might realise that she’s staring at my crotch. Turns out I’m not the only one who finds their neighbour attractive. Too bad this power struggle will never allow us to explore that inclination.

  In an unsuccessful show of disinterest at the growing bulge in my pants, Princess tips her chin. I’m already far taller than her, and with me standing in the house and her a few inches lower on the porch outside, the difference is exaggerated. Princess’ pupils constrict when they move from focussing on my black jeans to my face on a background of bright white walls. The blue of her irises becomes so much bluer now that it’s not overwhelmed by the black pit in the middle. Ironic; looking at me makes the black go away.