Page 3 of If You Like It, I Love It

He now has me typecast: hardheaded and boring. There’s no coming back from that. Not that my general contractor needs to see me as anything other than a client. But I do catch myself wondering more and more lately what image I present to the world.

I don’t know why I care so much what anyone thinks, but it’s been a long time since I even considered it. Five years, almost to the day. Long enough that I don’t think of myself as a widow first anymore.

Now, the first word that comes to me is single. And I still don’t really know what to do with that information.

I’m thirty-nine and single, and this wasn’t the plan. But for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to make some changes. Starting with my outdated kitchen.

Who knows what other changes that might inspire? Maybe I’ll do the bathrooms next.

2

Enzo

We’ve nearly got all the cabinets removed and tossed into the roll-away dumpster when Joni makes her first appearance of the day. I’m honestly impressed she stayed away this long.

Plastic sheeting has been hung from the ceiling to create a temporary hallway between her kitchen and the front door. The idea is to contain the mess and keep her living room from being covered in dust. We’ve taped cardboard to the floor to protect it from scrapes and dirty boot prints. Still, I steel myself for her reaction.

Even the most reasonable client can be overwhelmed by the true devastation of demo.

She emerges from the passageway with a plastic grocery bag hanging from each hand and nods her head in approval. “Wow, y’all work fast.”

“It always looks worse before it looks better,” I say, reassuringly.

“I know,” she says. “I’m not worried.”

Okay, this is promising. Maybe she was just having a moment last night when she decided to start the project on her own.

“Did you bring my hammer back?” She shoves the grocery bags into her fridge, giving me the side eye. “Don’t get your toolbelt in a twist. It’s just fruit and salad stuff. I know I can’t cook in here, but I still need food.”

“I was thinking I might hold your hammer hostage until we’re done.”

My crew stops working to watch our interactions. I’d like to think they’ve halted solely for safety reasons, but they’re way too invested in the mystery of the pretty homeowner’s hammer.

“Oh, yeah?” Joni asks. “Well, now I’m thinking I might have to charge you a rental fee.”

“No one’s going to use it. I’m just keeping it safe.”

“Or maybe I should file theft charges.”

“You don’t need that hammer back right now.”

“You don’t know that. Besides, it’s mine, so whether I need it or not doesn’t matter. Give it back.”

My guys are leaning in at this point. I told them the homeowner tried to bust out the countertop on her own. But I left out the part about how she got injured. And that I instinctively wrapped my arms around her to stop her. I’m shocked enough that I did that; I don’t need to see the shock on anyone else’s face.

There’s a small gash on her forehead from the tile. I should’ve insisted she go to the ER last night. Looking at it now, I feel sure it could’ve used a few stitches. At the very least, she should have a bandage on it. I take a breath to stop myself from commenting on it.

“Your hammer’s at my place. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“That’s bullshit. I bet it’s still in your truck.”

She catches me off guard, and my smile betrays my lie. Of course, her damn hammer is still in my truck, but I didn’t expect her to realize that.

“All right, guys. Get the rest of these cabinets out, and let’s call it a day.”

I turn to Joni. “Walk out front with me, and I’ll return your hammer.”

The three-man demo crew focuses on the final cabinets, but I catch the grins on their faces before they turn away. It’s only day one, and my interactions with the client have already turned into a source of entertainment.