The four hurried to Harry’s Volvo station wagon as it began to sleet, now turning to snow. The precipitation wasn’t heavy but it was cold. Harry wanted to get home before the roads turned slick as an eel.
“Turn on the heater,” Pewter demanded.
“She will. You have a fur coat. She doesn’t,” Tucker reminded the fatty.
“Humans lack fur, claws, sharp teeth. They are so slow. I mean they can’t run. Hearing, pfft. But their eyes are good.” Pewter added something positive.
“Look at it this way, Pewter. She can use the can opener. We can’t,” Mrs. Murphy said.
“There is that,” Pewter agreed as the snow fell a bit more heavily.
2
December 27, 2016
Tuesday
Bending over an old, lovely, much-used large drafting table, Harry noticed the flow of people outside the storefront windows of Gardner’s Design. The shop, marked by a compass over a T-square painted on its hanging sign, was next to the well-lit art shop, and provided good parking, which was always a problem as the old stores had been built close to the road. The no-longer-used railroad station, originally the draw for business, still stood by the tracks.
Gary Gardner, trim white mustache, in his early sixties, bent over the table. Large sheets of paper were held down by tiny sandbags and his T-square, which was affixed to the top of the drafting table.
“Harry, if you’d just give me the word, I would create La Petite Trianon for you. Imagine working in such divine surroundings? You might even decide to keep sheep.” He tapped her hand with a pencil.
“Gary, I’d need to wear a bonnet. That would never do. For one thing, the cats would destroy the ribbons.”
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, sitting on the floor, quickly defended themselves. “Never!”
Tucker saw her moment. “Ha. Then they’d chew the straw.”
“You’d herd the sheep. You’d create more havoc than we would.” Pewter curled her lip.
“My job is to herd,” the corgi responded with pride.
“Well, our job is to dispatch vermin. How do you know mice won’t make a nest in a big bonnet when it’s not on Harry’s head? Think what might happen when she’d tie the bonnet on her head?” Mrs. Murphy sounded perfectly serious.
“No Trianon?” Gary’s eyebrows shot upward. “Harry, you disappoint me, but only a little. Your workshed, as you can see, has two large rooms, plenty of space to use the long desk against the wall, lots of windows and skylights for natural light, and an across-the-wall pegboard. You can hang up everything.”
“That is useful.”
“And you’re sure you aren’t going to buy a band saw?”
“No. I don’t want to use gas- or electrical-powered tools. They’re too fast for me. Know what I mean? I’d rather do it the old way.”
“The eighteenth-century way.” He grinned at her.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” She shrugged and then looked at his one wall, built-in bookcases that he had designed, identical squares, bursting with books. “Have you read all those books?”
“I have but I’ve had decades to do so.”
“What about those boxes on the bottom, the ones that look like fat old books? My father used to have those file boxes, as I recall,” she asked.
“Building codes for the counties where I’ve designed a house or a barn. I can fit two per square as you see. Breaks up the visual monotony. Every file box is a year. You’d be surprised how often those codes are changed. Of course now you can download them, but I do prefer the files.”
“Do you have the codes from when you worked for Rankin Construction?”
Rankin Construction was a large, third-generation company in Richmond. They had started before World War One and changed with the times. Now they built high-rises, stripped old tobacco warehouses, made pricey condominiums as well as office buildings.
“Yes, up until I left thirty years ago. I’m sure Rankin has kept everything.”
“Did you like working on those large projects? You never talk about them.”
“Well, I like architecture, old and new materials. I like efficiency and soundness. And Rankin is a good company but as it grew and grew, more and more layers of people meddled with my work. More and more building inspectors at every phase of the project. I learned to hate it so I packed up, moved here, and took my chances.”
“You certainly hit the top. Your homes are featured in all those glossy magazines.”
“Harry, I am just as happy creating the perfect work space for a good woman as I am putting together a two-million-dollar showplace. Why anyone wants to live in something like that is beyond me but hey, the commissions are good.”
“You have sure helped us a lot with those old school buildings, and we are keeping the name, too, ‘The Colored School.’ I think it’s important to be truthful.”
“Me, too. Working with Tazio Chappars is a joy,” he said, referring to a young architect who was making her way in the world to whom he was a mentor.
Dazzling Tazio, half Italian and half African American, took the best from both. She was also a person with a big heart. In a snowstorm years ago she had rescued a yellow Lab youngster abandoned and starving. Like most people she had no intention of owning a dog, and a big dog at that. But Tazio and Brinkley were a happy part of Crozet. If you saw one you saw the other.
Harry nodded. “She is talented, isn’t she?”
“Very. Talented and practical, my two favorite qualities. Okay.” He pointed back to his drawings, hand drawn. “The fireplace in the corner will heat the building up once the fire is going, but I suggest a small propane fireplace in the opposite corner diagonally kept on a low flame. Your pipes won’t freeze.”