So Wright: The Wrights

by Jordan, Skye

  Jack hadn’t spoken with Miranda beyond a few texts since. He’d spent the rest of the week in Tampa working with Kelsey’s client. When he’d returned late last night, Miranda wouldn’t see him. The new distance between them hurt, and he wasn’t sure what to do to bridge the gap.

  “In one thousand feet, your destination is on the left.” The GPS’s disembodied female voice read off the address, but Jack knew he’d arrived. The entrance to the property was a little hard to miss.

  The fence along the road broke on both sides of the entrance. Both angled sections of the fence had been replaced by ornate iron slabs, topped with beautiful scrollwork. A depiction of a waving American flag had been split between the two fence pieces, and a beautiful hand-cut script lay beneath the image. Home of the free on the left, and Because of the brave on the right. Above it all, an arch announced the entrance to Warrior Homes.

  Miranda’s signature was all over the metal. She definitely had the heart of an artist.

  “That’s some beautiful ironwork.” His father’s assessment drew Jack back.

  “Sure is.” He continued through the entrance and wound his way up a gentle incline. When he reached the top, the land opened up in front of him. The trees had been thinned for building sites. A lot of building sites. “Holy shit.”

  He hadn’t imagined the project was on this grand a scale. And that was just at first glance. From this vantage point, Jack could see several streets branching off the main road, weaving through more trees before disappearing. Judging by the dump trucks and work vehicles dotting the roads, it appeared there was work going on in the hills as well.

  “This is a big project,” his dad said.

  “Bigger than I expected.” Jack continued toward an area where other vehicles were parked and pulled up beside an old Ford one-ton Super Duty with a Bondoed bed panel and a large toolbox filling nearly half the bed.

  “I’ve been so disconnected, I didn’t even know what was happening in my own town.” Sadness floated in Jon’s voice. “Would have liked to have contributed to the project. It’s such a great cause.”

  Jack reached over and squeezed his dad’s hand. “There’s still time, Dad. Now that you’re feeling better, you’ll be able to participate in all kinds of things.”

  His dad surprised Jack by covering his hand and holding it there. His watery blue eyes were sharper today, but also sadder. “I miss you, son. With your mother gone, I’ve been feeling the need to have you and your sister and the little ones close. I’ve missed out on a lot this year. The boys grew up so much, and I missed it all. I don’t even remember Joshua being born.”

  “It’s just the depression, Dad. The doctors said your memories will return as you get better.”

  “Memories of what? Losing your mother? How my best friend of thirty years completely betrayed me? I don’t care to remember. I just want to look forward. I don’t want to miss another minute with any of you. I want our family close again.”

  Jack was surprised to feel the same pull deep inside him. “I’ll make a point of coming home more often, Dad. I promise.”

  Jon held his gaze. He didn’t seem satisfied with that answer, but just nodded and released Jack’s hand. “Let’s go take a look.”

  Jack stood from the car and spent a long moment taking it all in. This was clearly the hub of the community. The main road split and curved around a section of property, where six shipping containers sat at different angles. They’d all been primed with flat gray paint, and by their positioning, Jack could almost see how they would assemble into one large stylish building.

  A supply center had been created to the west, where mismatched shipping containers were lined up in neat rows alongside pallets of cement, piles of lumber, sheets of metal roofing, and other supplies. Forklifts filled flatbeds, a group of about six older women staffed a snack shack, and men and women of every age went about whatever duties they’d been given.

  His dad smiled at Jack. “You want to get your hands on a set of plans so badly, you’re twitching.”

  Jack laughed. “Let’s go see what we can dig up.”

  As soon as they started toward the hub, he spotted Miranda. She was at the center of a group of five men ranging in age from twenty-five to fifty-five. A clipboard hung from one hand, and her hair was braided into one long tail. She wore old jeans and a red tank top.

  She and two of the men in the group looked over blueprints. Miranda pointed to different areas, then spoke directly to the men with gestures. After so many years on construction sites, Jack could spot the man—or woman—in charge from a football field away. These people clearly looked to Miranda for direction.

  Before she was even finished with one conversation, another group of three approached, and as soon as the first five men went to work, the other three moved in. She was like a flower at the center of hovering honeybees.

  Jack could see why men might get squirrelly with her proximity to so many other men. He wasn’t normally a jealous man, but he now wondered if that was because he’d never met a woman he wanted to keep so badly.

  Just as the three men moved on, Jack and his father neared Miranda. Her gaze registered surprise and skepticism as she looked at Jack, his father, then back. “Hey. Didn’t really expect you to come.”

  Before Jack could respond, the door to a trailer marked OFFICE opened, and two more men came down the stairs. One was clearly identifiable as Marty from the prosthetic leg and the photo Jack had seen in the paper. The other man looked about Jack’s age, with a fair dose of premature gray threading his dark hair. He had an intense presence. He seemed like a leader, solid and confident. He was lean but muscular. He wore khakis and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up.

  All the men met up with Miranda at the same time. When she turned and surveyed all their faces, nerves drifted through her gaze, as if she hadn’t meant for them to converge this way.

  Marty held his hand out to Jack. “Mr. New York, I presume. I recognize your face.”

  That reminded him that Marty knew exactly what had been going on between him and Miranda. Jack had never been a guy out for one thing, and he didn’t love the idea of someone important to Miranda thinking he was.

  He took Marty’s hand. “Jack. Great to meet you, sir.”

  “Marty Birch.” The man was weathered beyond his years. The lines of his face hinted at his age in the midsixties, but everything else about the man, from his full head of unruly salt-and-pepper curls to his taut biceps, made Jack think Marty was closer to his midfifties.

  Marty introduced the man beside him as Roman Steele, and Jack introduced his father. More handshakes circled through the group.

  Finally, Miranda reached out to Jack’s father. “Mr. Taylor, it’s so great to finally meet you.”

  Jon clasped her hands in both of his and beamed at Miranda. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Wright. You’ve done Pinnacle proud, young lady.”

  “Pinnacle has made some important donations to this project, sir. We can’t thank you enough.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Jon said.

  Her smile was bright, but Jack still sensed nerves. “Well, since you’re all here at the same time, I suppose we could do one big tour.” She glanced at Roman. “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Steele.”

  “Call me Roman,” he said. “And that would be fine.”

  She nodded, then glanced at Jack. “Can I have a minute, Jack?”

  Marty jumped in. “Roman, Jon, come on over here. I want to show you a scale model of the whole project.”

  Marty led the men toward a tent, where a model filled a foldout table and professional perspective illustrations hung from PVC pipe. Jack followed Miranda around to the back of the office trailer. She paused in the shade and looked around to make sure no one was close before she met his gaze.

  “Are we good?” she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “No leftover bad feelings?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, we’re great. I would have liked to convey that
in person last night.”

  “I’ll be honest. I’m struggling with this, Jack. Trust isn’t exactly one of my strengths, and I have to admit, I’m not sure how I feel about everything that’s happened or what should happen in the future.” She shifted on her feet and threaded her fingers, wringing them. “I need you to know that Roman is a potential investor, and I really want to put my best foot forward here.”

  Guilt punched him in the stomach. “I won’t embarrass you like I did at Pinnacle.”

  “You didn’t embarrass me, you pissed me off.”

  “Is that why you’ve been less that chatty with me over text?”

  She waved away his question, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “I just need to know it won’t happen again. Not in front of other people. If you feel the need to confront me, please do it when my peers aren’t around.”

  He nodded. “Understood.”

  She exhaled, but her gaze remained narrowed, and the distance between them kept her out of reach—physically and emotionally. Jack had no idea how to turn back the clock, so, he did what had worked for him in the past—he reached for her.

  He gently gripped her biceps and pulled her close, surprised she didn’t pull back. He wrapped one arm low on her waist, cupped her face with the other hand. “I’m going to make it up to you.”

  “I want that.” She rested her hands against his chest and held his gaze, but the absence of her smile made Jack feel chilled. “This is a big deal to me, Jack.”

  “And you’re a big deal to me. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “All aboard!” Marty’s call coincided with the crank of an engine.

  Miranda stepped away from Jack, and he experienced a sense of loss that was difficult to explain. He followed her around the front of the building and found Marty standing beside the driver’s seat of an all-terrain utility vehicle with four seats beneath a canopy and two more hanging off the rear of the vehicle facing backward. Roman already sat in the passenger’s seat, and Jack’s dad sat in the second row.

  Miranda moved to the driver’s seat, and Marty rounded the back. “Sit with me, Jack.”

  “I’ll take you around to each subdivision,” Miranda said to no one in particular, “so you can see the various stages of completion. Once I start talking about this, you usually can’t shut me up, so just interrupt me with questions. We’ll end up back here, and I’ll explain what we have planned for the community center.”

  Marty gestured to the jump seat. “Climb on, son.” Then settled next to him with surprising agility.

  With everyone aboard, Miranda started toward the main road. Marty reached into the seat beside Jack’s father and stealthily snuck a soft-covered binder into his own lap.

  “I’m at a disadvantage here,” Roman said. “Everyone has some kind of construction background but me. Can you start from the beginning? Why shipping containers?”

  Marty slid the binder onto Jack’s lap. “Sit on it, boy. Don’t let her see you have it.” Jack had an almost irresistible urge to open the binder, but Marty pointed at the seat. “Literally, sit on it, kid. That girl’s got Spidey senses. She’ll snatch it back like an eagle plucks salmon right out of a stream.”

  He slid the binder under his ass. Marty nodded in approval.

  “There are over five hundred thousand abandoned shipping containers around the world,” Miranda was saying. “They’re cheap, and they’re strong as hell. We have a waiting list filled with companies that want to donate their containers to us. Here, we’re using forty- or forty-five-foot, high-cube Corten steel containers. High-cubes are taller, leaving a full nine feet between floor and ceiling. They’re harder to find, but there are more than we can use at this point, and in my opinion, the extra height is important for small structures like the homes we’re building here.”

  “Tell me about the costs in comparison to traditionally built homes,” Roman said.

  “These homes are running about three percent of the cost of comparable brick-and-mortar homes. Of course, this project has extra savings built in from supply donations and volunteer hours. Cost for straight retail construction with shipping containers—comparing apples to apples—run about thirty percent of a traditional build. You can put as much money into them as you want, and if you’re not careful or if you want something high-end and splashy, you’re going to pay for it. There are people who have put over a million dollars into elaborate container homes.”

  “What did she tell you about this project?” Marty asked, his voice low so he didn’t interrupt Miranda.

  “Just that she volunteers her welding skills,” Jack said, “and that her fondness for veterans comes from her relationship with you.”

  He smiled and shook his head, staring out at the landscape. “Figures.”

  Miranda turned right at the road and dodged other vehicles and workers. “If you’ve done any research, you’ll find people who believe container homes are no less expensive to build than brick-and-mortar, but I’m here to tell you that’s not true. Keeping costs under control involves planning.”

  She spoke about using recycled materials and ingenuity of design to utilize the container’s strengths along with standard-size building materials to keep costs under control.

  “Smart,” Jon said.

  Jack glanced over his shoulder and found his father leaning forward, hanging on Miranda’s every word as they rolled up on a cul-de-sac where the land had been graded for home sites and foundations had been poured.

  “We carefully clear the land and place homes using existing trees to protect containers from weather and to prevent drainage problems, which can cause rust issues.”

  Jack’s father asked more about rust, and Miranda told him about pretreating and painting the containers for prevention. “Container selection is critical to strength and longevity, so I inspect each and every container before I clear it for use.”

  “What about energy efficiency?” Roman asked. “How do you keep them cool in the summer and warm in the winter?”

  “Spray insulation is best suited for the underside of the container,” she told him, “while blanket insulation can be used in walls and ceilings. On this project, we have a company donating the spray insulation, so we use that exclusively, but you could save some money by using both spray and blanket. Good insulation saves money on utility costs, and when we’re talking about limited- and fixed-income residents, that’s important. We also design windows and doors to allow cross breezes and install ceiling fans in all bedrooms and living rooms.”

  She backtracked along the street, took another turn, and started up a slight grade to the next cul-de-sac. “Many container homes are built at a factory and transported to the site, which makes the construction of a home extremely quick, often only hours. To keep our costs low and involve the community, we’re building on-site.”

  The next cul-de-sac had containers on foundations. Crews were busy framing up the interiors. But the gears of Jack’s mind had gotten stuck back on her comment about container inspection. A few of Miranda’s phrases stuck in his mind. I inspect each and I clear them for use.

  As she explained how welders cut openings in the containers for windows and door placement, Jack turned to Marty. “What did you mean when you said it figures?”

  Marty continued to look out over the construction with the satisfied expression of a proud father. “She always undersells herself.” He looked at Jack. “This entire project is Miranda’s baby.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning this is all her, from the ground up,” he said. “Miranda prefers to focus on her welding, so she’s set up a strong management team to handle other aspects of the project. But this whole development was Miranda’s brainchild.”

  He fixed his gaze on Jack. “About three years ago, one of her coworkers at Pinnacle wanted to build a hunting cabin using a container and asked Miranda if she’d do the welding. She fell in love with the whole process and immediately saw all the possibilities containe
r homes could offer. It was like a light clicked on. Since then, she’s pulled together all the donations, resources, and volunteers. She’s interfaced with the local building department to ensure a smooth build and worked with the Department of Veterans Affairs to obtain available grant money.”

  He returned his gaze to the land. “This is the first large-scale build of its kind and holds amazing implications for more communities like it. There are a lot of eyes on this project. If it succeeds, it will mean a whole new level of success for Miranda’s future.”

  At some point, Jack’s jaw had unhinged. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Miranda’s skills and ambitions. “Why in the hell does she work at a bar? In addition to her job at Pinnacle? Where does she find the time?”

  “That’s a point of contention between us. It’s my bar. Miranda doesn’t think I should be slinging drinks into the wee hours of the morning, so she picks up shifts when someone calls in sick or there’s a popular band booked at the Opry. Don’t get me wrong, at my age, I appreciate the help, but she also uses it as an excuse not to move forward with her own plans. I had to go behind her back to bring in Roman. That’s the way it is with Miranda. Sometimes you just have to circumvent her own self-limiting beliefs.”

  “Plans?” Jack found himself annoyed he was having to get this information from Marty. “What are her plans?”

  “A company of her own, building these kinds of communities for the less fortunate and those living on a limited and fixed income. Seniors, section eight, veterans, single-parent families. She wants to get people off the streets and into affordable little homes like these, creating communities where like-minded folks can come together and support each other. Where struggling families can be safe.”

  “So, is Steele an investor for this development?”

  “No. This project is fully funded and staffed. Well, mostly funded. We recently came up a little short, but we’re working on it. This phase of the project—one hundred and twenty-seven one- and two-bedroom homes—is a done deal. This property is large enough to support four phases.”