At that point Phoebe’s dentist, Dr. Kane, walked in. “How are we doing?” Then, seeing the bathroom design spread, he leaned in. “Ooh. Very nice.”
“I’m renovating our new lake house,” Phoebe informed him. “This is the tub.”
Dr. Kane squinted. “It’s an impressive tub.” Then, as the hygienist whisked the magazine away and the doctor turned to riffle through his set of tools, he asked, “What’s that going to cost you?”
Phoebe stiffened in the chair. If it was in this magazine, there was no chance it was in her budget. If she had time, she could stop at one of the box stores and see if there was something similar. She already knew that was a cool chance in hell.
At that moment, her phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” she apologized. “Just need to make sure it’s not the boys’ school.”
Dr. Kane nodded patiently.
It wasn’t. It was Dave, her general contractor. “Phoebe. Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother.” She winced, ignoring the audible sigh from the hygienist.
“You need to come out to the house.”
“Is something wrong?”
Dave didn’t reply right away. Phoebe imagined him glancing up at the sky, and her chest did that pitter-patter thing. Yep, coronary affliction for sure. “We came across something regarding the foundation.”
“Oh? What was it?” Let it be a rat. Preferably dead.
Again, Dave paused. “This is something you should probably see.”
Two minutes later, Phoebe was trotting across the dentist’s parking lot, the copy ofArchitectural Digestshoved in her purse and an appointment card for her reschedule in hand.
When she pulled into the driveway, it was obvious something was wrong. The driveway was empty. Except for Dave, who stood on the front step like a sentinel.
“What’s going on? Where did everyone go?”
From the beginning, Phoebe had been glad she’d picked Dave for her general contractor. He didn’t mince words. He stayed calm in times she considered crises, like the day the roofers didn’t show up and they later learned they would not be showing up, ever. Which set them back a week. Phoebe was all too familiar with domestic mayhem. She had driven babies to the hospital in the middle of the night with 104-degree temperatures. She’d handled blown-out diapers in five-star restaurants (don’t bring a newborn out to your anniversary dinner), and she’d nursed their last dog through a case of bloat two years before. What she did not possess was the endless reservoir of patience that Dave seemed to draw upon when things went awry with the house. “What is it?” she asked again, hurrying up the path.
Dave smiled, but it didn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes.Phoebe liked Dave’s eyes when they did that. “I’ll show you. Why don’t you come down into the basement with me?”
Reluctantly, Phoebe followed him to the side of the house where the Bilco doors were located. They were flung open like the cover of a book.
“Watch your head,” Dave warned as she stepped down into the darkness behind him. The air was cold, and there was a slightly earthen smell that made Phoebe nervous. Had there been a flood? Some kind of burst pipe?
Dave flipped on his flashlight and the overhead beams came into dim view. “We’re right underneath the living room,” he explained. “When we began removing the clapboard siding around the front door, we noticed some rot. Which led to us discovering this.” He reached overhead and placed the flat of his hand against a giant square wooden beam. It had to be at least eight by eight inches thick. But as Phoebe looked closer she could see it was much thinner in some places, as if it had been chewed into.
“I don’t understand,” Phoebe blurted. “We had the house inspected.”
“Yes, but this wasn’t something an inspector would’ve been able to see until we removed the doorframe and exposed this section.” Dave pointed a screwdriver at the beam. “This is your front sill plate,” Dave told her. “These beams run all around the base of the house and rest on the foundation. They’re an integral part of your home’s structural integrity.” Phoebe watched as he tapped the length of the beam, jabbing the tip of the screwdriver along its length, to demonstrate its solidity. “From down here, the bottom of the beam looks pretty good. Notice how the screwdriver can’t penetrate? But when we removed the doorframe and exposed the top of this beam, I’m afraid we found evidence of pest damage and rot.”
“Pest damage? Rot?”
Phoebe shivered, listening as Dave explained what the beam did (supported the house), what was wrong with it (termites and decay), and what had to be done (tent the structure, spray it, jack up the house, rip out the rotten beam, replace it with a new beam, lower the house). Dave studied her carefully as he delivered the news. If she wasn’t mistaken, Phoebe was pretty sure he didn’t blink once during the delivery.
“This sounds expensive.”
Dave nodded toward the steps. “Let’s talk outside.”
“This is not reassuring me, Dave.” Phoebe trailed him out, her thoughts spilling. “Oh my God. I can only imagine what this is going to do to the build time frame.” Then, “Is this going to kill my budget?” Followed by, “Rob is going to kill us both.”
She followed him up the stairs and out into the fresh air again. Phoebe blinked in the daylight.
“Here’s what I was talking about,” Dave explained, as he led her around to the front of the house. The siding and doorframe had been removed, leaving a cavernous opening. The front of the house looked like an unsettled face, its mouth hanging agape. Which was exactly what Phoebe’s was doing as she watched Dave jab the end of his screwdriver into the newly exposed beam. The tool sank through the dark wood, and the surrounding area crumbled like dust. Phoebe pictured her budget doing the same.
