A Basic Renovation
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A Basic Renovation
Sandra Antonelli
When it comes down to it, rats in the oven trumps Lesley’s desire to never set eyes on another Brennan family member. So Lesley, a pro at property redevelopment, scrambles to Dominic Brennan’s hardware store for supplies. Dominic knows poison — rat and otherwise — and he sees it in Lesley. The woman ruined his brother’s life. Now that she’s back in town, Dominic’s afraid she’ll drag up the past, the secrets, and the pain. They clash immediately, but mix in a teenage boy, a puppy, some white paint, and some loud music, and what starts as cold fury transforms into a nuclear attraction. This basic renovation becomes a major life refurbishment for them both.
Acknowledgements
I owe my gratitude to a number of people. First, my loving, adoring and adorable husband encouraged and supported me every step of the way – even when it meant he had to wear rumpled shirts.
I am indebted to Detective Shari Mills of the Los Alamos Police Department for answering all my questions regarding the interior of the old police station. I am thankful for darling Lisa Barry and her unwavering belief and support in me and my writing. Hail and glory to Elle Gardner and Kate Cuthbert for being my romance experts, my compasses, my sounding boarding, my friends. Enormous thanks to my masters cohort Lisa Barry, Marilyn Carey, Catherine Cockburn, Louise Ousby, Melynda Genrich and my never-daunted supervisor, Dr Glen Thomas. This book would not be without any of you.
Finally, it may be goofy, but I have to thank Glenn Tilbrook of the British band Squeeze. I pilfered Glenn’s last name and he was gracious to have me sing with him onstage. Yes, kids, rock-n-roll dreams do come true and books you write for a Masters thesis do get published.
For Johnny, the moon and stars above my head and the earth beneath my feet.
Author’s Note
I have taken liberties with a few things in Los Alamos. For example, Gauje Pines cemetery is devoid of headstones. There is a hardware store in town, in the location I described, but it is called Metzeger’s Do It Best Hardware and they sometimes have popcorn. The Dixie Girl, Bealls, and The Film Festival are real places, too. Reality sometimes changes faster than fiction is written. As a result, some businesses named no longer exist or have changed names or location. Any other mistakes are due to my memory and alterations that may have occurred since I was last in the prettiest little town in the USA.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Also Available from Escape Publishing…
About the Author
Chapter 1
Toby leaned forward and squinted at the old Bronco through his rectangular glasses. ‘What’s this boogery gunk all over the front window?’ he asked, hitching up droopy, oversized jeans.
Lesley Samuels glanced at her cousin and winced. ‘Fireflies,’ she answered, grateful an expanse of plaid boxer shorts covered his butt crack.
‘Ah, fireflies, the tiny fairies of the insect world. They light up and glow when they’re ready for love.’ Romantic-thinking Toby ran his finger over the tacky glass.
Hot and grimy from clearing the driveway, Lesley felt about as sticky as the phosphorescent bug guts on the front window but nowhere near as luminescent. She snickered. ‘Guess their little mating ritual got cut short when they smashed into my windshield.’
‘You know,’ Toby wiped his fingers on his oversized pants, ‘the Cerro Grande and Las Conchas fires turned the sky an eerie, orange-red. Los Alamos got lucky with Las Conchas, but Cerro Grande had sparks like dive-bombing fireflies. Being uphill, this hovel you bought shoulda turned to charcoal dust, like the other places in this neighbourhood did, but just look at it.’
Lesley was looking at the still soot-coated, singed house. Back in May of 2000 it stood alone in the desolation of blackened tree stumps, melted plastic swing-sets, overcooked remains of cars and SUVs. At the bottom of the steep driveway, someone with a dark sense of humour had hung up a sign. It was still there, weathered but legible: The Last One Standing.
Last ones standing were Lesley’s specialty.
Toby wrinkled his nose again. ‘I’m glad you’ve moved back here, but you could’ve bought a place way better than this.’
‘I didn’t buy the house to live in, Toby. Growing up in this little town was enough torture for me. When this renovation’s over I’m going back to Chicago.’
‘Does your mother know that?’
‘I told her,’ Lesley felt a little smile creep over her lips, ‘but I’m not so sure she heard me say this was a working vacation.’
‘Sneaky. Fulfil your family obligation and write off your visit as a business expense, huh?’
‘Yeah, and I’ll come away with a tidy profit when I sell.’
‘In this economy?’
‘I can rent it. People want rentals in Los Alamos. Rent is steady income.’ She walked back to unlock a trailer hitched behind the old Bronco. The folded rollaway bed Toby had lent her blocked access to the door. ‘Thanks for dropping off the cot,’ she said, pushing it out of the way. ‘Would you mind giving me a hand with a few things from the trailer? They’re a little heavy.’
‘No problem.’ Toby hitched up his jeans and helped her swing open the double doors. He glanced inside the trailer, which was full of equipment and power tools, then back at the house. ‘Tell me you have some kind of magic wand in here, ’cause you’re going to need some kind of wizardry to fix this place.’
Lesley looked at the dilapidated home again. Abandoned by an elderly owner uninterested in making any repairs after the big fire, the Witteveen house had sat untouched for over a decade. Her parents and cousin thought the place was a nuclear waste dumpsite, but Lesley saw beyond the decay even when they couldn’t. An ancient garden hose sagged like a brittle, plastic snake over the front door. Dented, rusty downpipes had shifted out of place. Strips of scorched mission-brown paint waved in the pinion and sagebrush-scented breeze. Scrub oaks and scraggly box elders tangled together at the front of the house. It all made Lesley think of fairytales.
Oh, yeah. This Ugly Duckling is a real Sleeping Beauty.
Fairytales. That was it. Things finally made a little more sense. She hadn’t been able to figure out what possessed her to buy this place when she’d seen it listed on the Internet. Something had drawn her back to town with a whisper that sounded a lot like ABBA’s Money, Money, Money. She’d make faster cash from flipping a bungalow in Chicago, even in a crappy economy, but a run-down challenge like this place was the mainstay to the homes she and her partner, Kelly, renovated. The fact was, there was an appealing storybook romance to this renovation. This Isleta Street property was neglected, dilapidated, ugly and easy to reject. People seldom looked beyond the cosmetic. No one had realised that beneath the twisted forest and disrepair of the Witteveen place was a treasure: panoramic mountain views. And they were worth a fortune. Or could be.
Lesley hummed ABBA and brushed wisps of hair from he
r cheeks as anticipation, and a little swell of greed, washed over her.
Deliveries weren’t part of Dominic’s normal routine. He’d set up Kyle to run shotgun with Edgar, but Edgar was on his honeymoon, and somebody had to step in and fill the void. Cue the hardware store owner. For the next two weeks, Dominic was playing strongman delivery guy with his son. This was their first lunch together. Dominic thought it might be their last. Or at least the last time they came to Sonic and ate in the truck because the instant Kyle tore open a mustard packet the windshield was decorated in a turmeric-scented spray of sunshine yellow.
‘Oops,’ the kid said.
The hamburger paused at Dominic’s lips. ‘OK. Get that crap off the window.’
‘I only have one napkin.’
‘Then use it.’
‘See, this is why we should have a dog.’
‘So, do you want a car or a dog?’
‘Seriously, you’ll get me the car, Dad?’
‘Seriously? No.’
‘Can I get a dog then?’
‘How about you clean up that mess and save me some of those onion rings?’
‘What about the dog?’
‘One thing at a time. Let’s see how you do with those onion rings.’
‘What the hell do onion rings have to do with getting a car or a dog?’
‘Show me you can meet the challenge of sharing those rings and cleaning up that shit on the window and then, even if I think you’re a little old for one, we’ll talk about dogs.’
‘And cars?’
‘Your lunch hour is almost over.’
‘I’m with the boss, so why does it matter if I’m late when you are too?’
‘You’ve got mustard on your alien.’
‘Oh, crap.’ Kyle’s t-shirt was emblazoned with a mushroom cloud and little green man who now sported a yellow beret. Dabbing at the stain made it worse. It turned into a halo around the fluorescent extraterrestrial.
Dominic shook his head and spoke with his mouth full, ‘I hate that shirt. No, actually, what I hate more is the fact Don Yardley sells tourist crap like that in his store. The dumb thing perpetuates myths about this city simply because of the Manhattan Project and National Lab.’ He paused to swallow. ‘Atomic study and the construction of the world’s first A-bombs do not mean the town, its residents, or lab employees have some kind of nuclear luminosity.’
‘You’re just pissed you didn’t think of selling these shirts first.’
‘Just for that, from now on you’re wearing one of the store’s polos.’
‘No way am I wearing one of those. And since you brought up myths, Taos hums you know. It’s been documented that town resonates and the government covers it u—’ Kyle’s mouth dropped open. The way his fair, chin-length hair swung over his ears made him look like a blonde Irish Setter. ‘Man, look at little Cheyenne Rowe now!’
Dominic followed his son’s line of sight. All legs, the teenage girl walking across the parking lot was a California blonde with a spray on tan. Her ponytail swished over her shoulders as she wiggled in a pair of white hot-pants, while two softball-sized breasts stretched the red fabric of her crop top. Dominic frowned and shook his head. ‘Little? Glory days, she looks like a real live walking Malibu Barbie. She sure as hell wouldn’t if she were my daughter. I can’t believe her mother lets her out of the house like that.’
‘Her mother dresses the same way, remember?’
There was no way to argue with that. Mrs. Rowe and her cleavage had lived next door a few years back, and she’d liked to sunbathe topless.
‘Uh, how do you know if they’re real, Dad? How can you really tell?’
Dominic felt his mouth twitch. Frank discussions about sex weren’t new, but usually the kind of chassis Kyle talked about had low profile tyres and a limited slip differential. He tried to stay casual. ‘Fake or genuine, no girl is going to want you if you talk with hamburger falling out of your pie hole.’
‘Cheeseburger.’
‘It’s not polite to correct your elders.’
‘What about the tile and the grout?’
‘The tile and the grout?’
‘You know, like the carpet matching the drapes? Her pub—’
‘I know what you mean. The carpet and drapes…where do you hear this stuff?’
‘Isn’t that how you know a woman’s a natural blonde?’
‘Not always.’
‘OK. What about the eyebrows, then, aren’t they a dead giveaway?
Not sure if he was supposed to be uncomfortable or glad his child was asking for manly guidance, Dominic took a long drag of Sonic’s famous Cherry-lime, sucking up the icy pink drink through a fat straw. In the years since Stefanie took off it had been just the two of them. Maybe it made them a little rough around the edges, but they’d talked about everything and Dominic was always forthright. So it made them seem more like buddies or frat brothers than father and son. Whatever they were doing worked, and he thanked God for that. He licked cherry-lime juice from his bottom lip and cleared his throat. ‘Eyebrows can be tinted, and let’s just say a bikini wax isn’t the only thing some women have done.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. And then there’s the fact the hair on your head is more exposed to sunlight.’
‘So, how can you tell if boobs are real?’
‘You work it out.’
‘What about Big-boob Sue? Did you ever work out if hers were real?’
Dominic wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he bit into his hamburger, ‘Kyle,’ he said, smacking his lips, ‘there are times you share things and times you don’t, women you talk about and women you don’t.’ He chewed for a moment then swallowed. ‘You know, in a way I envy you.’
‘You envy me? Which one of us owns a car and a truck?’
‘You’re on a voyage of discovery, never to be repeated. Sure, it’s confusing and weird, you might even feel like your body isn’t exactly yours anymore, but it’s all supposed to be like that. Jesus, enjoy it while you can.’
‘Enjoy what?’
‘Melody Ferrell, she’s in your class, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s got a pool in her backyard and I’ve got a landscaping job over on North Mesa, right next door to her house next week. You want it?’
Kyle’s face lit up. ‘Seriously? Or do I have to hand over the onion rings?’
‘Seriously, yes, and later you can tell me if you enjoyed it.’
Laughing, Kyle passed his father the bag of onion rings. ‘Later, you can tell me if I’m right about Mrs Hafner looking like her dog.’
‘Arf-arf,’ Dominic said, taking a bite of succulent, deep-fried onion.
‘Can I ask you something, Dad?’
Dominic wondered if this was about to turn into a discussion about more mysterious parts of the female anatomy. ‘Ask away.’
‘I was just wondering. What were you thinking when you bought the hardware store?’
It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but Dominic continued to be as honest and open as ever, ‘I wanted to guarantee my son a part-time summer job so he could buy his own car, just like I did when I was sixteen.’
Of course, there was no way that was going to happen, but why kill the kid’s dream?
While Toby pulled the Bronco into the filthy garage, Lesley dropped the trailer’s ramp. She climbed inside and hopped on her candy-apple red Harley. New Mexico was made for motorcycles and Lesley was itching for a ride through the Jemez under New Mexico’s turquoise sky, but putting the house in some order had to come first. After heaving a wistful sigh she hit the ignition and the Sportster thundered to life. A moment later she’d parked the motorcycle at the base of the steep driveway, just next to her cousin’s bright yellow Ford Ranger.
Toby tsked at her she headed back up the incline. ‘I can’t believe you still ride that noisy thing,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘You think I should drive a boring Volvo with eighteen front and side airbags, like my
dad does, don’t you?’
‘Motorcycles,’ Toby shook his greying head, ‘aren’t safe for anyone. And speaking of safe, have you got a broom or a rake or something we can use to make a path in the backyard? ’Cause it’s really a tangled mess and I don’t want to step on a chipmunk or rattlesnake.’
Lesley rummaged around inside the trailer until she found a blue-handled broom. Then she headed for the backyard with Toby following. The splintery wooden gate at the side of the house was jammed. She shoved against it hard, kicking it until it popped open with an obstinate squeal. As she tramped across a cracked cement patio, she picked a few small splinters from her shoulder, flicking off the tiny bits of wood with her nails, which had finally gotten long enough to have white tips. She came to a dead stop.
The key to a successful property flip was to stick to the basics, the cosmetic rather than structural. The same went for landscaping. While the actual profit on this venture was uncertain, the one thing guaranteed was that re-landscaping the backyard was going to kill her budding fingernails.
‘See what I mean?’ Toby spread his hands.
It was impossible to miss what he meant. The craggy, boulder-strewn yard was full of hip-high weeds, wildflowers, grass and yellow-green chamisa.
‘You can hire the guy from Trujillo’s Hardware to mow back here. The owner, I forget his name, he does landscaping too, but I don’t know if he’d take that away.’ Toby gestured at a rusted swing set. It leaned so far over it kissed a wooden birdfeeder that looked ready to collapse.
Beyond, the overgrown yard rolled off into a rocky, sunset-coloured canyon. Purple morning glories climbed over what was left of a fence, while pink straw flowers and Black-eyed Susans smiled with happy faces. Lesley smiled too and turned to survey the rear of the house where bees darted around tinted windows that ran the length of the place. She pulled another splinter from her arm, still smiling. ‘Oh, Toby, this is fabulous!’
‘Fabulous?’ he swatted at the air in front of his face. ‘Ha! You’ve got rats, moles and bees! Bees, Lesley, and probably hornets too!’
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