“Hello, this is Willow.” I put the phone up to my ear as I save the current spreadsheet I was working on.
“Willow, this is Frank. It looks like we are finding more rotted-out subfloor.”
Not that I don’t believe him; obviously, there can be a lot wrong. But this is the third call I am getting about rotting subfloor. I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that he’s adding in extra jobs to up the labor cost. He wasn’t my first pick for contracting; the company I wanted was booked, which I can understand, considering this turned out to be a last-minute project.
“Oh, really? Well, I’m in the area, so why don’t I swing down there and take a peek myself? I haven’t checked in for a couple of days anyway. I’m sure you have gotten a lot done.”
“There’s no need for that, I am happy to send pictures.”
“No, really, I insist. Plus, I need a break from this office anyway.”He sounds less than thrilled when we end the call, but I am not about to let them think they can pull a fast one on me. Sometimes they assume that because I am a woman, I will just take what they say and run with it. What they don’t know is that my grandpa made sure I would never be taken for granted just for being a girl. So he taught me the slimy car sales tricks, he taught me to trust but verify. It looks like I’m hopping in the old truck and heading that way. Assuming I can drive without killing the engine. I’m still a bit rusty, but getting better every day.
The truck grumbles and whines as I drive up the old, wooded road. It’s not so dense with trees that you feel like you’ll get lost, but just enough that it feels like an oasis from busy everyday life.
I pull up to the first cabin, hoping that’s where Frank will be, but with my luck, he’s going to make me chase him down. I pull the key out of the ignition and shove it in my purse. My outfit today doesn’t exactly scream city girl, but it isn’t whispering it either. My A-line skirt fits tightly against my body. The weather's been amazing, so I have my favorite sleeveless blouse on, hoping to get a bit of color this summer.I have a lot of opportunities to be outside with this project; I really should be taking advantage of that more.
I see a couple of guys standing at a workbench, cutting a two-by-four with a saw. I make my way over, hopeful that they’ll know where their boss is.
“Hi guys, my name is Willow. I was wondering where Frank is?”
“He’s inside.” They nod their head in the general direction of the cabin, and I nod, seeing they aren’t really the chatty type. Which I can appreciate, that means they want to work.
Walking on the dirt path up to the front door of the cabin, I slide over a loose piece of wood with my pointed heel. “Frank, are you in here?”
He audibly sighs, and my annoyance shoots through the roof. “Over here.”
I walk through the space, noting how different it looks. A lot of bare bones and loose wires. “Hey, where was that rotted subfloor at?”
He heaves himself up, but not before I catch the eyeroll. I want to stomp him with the heel of my shoe right now. “Over here.”
I follow behind and come to a piece of floorboard that is a shade darker than the ones surrounding it. I squat down to inspect it closer. I’ve learned the hard way, many times, that not everything is what it seems. When I run my hand over the discolored spot, I notice that it feels wet.
“Any idea why this one spot right here is wet and the whole rest of the subfloor is dry?” I dust off my hands as I stand up, cocking my brow up at Frank.
He mumbles out a bunch of unfinished words, variations of uhs, well, you see, and a lot of sweating going on. All of which proves my earlier suspicions that Frank made this up.
“I really don’t appreciate being taken advantage of. Not only are you trying to screw me, but also the family that I hold very near and dear to my heart.”
As if my words have summoned him, Weston walks in behind me.
His hands are in his pockets as he takes a look around, that lazy smile I adore on him stretches across his lips as he takes in the work being done. “Hey guys, how’s it going?” he asks, oblivious to the tense conversation he just walked in on.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I was in the area and wanted to pop by and see how things are going. We were trying to figure out where we’re gonna drop the cows off next rotation. What's going on here?” He must now feel the tension; his smile is gone, and in its place is concern.
“Me and your little assistant here, we’re just having a little disagreement,” Frank chimes in.
Little assistant. I may have been raised in small-town Wyoming, but I spent the last twelve years of my life in New York. And this bitch is about to see the inner East Coast badass me unleash.
Weston gets to putting him in his place before I do. “Excuse me? What did you just call her?” His voice comes out in calm, cool, collected rage.
“Come on, West, we both know she’s basically a glorified assistant.”
Not that there’s anything wrong with being an assistant, I was one for years. I had to fight and claw my way up, but the way he’s saying it is absolutely derogatory.
“That woman happens to actually be your boss. She’s calling the shots here, not me. Since you decided to put me in charge, you’re fired.”
The fire of my rage gets put out by the ice bucket of panic now washing over me. We don’t have time to find a new contractor. This isn’t the first time a contractor, or a man in general, has tried to pull a fast one on me; definitely won’t be the last time.
