I called him and said, “How about we get breakfast?”
I was amazed when I walked in and saw a totally different guy sitting in a window banquette waiting for me. He had been dressed to the nines at the Dollar house, with a designer shirt, a bright banker tie, and a shiny suit. But now he was in casual mode, sporting the kind of graphic-covered, crucifix-themed button-down shirt that you should only wear untucked. The shirt went perfectly with his overpriced, artificially “distressed” bedazzled jeans. Blingy was an understatement. It was not my taste in men’s style, but I’ll say this for him: He put himself right out there. Chad could not have been more unlike Mark. I found myself laughing as he said, “Wow, you look different.” I laughed and asked him what he meant. “Well, you look hot,” he said. I said, “Oh, why? Because I showered?” Chad did casual and nonchalant like a talk show host. Given that Mark’s two speeds were “intense” and “more intense,” it was a refreshing change. Chad talks with his hands, and at one point his large plastic cup of ice water went flying right into his crotch as he was telling a story. He was soaking wet, but I was at ease. Later on, when people would ask how we met, he’d refer to this moment and say, “I spilled water on my crotch and she fell in love.”
I said, “Okay, you win. When do you want me to see the house?”
“After I take you to dinner” was the reply and “just friends, no pressure.” This was music to my ears and received four cheers from my therapist.
After the heartbreak of Minnehaha, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson; I didn’t want to fall in love with another house or another man. I wasn’t initially thinking of Chad romantically; as much as some insist that men and women can’t just be friends, my experience has proved the opposite. I have a group of single guy friends whom I dine with often. It will break my heart when each one finds “the one,” only because I love their company and I have a gut feeling that very few women would understand that our relationship is purely platonic and they’d put an end to it.
He picked me up for dinner at my house the next Saturday. Fancy car, blingy jeans, and, I’m pretty sure, ostrich-skin shoes. I couldn’t help but wonder why this man with movie-star good looks had to wear such flashy clothes. Clearly, he didn’t know how handsome he was.
I had just received that promised glass of wine when he said, “What happened with this last guy?” I gave him the short of it, and he looked at me and said, “I want to get married and I’d love more children. Now that that’s out of the way, what else should we discuss?” As the dinner went on, I felt more and more relaxed. We talked about motorcycles, antique cars—he seemed to hit on every one of my interests.
After dinner, we drove over to the house. It was hot—no AC—and it smelled like dog pee. Still, the 1904 mansion felt like a sumptuous trip back in time, with mahogany everywhere, detailed built-ins filling every room, coffered ceilings, and incredible leaded-glass windows throughout. It had seven bedrooms and five fireplaces. The seven-car garage was hidden by old-growth landscaping from the huge pool that looked like it had just been dropped from the sky into the middle of a forest. The massive trees created an impression of utter privacy. As I made my way through the house, I was mesmerized.
“Oh my gosh. It’s so beautiful. It’s just so beautiful,” I kept muttering.
When we reached the top floor of the house, Chad said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you were saying; I was staring at your bum.” I laughed and smiled.
After the grand tour, he asked me to tackle the house and I told him, in no uncertain terms, no. All that beauty hid some major problems. Summit’s age had taken its toll. The mechanicals were pretty much shot. It was going to need major electrical work, a ton of new plumbing, and a whole lot more. The hardwood floors were overdue for refinishing, and the house had a tired look that called for some serious cosmetic magic. The kitchen, dining room, and bedrooms also needed to be updated and brought back to life.
The big issue, though, was the water damage in the basement. That damage needed fixing right away. Chad looked dismayed. “But the inspector said it was nothing.”
“The inspector was wrong,” I told him.
He told me he had found a contractor whom he trusted to do the work, but he needed someone who had an overall vision for the house. He asked me if I would at least come on as a consultant. I told him no again. I had given him my input on the house, and I had already done the boyfriend-as-partner-in-a-house thing. Once was enough, but always a glutton for punishment, I had more than my share of those experiences. No thank you.
One of the destroyed bathrooms at Summit.
I knew Chad needed to find someone who cared about the house; I just didn’t want it to be me. Unfortunately, what he had instead was an assistant who thought she was a designer. She decided that if she didn’t take action, nothing was going to happen with this “old fossil” of a house. Unbeknownst to Chad, she had a contractor come in the following Monday morning, dragging along his jackhammer, pry bars, and anything else that could wreak destruction. In the space of a day, he destroyed two bathrooms—a first-floor powder room and a second-floor full bath. Gone was the amazing subway tile. Gone were the period fixtures. Gone was everything. It was disgusting. As I would later say on the Rehab Addict episode featuring the restoration of the destroyed powder room: “If you have to use a jackhammer to get bathroom tile out, the tile isn’t meant to come out.”
I was shocked at the devastation one contractor could do in a day. After we looked at the damage, staring at stripped rooms that looked like ragged wounds on the body of the house, Chad and I walked out back to get some air and talk about next steps. I was horrified and so was he. I said I would set him up with my tradespeople, but that was it. I was working like crazy on the Dollar house and I couldn’t handle any extra house drama. My tradespeople met with him, and little by little, I got sucked into the house. At the Dollar house, Chad became the favorite among the Ladies That Paint, as he would regularly show up in a suit with trays full of Starbucks teas and cookies. Then, to our surprise, he would start working alongside us. Was he the handiest of guys? No, but not many of them are. But I think when you are a man and you walk onto a job site where there’s a woman you are after and she’s driving a Bobcat, you have two choices: be confident enough to say, “I’m absolutely cool with this and not intimidated by her working with a crew of men or that she could build the Taj Mahal if she wanted to,” or become insecure and act out. Chad chose the former.
My 1962 Chevy truck.
The Dollar house was ahead of schedule. And against every single person on Earth’s advice, I told Chad I would help him with the Summit mansion. Just the kitchen, though. He was elated. Justin said, “Girl, I hope you know what you’re doing.” I assured him I did. Looking back, yes, I should have said no, but I was feeling so confident with the Dollar house that I thought I could do anything. Plus, the Summit house was amazing, and the truth was, this guy was winning me over.
While the Dollar house was speeding along, Ethan was back from Michigan preparing for a new school year. My birthday was right around the corner. On the actual day, I was just getting ready to go to the lake with Ethan when I got a call. It was Chad. He said, “Listen, I got you something for your birthday, but there’s a problem. So you need to meet me at the side of the road of Highway 5 toward Minnetonka.” He gave me the intersection, and not knowing what to expect, Ethan and I loaded up in the car and headed out. At said intersection was Chad with a 1962 Chevy truck. As I drove up, I thought, Did this guy buy me a truck? No, that’s just crazy. Imagine my surprise when Chad said, “Happy birthday, I bought you a truck.” And then he handed me the title and said, “Before you say anything, it’s in your name, no games.” I was speechless. The bad news was, something had blown in the truck while he was driving it to me. But the good news was, I got to sit in it before they loaded it up onto the flatbed. The truck was gone for months. While it was in the shop,
I had seatbelts added after a concerned Ethan said, “What, there are no seatbelts? Are you going to tell me there are no airbags either?”
I have never received another gift like it; it’s still parked in my garage. I drive the truck once a year out of nostalgia. As time has passed, on the worst days with Chad, one look at that truck and I remember the guy I fell in love with and that moment when he made me feel like the only woman in the world for him.
Around this time, I got a call from Beth, a close friend of mine.
She said, “Hey, Nicole. I have a friend whose husband is battling brain cancer. He’s a huge fan. It would mean the world to him if he could tour one of your houses with you.”
I thought, Well, if he likes old houses, he’s going to love Summit. I asked Chad if he could come over, and he said, “No problem!”
On a Saturday afternoon, a car pulled up on the side of Summit and out stepped Kristi and her husband, Art. Art’s head was shaved and covered with a patchwork of scars from surgery to operate on a brain tumor. The surgery, the tumor, or both had left him unable to speak. But he could move around, so I brought him into the house. From the minute he walked in, his eyes lit up.
A lot of people can’t deal with someone who is terminally ill. We don’t do a good job of that in our society. Most people don’t know how to react around someone like Art. They become visibly uncomfortable and won’t look at the person, or they end up talking at them as if they’re hard of hearing instead of sick and infirm.
I led Art around the house and just talked to him, anticipating the questions anyone would ask if they were interested in what I was doing. I knew he understood what I was saying, and I could see the delight in his eyes as he walked into each new room. It was obvious to me that Art was an “old house” person, too. He got what I was doing and why.
Me at Summit.
The next day, Beth sent me a text thanking me. “You have no idea how much that meant to him. That was so awesome.” I thought, Heck, it was an hour out of my day, and the best hour I spent all week.
Two weeks later, Beth e-mailed me. Art, Kristi, and their two teenagers lived in an old house that was also serving as Art’s hospice. They were crowded for room. The kids didn’t have any space to call their own, so Art and Kristi wanted to find someone to redo their basement on the cheap. She was hoping that I could recommend an inexpensive contractor. Money was tight, as it is for most people who are fighting cancer or any major medical disaster. The myth is that insurance covers everything. The truth is, it doesn’t, and that’s the least of it. Medical bills are one thing, but mortgage companies and electric companies don’t care if you have cancer and mounting medical bills; they still want to get paid. I knew that any contractor was going to wind up charging them a going rate, and it would probably be more than they could afford. So I arranged to stop by and check out the basement. I took measurements and then e-mailed all my contractors. I told them the story of Art.
Art’s basement, before (left) and almost done (right).
Everyone agreed to chip in. I met with Kristi and told her, “Look, you’re not going to get a hundred-thousand-dollar remodel. But we’re going to give you a brand-new family room, redo the bathroom downstairs, make it a usable space, and do our spin on the house.” She was super grateful, and every day I spent in that house reminded me how important family and love are. What I had also found out was that during his cancer battle, Art had become a huge fan of HGTV and DIY Network. I thought, How cool would it be for Art to see his house on TV? I approached Kristi with the idea and made it very clear that they didn’t have to say yes and that I wasn’t there to exploit them. I just thought it might be cool to have them on the show. She laughed and said absolutely.
Art became such a vibrant part of our lives that it was impossible to keep in mind that he was dying. I would come through the door in the morning and he would be sitting there watching a Rehab Addict marathon. He knew I hated hearing my own voice and he loved to tease me and wind me up. I’d say, “Art, what are you watching? You’re killing me here, man.” He’d laugh and turn it off. Art was a dream. He and Kristi had the kind of marriage that every couple wants. I’m sure it wasn’t perfect—whose is?—but as much as Art was the kind of man that every woman wants for her kids, and every child wants for a dad, Kristi was his rock. She was so caring and obviously madly in love with Art and their children. Everyone who knew them loved them. Art was a talented musician and a woodworker, and it seemed like there was nothing he couldn’t do.
Except throw stuff out. The basement was crammed full of old house parts that Art had collected over the better part of twenty years. I even found a chalkboard with “Art—clean up poop” written on it. Kristi laughed when she saw it. She had written that reminder when she was pregnant with their son. He was now thirteen.
There were so many laughs on that project. I hope our being there every day just kind of created a positive chaos for Art. When someone is sick, a house can become like a big vacuum of darkness with curtains drawn and everything quiet. But dying people don’t need to be reminded that they’re dying; I feel they need to be reminded that they’re still very much alive. With that being said, Art’s house was still my work site, and I rarely use my inside voice. Too often I would come running up the stairs talking, accidentally waking Art, and I always felt bad.
We had only a couple of days left before the basement was going to be completed. I was just leaving for the day to go pick up Ethan at school when Kristi stopped me and said, “Do you want to go up and talk to Art?”
I asked, “Is he sleeping?”
“He’s in and out.”
“Then I don’t want to wake him up. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay.”
What I didn’t understand was that I think Kristi knew the end was near, and maybe it was her way of asking me if I wanted to say good-bye to Art. Maybe it wasn’t, but now having witnessed “the end” more times than anyone ever should, I know firsthand that loved ones seem to have an innate sense of when that time is near. After seeing him every day for almost eight weeks, I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he was going to die. But at five the next morning, I got the news that Art had passed away.
Gramps in his favorite T-shirt.
I called everyone on my crew, and it was kind of like time stopped. We had all had so much fun on that project, and Art had been the center of that fun. None of us really thought that day would come. It’s crazy, but that’s the way it is. You think all lemons will eventually become lemonade, but sometimes they’re just lemons.
A few weeks earlier, my friend Lauren had arranged for a photographer who specializes in sensitive situations to take pictures of the family. The photographer came in, and within twenty minutes (Art was so very weak), she captured the essence of this beautiful family.
I wanted to design the basement as the story of Art’s world, of what mattered in his life. We ended up using a lot of what he had kept in the basement as decoration. I designed around the chalkboard. I hung Art’s old bicycles on the walls. We got the family a pool table and used it as a centerpiece for what would be a very cool, relaxing room for years to come. We sent the photographer’s images off to a company to print them on wall-sized canvases.
Ironically, a few days after Art had passed, the canvases showed up. They were huge. So there we were, all of us in the basement. As I pulled the brown paper off the first of the photos, suddenly there was Art, with his wonderfully expressive eyes, staring back at us. This scene is one of the only times I have broken the fourth wall (as it’s called in the television world when you show the show). The camera panned and caught images of me and my crew. We were trying to be brave, but we were missing our friend. We hung the photos and left that house full of love and memories.
E waiting for me at Summit (top). Filming (bottom).
After Art passed, Beth had a T-shirt made up for
me with one of my favorite catchphrases, “Old houses, old people, old dogs.” It was a tribute to the connection I had with Art. Selling those T-shirts in memory of him has allowed us to raise thousands of dollars for families like his. I was left with fond memories of Art and boxes and boxes of his old house parts. By this time, the plan to just stop at the kitchen renovation at Summit had fallen by the wayside. I had taken on the Case house and while we were busy over there, the major structural issues at Summit were being addressed. And honestly, this break from Summit gave me a chance to catch my breath.
I wanted Summit to be fantastic, to achieve all the potential it had in its pedigree. It was so majestic that I fought the feeling that I had bitten off more than I could chew at that moment. It was an odd feeling, and not at all like me. I have total faith in my abilities, and I had just rocked the Dollar house in record time. But it seemed like a far different animal from Summit. It’s one thing to restore a small house in a rough neighborhood. It’s something entirely different when you’re starting with a house that has a market value upward of two million dollars.
Better Than New Page 11
