“Grandpa!” she shouts.
I make it out of the shed in time to see her hop up into his arms for a big squeezy hug. “Hello, peanut,” he says, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Do you want to watch my bike show? I been practicing for two weeks,” Isabelle says, demonstrating her budding concept of time.
“Absolutely I do. You know, when I was driving over here, I was hoping I’d see a big bike show today,” my dad says, setting her down on the patio and ruffling her hair.
“Okay. I’m going to make the tickets.” This is Isabelle’s favourite game—charging admission for her shows to senior citizens who can’t resist her chubby little face. Smart girl.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, walking over and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Hey, Breenut, I see you’re using your day off to rest and relax,” he says with a little wink.
“Learned my relaxation skills from you,” I say, holding my T-shirt away from me and wringing out the water.
“What’s this all about?” he asks, gesturing with his head to the pile of things I’ve removed from the shed.
“I’m turning the shed into a rental suite.”
He blinks in surprise. “Really?”
I nod firmly. “Turns out it has electricity and plumbing. The renter will have to come into the house for the toilet and shower, but otherwise, he or she can be self-sufficient.
Walking to the door of the shed, he pokes his head in, then turns back to me. “I don’t know. Do you really think you’ll get anyone to rent it?”
“I had a look online, and there aren’t many places to rent on the island at the moment,” I say, hoping I sound confident. “If I can make it clean, cozy, and cute, I’ll find the right person.”
Dad gives me a big smile. “Well, let’s get to it then.”
“Really? You want to help?”
“Of course I do. If there’s one thing parents never get sick of, it’s helping their children,” he says, with a smile. “Besides, I needed to get out of wedding-planning central. Things were getting ugly between your mum and Amber this morning.”
“So you figured you’d hide out here for a while?”
“I’m no dummy. Maybe I’ll rent this out until after the big event.”
I chuckle and put my arm around his shoulder. “For you, I’ll lower the rent to $550 a month.”
***
After one trip to my parents’ place to pick up tools, three trips to the hardware store, two thrift-store stops, and a late night of working, the garden suite—as I’ve started to call it—is almost ready. It’s now eleven a.m., so I have five hours until I need to be at work. I sigh happily as I put the final coat of white paint on the windowsill.
My dad is using his truck to pick up a wrought-iron bed frame I managed to buy on Craigslist this morning. He and my mum had an extra double mattress they aren’t using, so he’s bringing that over as well. I hum to myself while I paint, feeling hopeful for the first time in a long while.
Dolores, who has been blowing bubbles for Izzy to chase around the yard, walks in. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look at this place.”
“Nice, right? Would you rent it?”
“God, no. It’s a shed. But it’s still hard to believe how it looked yesterday morning.” She walks around the new plywood floor.
“I found an area rug at the secondhand store. It’s a little worn, but it’ll make this feel a lot less like a toolshed and more like a cozy cottage.”
“You are one resourceful young lady.”
“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder.
“Resourcefulness is genetic, you know. They discovered the gene for it last year. It runs on our side of the family,” she says, walking over to inspect my paint job. She points to one of the cross-braces of the window. “You missed a spot.”
