The Other Half

by Jess Whitecroft

  Chris sighs when I hold my hand out to help him up, but he gets to his feet just the same. There’s work to be done, and Chris – for all his fancy upbringing – is not the kind to stand on the sidelines, even when he’s paying people to do it.

  He’s quick to learn, even though he’s never worked construction before in his life. And he’s not too high and mighty to push a wheelbarrow, if that’s what’s needed, even though he has a master’s degree. Maybe that was what got me in the first place, when he rolled up his sleeves and decided to help me strip the old fireplace. After growing up in the shadow of Jack’s self-regard, maybe it was inevitable I’d fall in love with someone who didn’t think he was above it all.

  There’s a floor in the dining room now, and we have the beginnings of a kitchen. The back of the house still looks skeletal compared to the front, but it’s coming together. The other day we rebuilt the stairs – the ones Jack built and then burned out of spite – and that was a little tough, but I got from one end of the day to the other. Maybe that was what that whole deer thing was about this morning. All my emotions catching up with me. I’m still mad that I allowed him to get under my skin that last time. After everything, I should have known so much better.

  Around eleven another car rolls up, and everyone turns to look. The car is unfamiliar, but then the door opens and I immediately recognize the foot that steps out. Black patent pumps and a tattoo of a koi fish squirming up her ankle. It’s Dawn, looking all kinds of sexy serious in a high waisted pinstriped pencil skirt and a white silk blouse.

  “Holy shit, look at you,” I say, and I don’t know if I should touch her. She looks so spotless, and I’m sweaty and covered in sawdust and grime. “You’re all…lawyery.”

  “I should hope so,” she says, peering through her sunglasses at the house. “That was kinda the whole idea of passing the bar.”

  I wave an arm over the place. “So? Whaddaya think?”

  “Cool. Very cool. I was expecting more of a charred ruin.”

  “Yeah, everyone says that. It’s a lot worse from the back, believe me. I’d show you, but the ground back there will make a mess of your shoes.”

  “Seriously, I’m impressed,” she says. “You’ve worked your ass off.”

  “Says the woman with a shiny new law degree. How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good,” she says, taking off the glasses. There’s a small sweat patch under her arm. She’s not completely invulnerable to the summer heat after all. “You know I was like looking at probate stuff and wills and all that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah, well – it seems like those aren’t the kind of clients I attract. Couple of girls hit me up and it turns out that my unique experience in the ‘entertainment industry’ makes me an ideal candidate to represent people in a similar line of work. So…yeah, I represent porn stars now.”

  “Hey, if this weird times we live in have taught me anything, it’s that porn stars definitely need lawyers. Just don’t grift their GoFundMes or get messy on Twitter, okay?”

  She laughs. “Not my style,” she says. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.”

  Chris comes out onto the porch, waves and wanders over. “Hey, Dawn. How’s it going?”

  “Good. Actually you might want to be here for this, too.”

  “For what?” I say, and the nervousness I shoved down at the sight of her comes bubbling back up. She’s here about Jack: that much I do know. She’s been helping me tie up his affairs and his outstanding debts, and I wonder how much he’s left me in the hole for.

  “Your dad,” she says. “There’s some stuff that’s come to light.”

  “Oh God. What now? Did they accidentally cremate him with fifty balloons of high quality heroin stuffed in his colon and now the dealers want recompense?”

  “Nope.” She grins.

  “Okay. So is this the bizarre plot twist when it turns out that I’m the illegitimate kid and my real father is a billionaire who wants to buy me my own tax free Caribbean island?”

  Chris, his arm around my waist, frowns. “Kind of a stretch, Pumpkin. You really do look like your dad. No offence.”

  “No, I know. I was just reaching. I know there’s no way I dodged that genetic bullet. Dawn, will you quit smiling and tell me what’s up?”

  “Okay,” she says, and doesn’t stop smiling. “So, your Grandma Ohanian, right? Turns out she was no dummy. Some mothers have a blind spot where their kids are concerned, no matter how bad the kid, but not her. Turns out she set up a secret trust for you and your brother.”

  “A secret…?” I exhale. “Oh my God. He always said she had money. He literally tore the house apart when she died.” I look up at Chris. “I told you that, right?”

  “The termite routine. Yeah.”

  “That’s why it was secret, I guess,” says Dawn. “The money was to be held in a secret trust for as long as your dad was above ground.”

  “Right.” Jesus. Not everyone in my family is a moron. There was more to the old lady than just apricot stuffing, even though the apricot stuffing was goddamn delicious. “Because if he even suspected it existed he’d figure out a way to steal it.”

  “Exactly,” says Dawn. “So it’s been sitting around accruing interest for about twenty-five years.”

  I take a breath before asking the inevitable question. “How much?”

  “After taxes and stuff? It’s probably gonna work out a little under two hundred grand.”

  “Between me and Corey?”

  “No,” she says. “Each.”

  I lean heavily on Chris. Holy shit, that’s more money than I’ve ever had at once. That’s a lot of timber, a lot of paint, and a whole lot of kitchen cabinets. “We can get that chandelier,” I say, thinking of the Victorian light fitting we wanted for the dining room but couldn’t afford.

  “That’s the first thing you think of?” says Chris.

  “Yes. Just imagine what we can do, Chris. All of those expensive period features – we won’t have to compromise on them any more. We can get the house exactly as we want it.”

  Chris and Dawn exchange glances. Dawn excuses herself on the grounds that Chris and I ‘need to discuss stuff’ and heads back to town.

  “You think I’m nuts, don’t you?” I say, because Chris is trying so hard to look like he doesn’t. He never could pull off that look.

  “Jody, that’s a lot of money.”

  “I know, but think how much more we can charge when we’re a boutique Bed and Breakfast with authentic period features. People come to New Hampshire specifically for this kind of shit.”

  He leans on the porch rail and sighs. “I don’t know. With that kind of money you could buy a better roof over your head. One that isn’t gonna cost a fortune to repair because you have to get a specific kind of slate from one special quarry in fucking Vermont.”

  “But I like this roof,” I say. “And I already own it. At least, half of it.”

  “Assuming no more nasty legal surprises, yeah.”

  “Relax. Your family aren’t gonna pull that shit again. Not after last time.” Dawn told me I could bring down a shitstorm on their legal firm over digging up my juvenile records like that. I duly repeated her threats to Pa Solomon and he backed off in a hurry. He even apologized about the case of mistaken identity.

  I rest my head against Chris’s bicep and look up at him. “Come on. Look me in the eye and tell me that this doesn’t make our plans a whole lot easier.”

  He sighs again, but I know I’ve won. “It’s gonna be great,” I tell him. “You won’t be so dependent on those assholes in New York. You can strike out on your own. Do some freelance editing, for books by diverse writers…”

  Chris smiles. “…who aren’t writing about ninety pound white girls. Yeah.”

  “See? I know you want that. You need to do something you believe in. We all do. It’s human nature.” I take his hand. “Come with me. Let me show you something.”

  I take him into the house and
lead him into the living room. There are new joists above our head, the wood pale and new, still smelling sweetly of the lumberyard. No boards yet. We can still see through the joists and up into the bedroom above. They’ve replastered the wall where the leg of the bed gouged it out as it fell, and shored up the floor, but it’s very much a work in progress.

  I go to the fireplace and raise the flap of tarpaulin hanging over it. Declan wanted to take out the fireplace for safekeeping, but we couldn’t budge its marble bulk, and he quickly became anxious that we’d never get it out in one piece.

  There’s still paint in the fine details of the marble, thin seams of it between the delicate lines of the scrollwork.

  “Remember this?” I say, pointing it out. “Remember scrubbing at this all night with toothbrushes?”

  “Paint thinner and weed,” he says. “The New Hampshire high life.”

  “You got it.”

  Chris runs his fingers over the marble. “We didn’t get it all off. I thought we got more paint off than that.”

  “We made a start, baby. We didn’t even know we were making one at the time, but we made a start.” I reach out, and we trace the same shapes together, our fingers touching on the cold stone. “We’ll come back to this,” I say. “When we’ve got ceilings. And a kitchen. And maybe then we’ll have learned better ways of taking paint off than scrubbing away with toothbrushes. We started, so let’s finish.” His hand covers mine and he pulls me round to face him. Such pretty green eyes. “Don’t you want to see how it turns out?”

  His fingers brush my cheek. “I honestly can’t remember when I wanted anything else,” he says, and I don’t think he’s talking about the fireplace any more.

  The End

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