And, in a turn of events I don't fully understand, I'm learning how badly I don't do well with losing Jo.
As if I ever had her to begin with.
12
Jo
I knowI wasn't ready for how fast everything happened with the ranch, but at this point I'm positive all the time and preparation in the world wouldn't have made me ready. None of this is going the way I want it to.
In the past two weeks, I've met with multiple general contractors, walked the ranch with each and every one, and most of them have told me what I'm trying to do here is crazy. They don't tell me no, just that they'll send me an estimate of how much they think the job will cost, and each one reminds me that “this is just an estimate”. I hear their meaning loud and clear. Expect it to run higher than what they quote.
It's me who has to say no. No to every contractor, no to Wyatt every time he reminds me he isn't a jack-of-all-trades, and just like he warned me, my dream is fading, slip-sliding into that dark place where dreams take final, raspy breaths.
I'm meeting one more contractor this morning, though I honestly don't see the point. He won't be any different than the rest.
His name is Mike, and he shows up in a shiny truck, which I don't like. In my opinion, work trucks should reflect the work they do. Shiny truck equals clean hands.
Wyatt's here, working inside the main house. For someone who explicitly says he is not knowledgeable, he seems to know an awful lot. He's been working on refinishing the cabinets in the master bathroom. Sometimes I get the feeling he might be one of those people who inherently knows how to do things.
Wyatt seems to come and go as he pleases, which fits with his personality. Aside from those two days when he didn't show, I don't have a single thing to complain about. We don't talk much, both of us avoiding the other after our fight, speaking only when necessary and always about the job. I mention when contractors will be here, and Wyatt always manages to be here during those times.
I'm certain it's on purpose, and while my inclination is to remind him I'm perfectly capable on my own, it does make me feel safer to know he's nearby.
Mike is nice, very much like a grandfather type, and I see that it's his age that probably keeps him from working in a labor-intensive way. He's chattier than the other contractors, remarking on the property, how nice it will be once it's all fixed up. I explain how it will be used, and he tells me he has seven grandkids and hopes none of them will be needing the services of my ranch. I smile and agree. Maybe Mike's children are all good parents, and his grandchildren are happy, well-adjusted, and they never make a bad choice. Not everyone is so lucky.
We pass Wyatt as we walk through the main house. He's wearing a tool belt, an honest to God leather tool belt, and he looks like something out of a porn film. His T-shirt sticks to him in places where his sweat has soaked through, and his jeans are tight, his dark hair mussed like his hand has run through it recently. His muscles ripple and flex, popping under the physical labor. Everything about him screams sex, and I have firsthand knowledge.
All of which I can't think about right now, not with Mike the grandpa beside me.
I nod at Wyatt as we go by. Mike spouts his thoughts, and I write them down almost by rote. He says the same things most of them say.
I tell him there's one more thing I want to ask him about, then lead him to where I need to build the bunkhouses for the campers and camp counselors. I show him the plans, drawn by an architect at Dakota's dad's firm, and if they cost anything she isn't divulging. I don't even want to consider where I'd be with this project if it weren't for her.
Mike looks at me with the tenderness only a grandparent can, and asks me if I've obtained a permit to build on the property.
"It's my property." I have the giant loan in my name to prove it.
"You might own it, but that doesn't mean you can do what you want with it."
My lack of knowledge makes my neck heat up, and I pray the flame doesn't sweep across my cheeks. "What should I do?"
"Visit the county recorder's office. Get the parcel map, the APN—"
"What's that?" My pencil pauses on my notebook.
"Assessor's parcel number." There's a touch of astonishment in his tone, and not the good kind. "You need to make sure you can build on this land."
What I want to say is something along the lines ofI will do what I want on this land and I will do it when I want to do it.What I actually say is, "Thank you for your time and guidance."
On the walk back to his truck, he informs me he will work up a bid, on the assumption the land is buildable and I am able to obtain a permit. He pauses in the open door of his truck, and I can tell it's on the tip of his tongue. He wants to tell me I'm crazy, that this undertaking is too great. He says, "I hope all this work you're going to put in turns out to be worth it."
What he means is that he doesn't think troubled teens are worth the effort. Maybe I wouldn't feel so offended if it weren't for Travis, but it digs into my skin like a burr. So I tell him, "For your sake, I sure hope your grandchildren never need what my ranch has to offer."
With a polite smile and a nod, I turn around and walk into the house.
I findWyatt in the master bedroom where I last saw him. One day it will be mine, the bedroom will be where I sleep. With the wall Wyatt knocked out between the formal dining room and living room, I can create one large seating area where campers can eat. The previous owner must've liked to cook because the kitchen is enormous. Oddly, they left behind an impressive amount of cookware and other various odds and ends, including a gigantic hutch full of intricately detailed china and a single serving tray. The china is intact; the serving tray is more rust than silver.
For right now, the master bedroom and en suite bathroom look just as torn apart as the rest of the house. Wyatt has the cabinet fronts off their hinges and leaning against a wall. He's using a makeshift work table to sand down one of the cabinet doors. He flicks off the machine when I walk in, the high-pitched sound decreasing until it's quiet.
