Across The Pond, page 4
To his credit, the contractor looks mildly embarrassed, and gives me an apologetic look which also asks me to be patient with the old woman. The look he gives her is both fond and kind, as well as long-suffering. Clearly, this isn’t the first time this has happened. Interestingly enough, it makes it harder to maintain my cool exterior.
I manage, nonetheless, and expect Mrs. Abramovitz to accompany us on my fourth tour of the house. To my surprise, however, she does not, babbling something about needing to get back. I suppose that since she has known Mr. Aguillar since he was a child, she feels that my honor is adequately protected by his family’s history, and by his good character. Or something like that.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he chuckles from somewhere deep in his chest, sending thrills up and down my spine, and spinning me closer to that home run between my legs. “She’s been a little lonely since her husband died. Talks up a storm with anyone who’ll stand still long enough.”
His defense of my neighbor raises his estimation in my eyes, but I am determined not to let my libido get the better of me. But his eyes! They are so hypnotic, staring at me as if I am the only human being for miles around.
While it was I who toured Andy, Carla, and Massey, as well as that creep who must no longer be named, it is Rob (as he keeps insisting I call him) who tours me. He points out certain details that I had overlooked in the week that I have spent here so far: a fireplace whose mantelpiece is made up of a different stone than the rest, because it had been broken when my grandfather tried to do something with it; a door that jams a little when it gets cold, but which can be fixed by jiggling the door a bit before opening it; a faucet that leaks a little if you tighten it too much; a floorboard that creaks if you step on it a certain way.
“And that’s you, isn’t it?” he says, pointing to a series of framed but faded colored photographs, in what used to serve as the master bedroom before my gran decided to move into the solarium on the ground floor.
To save costs, I had moved from the hotel into that solarium, reveling in the garden view it provides. It also gives me an opportunity to be close to my gran, in a way. Fortunately, Mr. Chase was kind enough to hire some cleaners prior to my arrival, but the upper levels still have an air of abandonment and a little decay.
I had been in this room, of course, but with so much paperwork on my hands (plus a bit of sightseeing and shopping), I had not taken a close look at the set of pictures Rob is pointing out. I'm doing so now, and am surprised to see pictures of myself and my parents back in England.
A few even depict a much younger me in Disneyland, during one of our few visits to this country. To my surprise, there are even some updated ones that my parents had no doubt sent when they were still alive, including those of my married life.
Looking at the latter, I am taken aback. Was I ever really that happy? It certainly looked it. But it also brings to mind the fact that I had neglected to keep in touch with my grandparents, though they had certainly remained interested in my life.
Rob hands me some tissues and I look at them puzzled. I am also a little fascinated at the size of his hands: rough, calloused, yet beautiful. When he raises them a little to my face, I realize I am crying!
“You miss them, don’t you?” he says, tactfully looking away from me and toward the photos, as I dry my tears. “I don’t blame you. They were fantastic people. Back when my dad started this business, few… locals would hire a Latino. Your grandparents used to invite us over for Thanksgiving, which meant a lot to my parents who were just starting out.”
I do not miss the pause he gave before using the word “locals.” I understand he was referring to us, to Caucasians in general, and appreciate his political correctness. I understand that race was a much bigger issue here than it ever was back home, not that I’m putting us on a pedestal.
“I do miss them, yes,” I manage as I get myself under control. “But I also feel rather guilty. I… I was rather too involved in my life back home, and later, with my marriage, to really… Aa little over a week, I’ve been here in this house, and I’ve even been to this room. Just never got to take a close look at those pictures, is all. To think they kept up-to-date with my life, while I…”
“Oh no! Oh miss, don’t cry! Your grandparents loved you! They wouldn’t want you to be like this! Don’t feel bad! Madre de dios, please don’t cry.”
The hunk of god crumbles before me, looking like a man who’s about to keel over, so upset at my being upset. Despite myself, I start to giggle, and at his surprised look, start to laugh.
His confusion builds, and I can’t help it. Oh how the mighty fall! My laughter turns into a guffaw, and the next thing I know, his confusion turns into a smile that is blindingly beautiful. His teeth are so perfectly white, they stand out on his mocha skin, and a chuckle comes out of him, deep, masculine, and joyous.
“Umm… I don’t know what I’m laughing about, but you have a nice laugh. It certainly beats you crying.”
It takes me a while to calm down, and the switch from my previous horniness to guilt to mirth is exhausting. Not to mention the running around that I’ve done over the last couple of weeks.
“You really shouldn’t get too upset at a woman’s tears,” I admonish him with a chuckle. “It’s just that you looked so flummoxed by me, that it took me by surprise, is all. Still, it was sweet of you.”
“Flummoxed, huh? Never heard that word before, but it sounds self-explanatory. Glad you feel better, miss.”
“Danny, please. Never liked that word, ‘miss.’ Makes me feel older than I actually am.”
“Oh, hey! You’re not old! Thirty’s still pretty young!”
“Oh, good Llord! My gran even told you how old I am!?”
That gets him flustered some more, which I find completely endearing. At the look of my teasing smile, he gets himself under control once again, and we finally get down to business.
He presents me with a list of things that have to be done, clearly reciting an old list. His previous experience with the house lends much to his credibility, and while I’ve not yet been presented with his prices, I already know I’ll hire him.
“Do you do landscaping, as well?”
“Afraid not, mi… Danny. My brother used to handle that side of the business, but he moved to California a couple of years ago. I haven’t found anyone else to replace him. I can give you a list of people that I know would be up to the task, though. Massey’s pretty good with that, but they’re a team. You get one, you have to take the other…”
Realizing what that statement sounds like, he pauses, looks at me, and we begin laughing again. It feels wonderful. It has been a while since I’ve laughed.
“Been a while, huh?” he asks me when we calm down.
At my questioning look, he adds, “Since you’ve laughed. I’m sorry about your divorce. Yeah, your grandma told me about that, too. Not that it’s my place to give you advice, but I think you’re doing the right thing. Sometimes, you just need to get away.”
“I suppose. Ermm… so when can you get me a quote?” I ask, getting uncomfortable at the way he’s looking at me.
“I can get started tonight and have something for you by tomorrow.”
At my surprised look, he explains that he has known what to do with this house even before I came. Before leaving, he promises to include a list of landscaping contractors he knows personally, and I nod, telling him that I might as well work on that, too.
As he walks toward his pick-up, I am once again struck by the sheer size of him, and by the complete masculinity he exudes. Thank goodness I’m going back to England after this. My libido is getting the better of me.
Still, it was nice to laugh again. Rob’s right. It has been a while. And it feels great.
After lunch, I entertain two more contractors, both men. Fortunately, my libido remains asleep, this time. Mr. Chase comes over shortly after to help me work on the inventory, together with Amy, his assistant: a bright, spunky college student who speaks with a thick accent I can barely understand.
When she steps away for a bit, the lawyer looks at me apologetically, “She’s from Brooklyn,” he explains. “Takes a while to get used to, but you’ll get the hang of it.”
“I’m still digesting this inventory,” I answer, as we go over our list. “I always thought of my grandparents as middle class people. That this house was the result of years of saving and hard work.”
“They were that, yes. But we’re talking here about a life’s worth of stuff. Your grandparents had exquisite taste. You do know that they once opened an antique store?”
Perhaps it’s just my imagination, perhaps I’m just being overly sensitive, but I swear, there was a hint of reproach in the way he said that last sentence.
“Yes. But it didn’t work out and they had to close it.”
“The problem was that Max had difficulty parting with anything. And he had a tendency to overpay for high-end items, e. Especially if the people bringing them in had a sob story.”
“That part’s very true,” I chuckle, as we continue with the inventory.
***
“You’re sure it’s at the Sorensen house?” the woman asks.
“Positive,” the man replies. “I just finished scoping it, and even if it’s not, there’s sure a lot of stuff there worth taking.”
“I don’t care about the other things!” the older woman hisses. “The hell do you think I am!? Some common schmuck!? Focus, will ya!? The only thing I want is that collection!”
“Ok, ok,” he whines. “Just saying…”
The whack of her open hand on his cheek stops him in his tracks. His eyes look down and he keeps quiet as the older woman makes a call.
CHAPTER 3
~ Rigoberto
I know it sounds cocky, but I knew that the Sorensen woman would hire me. After all, I have done work on that house before, and it is equally clear that I know it far better than she does.
And God, is she hot! Best not let Catalina see her or she’ll have a new victim in her sights. Then again, I wouldn’t mind being matched with that one! I don’t normally go for blondes. Too generic. But that Sorensen woman would turn even a stone statue’s head around, . I swear.
She certainly has class. What is it with British women? It’s probably the accent. There’s no way you can talk like a BBC presenter and be anything but classy. Great voice, too. Not nasal, not high- pitched, and with a bit of a burr to it. Throaty, I guess, would be the best way to describe it.
But her eyes. Madre de dios! Her eyes! Blue, green, and gray, they spear you like crazy when they look at you!
I remember walking up her front yard that first day we met, thinking: ayayay, what a hot thing you are! Meeting her eyes, however, I flinched. It felt as if she could see all the way to the back of my head!
So sad, though. Her eyes radiate a pain and sorrow, a longing for relief, that made me want to grab her and hug her ‘till it all went away. It can’t be just because of her grandmother’s death. There’s something there, a pain much older and deeper. Like a woman who has given up on something. Herself, maybe?
She probably thought I told her all those stories about the house, her house now, just to get a leg up over the competition. In a way, yes. But mostly, I did it to keep myself from grabbing her, kissing the bejeezus out of her, and telling her it’ll be alright.
Did I mention her lips? They have a full, pouty quality to them, looking so soft, and so well-designed for kissing. The entire time we were together, though, she never smiled.
I admit to exaggerating some of the stories I told, but I did it to get a smile or a laugh out of her. Her face tells me it has been a while since she did either, so I thought I could at least do that much for her. Didn’t work, though. The most I got was a slight upturning at the corners of her gorgeous lips. Something polite people do to make others feel better, or to show that they are paying attention.
So when she finally laughed, it felt like heaven. To see a sad, beautiful woman suddenly laugh, is like watching the sun come out after a rainy morning. The sorry look vanished, and for a moment, I saw an actual human being, not just some beautiful woman with class and an exotic accent.
“Danny, please,” she said. But that feels too intimate. It’s been a while since I’ve felt anything more than a physical attraction toward another woman. This is dangerous. Nope. I think I’ll stick to Ms. Sorensen. Yes, definitely Sorensen.
And anyway, she’s a client. I don’t mix business with pleasure. Bad for business. I’m not just in it for me, after all. There’s Catalina to think about, as well. In this lousy economy, my reputation is all that’s keeping the jobs coming in. It’s how I pay the bills, after all.
~ Daniela
“Please,” I say to him. “If you want me to call you Rob, you’ll have to call me Danny. Otherwise, I’ll call you Mister Aguillar. It’s only fair.”
“Danny, it is,” he replies, grinning at me and doing things to my heart, stomach, and groin which I’d best not describe here, but which will require me to change my panties again later, damn it.
I suppose it was inevitable that I’d hire him. His fee is on par with the others, even lower than some, in fact. Not surprising, considering how cut- throat business must be right now, what with the poor economy. But he has done work here before, and that gives him a complete advantage over the others, in my book.
We agreed that the house is to be preserved as is: no walls to be torn down, no extra rooms to be installed, and no structural changes whatsoever. It is clear that my grandmother decorated the whole place, and she did a good job of it, too: a combination of old world charm with well-made quality furnishings dating back to the 1950s.
Though she generally kept with the Victorian style of the house, she also enjoyed the minimalism of the 1950s – surprisingly modern and up-to-date, even in this, the 21st century. She wasn’t into frilly, feminine things, for which my grandfather must have been extremely grateful.
Rob’s crew consists of four other men, and I am impressed by their professionalism and politeness. Despite my best attempts, however, they refuse to call me by my nickname, insisting on referring to me as either ‘señora’ or as ‘the señora.’
He insists that the only changes to be made will be cosmetic, and that the entire process should take no more than a month, at the most. According to Angie, however, the way you determine a project’s length is to take the contractor’s estimate, then multiply it by two.
The bulk of the job will take place in the upper floors, virtually abandoned for years when my gran decided to move to the ground floor. Those upper levels were used mostly for storage, the thought of which gives me a headache.
While my grandparents were not psychotic pack rats, Mr. Chase was absolutely correct: they had accumulated quite a lot of things during their lifetime. Fortunately, much of it has been inventoried to keep the government from getting its hands on them post mortem. Unfortunately, quite a bit has not been inventoried yet, m. Mostly personal stuff of next to no value, like their clothes and a few odds and ends. That’s where I come in.
For the past three days, Mr. Chase’s assistant, Amy, has come by to help me check off a list of insured items, separating those from their personal effects. The list is long, however, and the lawyer thorough, so we’ve only managed to get through four boxes and an entire attic full of stuff, so far. As of our last counting, we have some twenty boxes left to go. What absolute joy.
“That’s the contractor you chose?” asks Amy, ogling Rob as he walks past us, carrying a sheet of plywood over his head.
“Yes, have you two met?” I ask, as I go through a boxed collection of silverware and count them against the inventory list I am starting to hate with a passion.
