by Lila Monroe
But I can tell that when Flint loves something, or someone, it’s with so much of himself that he’s afraid to show it. That kind of passion is overwhelming.
“You always do the right thing, don’t you? You don’t even have to think about it. I wish more people were like that,” I say, shaking my head in admiration. Flint looks into my eyes and I know he’s searching me, seeking out any sign of artifice or pandering— but he’ll find none.
“I have to take care of my people,” he repeats. He picks up a screw, tossing it in his hand. It’s something to do that isn’t look at me. “They’ve been with McKay’s since my uncle was in charge. Well, except for Danny. He’s just a pain in the ass I hired two years ago.” He grins again. It really is like the sun coming out, that smile. You find yourself craving it when it’s not there. “But I’ve got to keep this business running, for them and for all the people like them who work in my stores.” He sighs. “I can’t give in.”
Shit. This isn’t just about my show anymore, or wiping that idiot smile off Tyler’s smug face. Flint’s putting his trust, his company, in my hands. Jeanine and Danny, they’re counting on this success as much as I am. Maybe more.
“You won’t give in,” I say, decisive. “We won’t.” He looks at me, kind of surprised. My head’s buzzing right now. My blood’s pumping faster, just thinking about how kickass I’m going to make this show. Like Mad Max, I’m a road warrior with a righteous cause, baby. “I’m not going to let you down, Flint. We’re going to turn this into the best damn sizzle reel the world has ever known. Men will testify in the streets to its perfection.” I raise my chin, prim but feisty. My favorite self-description. “We’ll get this show on the air, and we’ll save your business. All right?”
For the first time, I feel like he’s really looking at me, seeing all of me, and he smiles. My heart warms in my chest. Damn. The things we give up to get ahead.
“All right, Laurel,” he says. “Let’s get started.”
8
“You can’t see the ridge beam,” Flint says as we walk through the newest, most eastern wing of his house. He points at the ceiling. “It’s the centermost. The rafters all radiate out from that.” We’re in one of his gabled rooms, looking out onto the back yard. Flint told me he had just finished basic construction when the original buyer decided to pull out. As a result, he never got around to doing much with it. It’s a lot barer over here; no furniture, and plush gray carpeting just laid down. He knocks against the blank wall. “And, of course, there’s my world famous drywall technique. But you’ve already got that covered with the audition.”
“Great,” I say, then stop. “Hold on, battery’s running down.” My poor little camcorder is flashing a pitiful red light. “Let’s go back to the kitchen for a second.” Flint follows me downstairs. I grab my bag, pull out the charger, and plug my camera into the kitchen wall. It sucks all the electricity it can, probably enjoying its tasty little camcorder meal. I, er, like to anthropomorphize my stuff. “So. We got a few minutes to kill.”
“Taking a break?” he says, whistling. I hear Chance’s giant paws come thudding down the hallway towards us. “Let me take the beast out for a second. He needs a fast run in the afternoon, or he gets crazy at night.” Already, Chance is banging into cabinets and woofing at the sliding glass door.
“Sounds good,” I say, watching the two giants race outside and down the lawn toward the woods. Once Flint is out of sight, I finally let the smile disappear from my face. Just in time, too: my expression was so tightly controlled it was starting to give me a headache. I head to the fridge to get some water, trying to clear my mind.
Ever since I saw Flint’s store and met the employees the stakes have gotten, well, stakier. Knowing how much is riding on this, it put the whole thing in a sobering light. And there’s one big concern that I now have: this show doesn’t have a show. When I was wildly trying to get Flint to agree, I had a very simple concept of ‘rustic man teaches renovation.’ Cool idea, sure, but what ties the whole thing together? The wacky community? They’re fun, but we don’t want this to descend into sitcom levels of hilarity. The renovation itself? Sure, it’s useful, and women love staring at hot guys with huge work ethics, but there’s only so much time you can spend watching a roofing job.
I have to be honest with myself: I don’t know what the heart of the show is, what will keep people tuning in every week. And without the heart, all we’ve got are some fabulous abs. Good, sexy stuff; but not enough to hang thirteen episodes on. And it’s now Friday afternoon. Time is flying by, knocking me upside the head as it goes. That bastard.
I’m filling my glass and doing my best to think when I notice a little desk wedged into the corner, right between the fridge and the wall. Work station, probably for emergency moments when you get a breathtaking flash of an idea. I know how that feels, and can’t stop myself from taking a look. There’s a blueprint rolled up on top of the desk. Unable to help my curiosity, I unfurl the thing and find myself looking at the plan for another house. Tracing my hand over the drawing, my mouth falls open. I’m not handy in the slightest, but even I can tell this is a stunning design. I whistle softly as I look it over. It’s a little smaller and longer than this house, more of a Frank Lloyd Wright style, all flat planes and clean lines.
“You like it?” Flint says. I gasp and turn around, hand on my chest.
“Thank you. I hadn’t had a nice, juicy heart attack in a while.”
“Good, I know working in television is such a stress free career path,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry. I might be, if I found someone snooping through my stuff, and I flush with embarrassment. He picks up the paper and rolls up the plan, a little wistfully.
“Who’s the place for?” I ask.
“It never got built,” he says. “It was for me.” He seems to hesitate, as if that’s not quite true. Strange. “I even have the plot of land all picked out. Well, I had,” he grumbles, cleaning up a few other stray papers on the desk, putting them away.
“The windows would’ve been huge,” I say, trying to find a good topic of conversation. It’s a little awkward all of a sudden. “You’d probably want to build it on top of a hill somewhere.”
“What makes you say that?” He leans against his desk and looks at me, that stubborn-and-stubbled expression back on his face.
“The views around here are gorgeous. They’re like some kind of spectacular painting.” I shrug. “Why buy art when you can look out at nature?”
“You’re sharp, Laurel,” he says, and nods. “Yes. The lot’s on a hill.”
“Is it nearby?” I ask, as he puts the rolled up blueprint to the side of the desk.
“If you want to wind your way up further into the Berkshires, yeah.” He looks at me almost warily. “Do you want to see it?”
“Hells yes. I mean, as thrilling as the new wing’s foundation was, I feel like you standing on some hilltop, looking out over the autumn leaves, silhouetted by the sun, that’s the kind of money shot the executives love.” All that burly manliness on top of some rock, posing with his arms akimbo is exactly what Thursday night needs. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get some fresh inspiration. “Will you take me there?”
“All right. Hop in the truck,” he says, pulling his keys out of his pocket.
“The last time anyone said that to me, it was homecoming in the cornfield,” I say, following him outside. “With a suggestive leer, of course.”
“And how did you respond to such a gallant gesture?” he asks, voice dry.
“I kneed him in the balls,” I say brightly. Flint opens the door for me, chivalrous as always. “How polite of you,” I grin as I slide in.
“I’m always polite to women who have a reputation for ball kneeing,” he says, and closes the door.
The ride up through the hills is breathtaking. The sunlight actually looks buttery yellow shining in through the autumn leaves. When I roll the window down, the air is crisp, like the first bite of a red apple. Butter. Cr
isp. Apple. It’s a good thing I ate breakfast already. I look over at Flint, who’s got one arm hanging out the window as he drives. He’s all intense gaze and muscled smolder. The gentleman of the great outdoors; the financier in flannel. I think I’m a genius. I’m also staring at him a little bit too much.
Plus, Chance is sitting right behind me, and he loves putting his slobbery head on my shoulder as we ride. I don’t mind. Scratching dog’s ears is one of life’s pleasures. He whines in appreciation.
Finally, we break through a copse of trees and roll onto a spectacular hilltop. It’s more like the precipice of a small mountain, really. I get out and gasp, staring across the vast, sloping expanses of red, golden, and green-leafed trees before me. The horizon is a hazy blue that softens the scene like a watercolor. The wind gently tousles my hair. Hands on my hips, I turn in a full circle.
“You look impressed,” Flint says. Thumbs looped through his jeans, he strides up beside me. “Every woman I know thinks this is a perfect spot.”
“Oh, you’ve brought many lady conquests up here, have you?” I grin, meaning it as a joke, but he doesn’t seem to take it that way. He turns away quickly, retreating inward. I’ve either overstepped our professional boundary or I’ve hit a nerve.
“No. I haven’t,” he says. He strolls out to the edge of the lot, looking down a pretty steep drop.
“Kidding, of course. You don’t strike me as the manwhore type,” I say, skirting around the rocks and back up to him, hoping to smooth over my verbal misstep.
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” He pats his leg, and Chance comes panting over. “We alpha male bastards jockey for manwhore status.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could entice just about any lady into the flatbed of your truck,” I blurt, not even thinking. “Are you kidding? I mean, look at you.” He glances up at me with amusement. Oh damn. There goes my mouth again. Sometimes I swear it has a mind of its own.
“You think I’d bring just any pretty face into the back of my truck?” he asks. A mischievous smile lights up his face. “That’s only for the special few.” My face heats, and I look at the very interesting ground. This conversation is rapidly heading into dangerous territory. And the problem is, I like it.
“Why didn’t you go forward with the house?” I deflect, clearing my throat.
He looks off into the distance. “I couldn’t think what to do with it for myself. And then the market just didn’t seem right anymore.” He shrugs, that rugged yet graceful movement. “Housing, you know. Besides, who wants a fantastic vacation house that could take a tumble off a cliff?”
“Adventurous people, I suppose,” I say, still trying to get this conversation back on track. Flint moves towards me, but that faraway look is still in his eyes.
“I did want to build this for someone adventurous,” he says. Sensing he wants to man-brood, I walk my way back around the lot. God, this place is a dream. The backyard opens onto a whole forest with a winding trail. The master bedroom would face a phenomenal sunrise every morning. I can imagine the interior, both rustic and refined.
Rustic. Refined. Beautiful design. Breathtaking mountain views.
Wait a minute. I turn around, my heart pounding.
“How afraid are you of my brilliance?” I ask Flint.
“Terrified. You see this face?” He gives me that neutral, glowering expression. “This is my terrified face.”
“Get ready to be even more alarmed. What if this is the show?” I stretch my arms out wide, waving them over the plot of land. “I mean, not me standing in the middle of nothing. Building the house.”
“The plans,” he says, almost like he’s not sure he agrees with me. “I don’t know. It’s…” He stops.
“It’s what? Exhilarating? Terrible? You love it? You hate it?” Chance trots over to my side, and I stroke his head. “It’s got everything we need. Picture this.” I hold out my hands, fingers splayed, the way I do when I’m pitching the hell out of something. “Meet Flint McKay, patriarch of a family and head of a company. Times have been tough. The housing market has been through some giant upheavals the last few years, and the business is on the skids. There’s uncertainty all around, and everyone’s telling him to fold his hand. Sell the business. Disappoint his family, his legacy. Only Flint McKay, he’s not the quitting type. And then,” I say, walking around Flint while he’s frozen in thought, “then McKay decides he’s going to go all in. Build the house of his dreams, on a plot of land that captures the spirit of the Berkshires. The spirit of Massachusetts!” Man, even I’m getting excited about this now. Always a good sign I’m onto something.
“Over thirteen episodes, Flint McKay shows America how to build a house, yes. But not just any house. The house he’s always wanted, always envisioned. Now Flint McKay’s not just showing us how to dig a foundation or build a frame: he’s showing us how to muscle through the tough times, how to realize our own American dreams.” I finish with a flourish, my fingers wiggling. Flint doesn’t say anything for a good long minute.
“I don’t know,” he finally manages.
“Think about it,” I continue, almost pleading. “There’s the do it yourself aspect of watching a guy build a freaking house. We’ve got the culture of the Berkshires; we can get the people from the store in here. We can see some of the ins and outs of small town living. People love beautiful houses and gorgeous vistas; we can give them both. Instead of sitting inside at your workshop or the store, we’re learning all the how-tos in the fabulous outdoors. It’s spectacle porn.” I don’t mention that he’s part of the spectacle. Even I’m not that creepy.
And damn, I like the building the American dream angle. I like it a lot.
“Well,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He’s furrowing his brow like he’s going through a really complicated math problem in his head. “You think this would be the part to seal the deal?” He looks at me.
“Are you kidding?” My brain is screaming with ideas. “And it won’t just help the show. After the season airs, this house is going to be snapped up in a second. Some rich jerk from the city will pay three times what it’s worth, just to be fashionable.”
“I’ve had enough of rich jerks, and more than enough of the city,” he says. His tone is harsh. He stalks back to the truck, and gets in. I climb up beside him, watching him cautiously. Flint grips the top of the steering wheel, his fingers practically digging into the leather. His eyes close.
“You want to talk about what the problem is?” I ask. “Because I’m sensing a problem here, and I don’t know what it is.” He clenches his jaw, then relaxes.
“I guess the design of the house is personal. You know, it’d be like having sex on TV,” he says. He raises his eyebrows. “Which might actually be interesting.”
“Behave, honorary manwhore,” I say, but inside I’m panicking. I don’t want this to be the straw that breaks the misanthropic camel’s back. “Look. The sizzle reel we’ve shot so far is all right. If we show what we have, with the concept of an ordinary renovation show, we have a shot. Not a great shot, but a shot. But if I throw in the detailed, house-from-scratch project with the majestic view? If we tie it in to a post-recession struggle, a man living his dream for his family? I think it’s an almost guaranteed win. There is no way McKay’s Hardware goes under with this. What do you say?” I watch as Flint shifts in his seat.
“You really think it’ll work?”
I lean forward and put my hand on his shoulder, squeezing the firm muscle there with the strength of my conviction. “More than that. I think it’ll be a great piece of television. People will watch something being created. They’ll watch the triumph of one man’s vision. It’s entertaining, sure, but it also caters to the best in humanity, not the worst.”
He turns to look at me and our eyes lock, and in that moment I feel like we’re totally in sync, like my passion has transferred to him and our dreams are aligned and there’s nothing left to do but passionately make out in the cab of his truc
k right now. His mouth opens and I tilt my head, parting my lips in anticipation.
And then he says, “All right. You have yourself a house.”
Wait, what? I snap back to attention and try to recover in a hurry. “That’s great,” I blurt. “Let’s build a house!”
Flint grins. “Let’s do this.”
I grin back and resist the urge to hug him. Hug him, and then maybe linger a little too long, while his hands trail down my back…
Stop it. Not what we need right now.
“Have I mentioned that you’re not going to regret this?” I tell him.
“It’s sort of the unofficial motto of this entire project,” he says, but he’s smiling again. That’s a good sign.
“Then let’s get this shot while there’s still good light.” I open the door and pick up the camera. “Muss your hair a little bit. It’s shooting time.”
9
It’s Sunday night, and somehow we got the footage that we need. I’m tucked up in my room, sitting on my bed and going over the reel, editing as fast as I can. It’s been a long afternoon of me working nonstop, inhaling coffee and handfuls of trail mix and not brushing my hair, but it’s been worth it. With a few more clicks, I’m actually done.
“I’m a goddess,” I whisper, and flop backwards. I’m tempted to cuddle up under the down quilt and take a long autumn’s nap. This little bed and breakfast place is pretty much heaven, cozy and full of strange, adorable things. Especially the George and Martha Washington pewter beer tankards. They look at me from their shelf, all proud and patriotic as I review the sizzle reel. If there wasn’t a nice elderly couple staying next door, I’d be tempted to bang on the walls and make wild monkey sex noises, because I am loving myself so hard right now.
