I’m in, at least for a couple of hours.
Once Wayne has left, silence descends as we tidy up. I’m just finished spraying down the window covered in soot when Asher pulls out a measuring tape and starts laying it across the floor of what was once my kitchen.
“You know your insurance company will send cleaners and abaters,” he says gruffly, focused on his measurement.
“I know,” I sigh. “But I feel like I need to dosomething.”
“Just make sure the nozzle is facing the right way when you spray. Those are toxic chemicals.”
I scoff, setting my sights on what to clean next. As I turn to examine the space, I slam my hip into the kitchen island. Asher grunts from behind me, not missing a beat.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking!” I mutter sarcastically, and I swear I hear him chuckle in response.
The truth is, even with his snarky comments and grumbling attitude, I’m glad Asher came today. His honest feedback and confirmation of everything I told the insurance adjuster helped deem my claim an accident. And, whether it should or not, its unavoidable. His presence makes me feel safe.
I look around the space. Everything east of the fridge—above the counters—is charred ruin and the whole south wall is black. I move closer to my counter and reach out to pick up my old cookbooks. Tears fill my eyes as I hold up the absolutely decimated first edition self-published copy ofThe Joy of Cooking.It belonged to my nana, and my great-grandmother before her.
It was the book my nana used to teach me and my mother how to cook. Images of us frosting cupcakes for birthdays and baking pies for holidays while we listened to Elvis come flooding back. It had all her handwritten notes, as well as her mother’s, and was decorated in splatters and flour fingerprints. I might be able to find another book by some sort of miracle, but I’ll never find one with those memories. Now, I open the charred pages, blackened and shriveled. Tears fall down my cheeks as I trace my finger over her chocolate cake recipe.
“Oh, honey …” My mom moves toward me from the living room to pull me in for a hug. I welcome her embrace, leaning into her for support.
“Of all the things to lose.” I swipe the tears from my face and lay what’s left of the book flat on the counter.
Asher’s phone ringing brings me back to the present, though I don’t look back as he picks it up and moves outside. His voice is muffled from my porch.
“He’s a quiet man,” my mother notes. “Kind of … what’s the word you girls use? Broody?” She smiles at me, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She can’t handle it when things go wrong, especially when it comes to me. She’s a natural fixer. But my burnt-to-a-crisp kitchen is one thing she can’t save.
“He’s damn helpful too,” my dad chimes in. “Had he not backed you up, the adjuster might not have believed it was all an accident.”
“Saving my ass … yetagain,” I say under my breath as Asher comes back inside, his big hands resting on his narrow hips.
“The biggest problem you’re gonna have are these floors, cabinets, and walls,” he announces. “You don’t see three-quarter-inch black walnut anymore, and that’s what the Heritage Committee will want.”
Asher crouches down and runs his big inked hand across the kitchen cabinets in appreciation before turning to me. I swallow hard as those gray eyes find mine.
“So you’ll need to rip out everything from the entire kitchen,” he tells me matter-of-factly as he stands. “Damn shame.”
“What does this all mean?” I tighten my ponytail. “Every step of the way I have to get approval for the remodel from that Sheila lady?”
Asher sets his jaw and folds his arms over his chest. Even though every window is open in my house, the lingering smell of smoke is starting to give me a headache.
“Yes,” he answers firmly. “And to be honest, heritage committees can be a pain in the arse. Everything that’s ruined—the plaster, the floors, the cabinets—it all needs to come out.”
I sigh and take a seat on my coffee table.
“I did a quick search this morning and found a local company. Shelford Restoration?” I mention, looking up at Asher, who’s shaking his head.
“Your insurance company only approves them because they’re cheap. In this case, you’d be better to get a specialty contractor.”
I can see Asher warring with himself about whether he should get involved with my troubles. Why does this man, who I barely know anything about, get so frustrated with me?
“I know a good bloke,” he says finally. “I was just talking to him. And I’ll … make a few calls on the wood for your floors and cabinets. You need someone who does heritage builds to install them so they can mimic this inlay properly.”
Relief I wasn’t expecting washes over me. I have no idea how to handle any of this, and seeing Asher now, calm and prepared, it’s obvious he does.
“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely.
He nods curtly.
