The Renewal

by Terri Kraus

  “Small world,” Jack replied, then remained silent.

  A member of the crew called out, “Mrs. Adams? We’re ready for you in makeup.”

  Alice arose in a twirl, adjusting her Burberry scarf, grinning and patting at her hair. “That’s something I never thought I’d ever hear,” she said as she was escorted to the crew’s makeup department—a canvas director’s chair, a woman with a large tackle box filled with cosmetics, a stool, a standup mirror, and a light on a pole.

  Jack watched with bemusement. The process made him think of a child’s make-believe play.

  Cameron pulled his hand closer to her. “Tell me, Jack, how are you—really?”

  Cameron knew some of Jack’s story. He had shared most of it with Ethan. He’d had to tell him the truth of his addiction and his recovery. But neither of them knew his detailed history.

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  She waited, looking at him, her eyes asking for the truth.

  “I’m going to meetings. Now. There have been a couple of times when I fell. It was hard. But now I’m better. Really.”

  Cameron held his hand tight, as if she could tell that something was wrong, that something was left unfixed in Jack’s life, as if he were still hiding something. “You know, Jack, Ethan had a lot of secrets. You can talk to him anytime. You know that. He found God, Jack. He found peace in letting go of the past, just like I did. You should talk to him. We’ve both found peace. We are finding our pleasure in God.”

  Jack nodded. He tried to smile, tried to reassure her that he would talk to Ethan, but it was clear that both of them knew Jack wouldn’t talk about anything of substance this day. Jack might ask about construction or estimating or historical authenticity in working on the building, but that’s as far as their conversation would go. It would have nothing to do with spiritual matters and nothing to do with finding peace.

  Cameron, most often, had the gift of knowing the right words to say at the exact right moment. But on this morning, that gift had failed her.

  The director called for Jack as well. “Everyone on camera this morning needs makeup. Otherwise you’ll all look like zombies. And George Romero already made that movie.”

  Jack gave Cameron an overly enthusiastic smile. “My fans need me,” he said, then stood and walked away.

  What right does she have to give me instructions? I don’t want to be told what my life needs, what to find pleasure in. Maybe I don’t have a perfect mate and a perfect house and a perfect son, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to tell me what to do or to tell me what I need. Finding peace? That’s easy for her to say. That’s easy for Ethan to say. Yeah, his wife died, but that has nothing on me. Nothing. People think that because they “found the way,” everyone else wants what they have. Well, they don’t. I’m fine where I am. And I don’t need a Mrs. Perfect to tell me that I’m a loser.

  Jack sat in the canvas chair, closed his eyes, and let Lois, the makeup technician, apply base and color to his cheeks, without making any snarky comments, without pretending if he hated it or loved it.

  He just sat there, silent, with eyes shut, waiting for his turn to stand in front of the lights and have Cameron ask him questions, carefully written on a large white clipboard, and hoping he could answer them without disclosing what was going on inside his thoughts.

  As Cameron looked over at Jack in the canvas makeup chair, she wondered how she could have better handled her conversation with him. It was obvious he had wanted to answer her. It was obvious he’d been holding his tongue. Cameron knew, from the look on his face, as soon as she said the words, that they may not have been the right words.

  I think I may have sounded as though I was scolding Jack, rather than just being excited—scolding him for not being at peace, even though that isn’t what I meant.

  Cameron bit her lip, then closed her eyes and said a silent, earnest prayer for Jack.

  Paul Drake parked his perfectly polished black Lexus at an odd angle in the street, the oddness saying, very clearly, that the driver was an important person who could not be bothered with the subtleties of parking in parallel. A uniformed policeman began walking up to the car, apparently to instruct the driver to move the vehicle, but Paul stepped out into the chilly air, his hair done exactly right, his skin kissed by the sun, with a deep tan camel hair jacket and a silk tie that appeared to cost two hundred dollars, even if you saw it from across the street.

  “Sir?” Paul said, speaking first, “Paul Drake. I am the producer of this humble little television show and I would so greatly appreciate if you could keep an eye on my car there. No need for it to be scratched while you’re on duty, is there?”

  The policeman stopped in his tracks and appeared to be formulating a reply.

  “I’ll have your name listed in the credits as providing security for us. You and all your fellow officers on duty this morning. We at Three Rivers so appreciate your service.”

  As Paul spoke, the police officer actually began to enlarge in size, inflating as it were, from the praise and the potential mention on a television show.

  Paul Drake, the producer, walked with an air of confidence into the restaurant space, as if he had been there a hundred times. “Cameron? Where are you, Cameron?” he called out while adjusting his shirtsleeves and jacket.

  Cameron came walking up slowly, with Alice and Frank in tow, looking eager to introduce them to the real owner of Three Rivers Restorations.

  Paul held up his hand to stop any conversation. He tilted his head and stared at Alice. He pointed at her feet. “Are those Christian Louboutins?”

  It was Alice’s turn to swell with pride. “Oh, yes they are. You are the first person to recognize them. How fabulous.”

  Paul was obviously impressed. “Where did you get them?”

  Alice waved her hand as if it were no big thing. “In Paris, of course. We were there for a few months recently. They were such a bargain at only seven hundred Euros. I am sure that is much less than you could find them here—if you could find them.”

  Frank stood at her side, not willing to tell her how much a Euro actually was in comparison to the American dollar, not willing to diminish her triumphant moment of style.

  Paul made some sort of elaborate gesture, with both hands. “Anyone who wears Louboutins,” he answered, saying the shoe brand in a very correct French accent, “will no doubt succeed. Good heavens. Culture! Style! In Butler, of all places. How perfectly amazing.”

  Mike stood next to Leslie. He wanted to take her hand or put his arm around her waist, but after her decision to be “just friends—for now,” he thought it might be too bold and rash a move. Instead he stood there, next to her, in the crisp autumn air, in the brilliant fall sunshine, among a small crowd of people who had gathered on the wide sidewalk opposite the Midlands Building, watching the crew of Three Rivers Restorations at work.

  A television crew of any size would have been big news in Butler, and this was a big crew by comparison. Three Rivers Restorations maintained a programming crew of five, and a filming crew of fourteen. Lighting a building in the midst of renovation took a lot of people—preparing it for sound, making sure that wires and cables were properly strung.

  And since the production had become popular, that meant it was now profitable—more profitable than any other show in Drake Cable Productions history. They could afford a bigger crew.

  Two reporters and a photographer from the Butler Eagle were on hand to document the initial phase of the show. Being on television added an immediate sense of viability to Alice and Frank’s venture.

  “Why would a TV show do a show on something that was going to fail?” people asked themselves.

  Even the local radio station, WBUT, had an on-air personality roaming the sidewalk, getting some man-in-the-street interviews.

  “This is so exciting,�
� Mike said. “Cameron Dane is really pregnant, isn’t she? Do you think they’ll show that on camera?”

  Leslie pondered for a second. “I don’t know. Probably. Or maybe they’ll just show her from the shoulders up.”

  Mike nodded as if he had not considered that option.

  On the other side of the street, Alice stood on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd, waving to familiar faces. Once she saw Leslie, she nearly sprinted across the street. She didn’t worry about cars, since the police department in Butler was kind enough to block off traffic on this small stretch of pavement. A cluster of uniformed officers stood nearby, watching, making sure crowd control would not become an issue, laughing among themselves.

  Alice got to Leslie, out of breath, obviously excited. “They need to talk to you, Leslie. Once Cameron heard that the building was owned by a single woman who was rehabbing it—well, there was no stopping them from demanding that you appear for a short interview. You simply must say yes, Leslie. Please? For your new tenants?”

  Mike was thunderstruck, just being close to someone who might appear on his favorite local cable television show. “You have to do it, Leslie. You have to,” he insisted.

  Leslie allowed herself to be nearly dragged across the street and thrust down into the makeup chair. All the while Alice hovered about, calling for more color to be put on the poor child’s pale cheeks.

  “And what led you to buy this building, Leslie?”

  Cameron Dane Willis stood next to her, in front of the corner doors of the building, with the carved stone lintel and brick framing as a backdrop to the shot. Cameron had that ability to be friends with people right away, making them feel as if she had known them for years, and with Leslie, that ability was more than evident.

  Even though she was trying to avoid looking into the camera, as instructed, Leslie saw it from the corner of her eyes.

  And there is no panic, she thought to herself as the soundman adjusted the boom microphone over their heads. I am so thankful for the prayers of all those wonderful ladies at church. Mrs. DiGiulio and Grandma Amelia were right.

  “Well, Cameron, my daughter and I needed a place to live. I wanted a property that would also produce some income. My great-great-great-grandparents lived in Butler, so I was somehow drawn to the area. When I saw this building, I just knew it was the one. Something compelled me to buy it.”

  Cameron’s smile encouraged her, as if saying without speaking, You’re doing well. Good answer!

  “And you’re planning to rehab the upstairs apartments?”

  For just a second, Leslie appeared confused. “There are three apartments upstairs. One is rented. One is where my daughter and I live. The other has just been renovated. I’m trying to rent the empty one.”

  Cameron’s face showed her excitement. “May we see that empty apartment, Mrs. Ruskin? Our viewers would love to see what you’ve done to it.”

  Leslie debated, silently, quickly. “Sure. That would be fine. It’s not furnished, but that will show you the real architectural beauty of the building.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Cameron waited, then the director called out, “Cut!”

  And a whirl of technicians and camera people began disassembling equipment, asking where the stairs were for the second-floor location.

  As Leslie followed the crew upstairs, she caught sight of Mike’s face, brimming over with excitement. She looked around for Jack but couldn’t find him in all the activity.

  Paul Drake hovered behind the crew as they made their way upstairs to the empty apartment. “This isn’t going to cost me overtime, is it?”

  Bruce, the location director, shook his head. “No. This place is a paradise compared to most of the places we film. Clean. The electricity works. We’re way ahead of schedule.”

  Paul stood in the background, allowing his crew to do what they do. He knew that intruding in the process by asking questions simply cost him money. He walked through the rooms where the crew was not working, nodding to himself.

  This is a very interesting building and a very nice apartment—with the original fireplace, no less. Everything is done just right. Updated, yet they respected the historic attitude of the place. If I had reason to be in Butler … more than hardly ever … I would think about renting this apartment. It is just so, so charming. And that little screened-in balcony is simply to die for.

  He heard the owner, that cute Leslie something, talking to Cameron about the reasons for using the materials they did.

  I would swap out the counters for thick granite. And get a Viking stove.

  And as the next shot was being filmed, Paul made a note in his little electronic notebook: Have assistant call Butler re: rental.

  He smiled to himself.

  It would be nice to have another private getaway, now, wouldn’t it?

  While Alice and Frank finalized their floor plans for the Midlands Building, gathering permits, selecting colors and fabrics and finishes, specifying lighting, Jack continued his work at the Pettigrews’ house. Theirs was a much simpler project—new cabinets in the kitchen, new countertops, new bathroom fixtures, new tile, new lighting. Jack was happy that he hadn’t run into any snags on the job, unforeseen handicaps and problems that would eat up profits and chew up time.

  So far, there was nothing uncovered that had caused any headaches. The new cabinets had been installed without a hitch, and the three-man counter crew was due in the next day to install the granite tops. Once the Pettigrews had seen the stone samples and realized the affordable difference in cost, they’d jumped at the opportunity.

  Jack was packing up his tool chest for the day, having swept the kitchen floor, and tidying up the area.

  They have to live here. And nothing aggravates a customer more than always cleaning up behind a contractor.

  Jack rationalized the time spent as a wise investment. It seldom took more than fifteen minutes and was sure to get him a more positive referral later.

  Melanie Pettigrew peeked into the kitchen as Jack latched his toolbox closed. “Hello, Jack,” she said, “or should I call you Mr. Kenyon, now that you’re a famous television star?”

  Jack shook his head. “How did you find out?”

  “Butler is a pretty small town. Word travels quickly. What was the host like? She always seems so well prepared—and so pretty.”

  Melanie leaned against the center island, or what would soon be the center island with the addition of the countertop. Now it was more like a cabinet skeleton.

  “She’s very nice. I knew her before she became famous—up in Franklin.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Pettigrew said, obviously fascinated and more than a little starstruck. Mrs. Pettigrew was not much older than twenty-five, Jack surmised. There was a very wholesome but naive beauty about her, as if she were unaware of how pretty she was. And from that naive attitude, Jack guessed she hadn’t often ventured far from Butler.

  “Is she rich from doing that show?”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so. It pays well, I think, but she’s not rich.”

  “Alice from across the street said she was pregnant. Is she?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Can you do that? I mean, be pregnant and still host a TV show like that?”

  “I guess so. Nobody looked all that surprised when we were filming.”

  “Did they pay you for being on the show?”

  “I wish they had—but no, I think everyone does it so they can be a little famous for a while. It was my fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Melanie took on a sudden, starry look. “Do you think she would pick our house for a show? I mean, we’re having an entire kitchen and bathroom replaced. What do you think? Would she?”

  Jack knew that Three Rivers Restorations looked for big, interesting historic projects, a
nd a simple kitchen and bath was none of those. But Mrs. Pettigrew was so excited that he didn’t want to crush her enthusiasm.

  “Well, I don’t know, but the next time I see Cameron, I will definitely ask her.”

  “You will?” Mrs. Pettigrew squealed, jumping up and down just a little and grabbing Jack’s arm in her excitement. “That would be so awesome.”

  As the week wound down, Jack felt the energy drain from his body. His work at Alice and Frank’s wouldn’t take off for a few weeks from now. His work with the Pettigrews was all but completed. He had enough money in the bank to weather several weeks of idleness.

  It was not the lack of income that scared him. It was the lack of having something to do, something to fill his days, something to tire him out, something to help him fall asleep when darkness arrived.

  Without work, he worried about what he might find to occupy his hands and his thoughts.

  There are only so many walks I can take. There are only so many books I can read.

  Friday would be his last day with the Pettigrews. He could have been done today, he told himself, but he wanted to do a final cleanup; he had a few switchplates and wall-outlet covers to put on, and one last wall sconce in the bathroom to install.

  An hour. Two at the very most.

  Then what?

  He sat in the living room of his small apartment.

  Maybe I could go look at houses for sale. Maybe I could find a good fixer-upper in town.

  He dismissed the thought.

  You need to be sharp when you do that. You need to really pay attention.

  He felt anything but sharp.

  He looked over to the alcove in the wall. The pint of vodka remained in the same spot where he’d placed it, in its little home near the door, where it greeted him each time he came in. He stared at it. He wondered if he had any mixer, any soda, in the refrigerator.

  Vodka tastes terrible plain. Maybe it’s good I don’t have anything to mix with it.