She turned to Wren. “Has he been like this all summer?”
“Worse,” I said. “And the word you’re looking for is ‘unrepentant.’”
“I was thinking ‘annoying.’”
“That too,” I agreed cheerfully.
We met Sayuri after breakfast. She was a tiny Japanese woman, neither young nor old. I guessed that she was in her early fifties. She had black hair, dark eyes, and a plain face. She spoke with a pronounced accent, but was easy enough to understand if I paid attention. She was unfailingly polite, although she studied Trip and me without seeming to look at us. We were being evaluated, judgment deferred.
Trip must have felt it too, because he didn’t object when I suggested we move Christy’s things to our house. We had to make several trips to haul over four large suitcases, three small ones, a half-dozen dress bags, several large boxes, and more. It must’ve cost a fortune to ship from California.
When we finished we took an impromptu tour around the front of Sayuri’s house. It was also Victorian, smaller than ours, without all the ornamentation and extra rooms. It was built as a workaday house for a wealthy family, a home instead of a statement.
The inside was well-kept and tidy, with a mixture of Japanese and western decorations. We sat at the dining room table and made small talk until Wren brought up the subject of the other renovations.
Sayuri owned two more houses in the neighborhood, one across the street and one a block away. She didn’t entirely trust her current contractor (I couldn’t blame her, especially after her experience with the first guy), but she had no way to know if she was getting the runaround. Trip and I promised to
check things out. She nodded and smiled, agreement without confidence.
Christy said something in Japanese and then nodded at us. Sayuri asked something that sounded suspiciously like, “But they’re so young. How can they possibly know what they’re doing?” She smiled when she said it, but her dark eyes didn’t echo the sentiment. Christy answered respectfully.
I watched their conversation and slowly reevaluated Sayuri. She reminded me of Susan, especially the way her mind worked. I didn’t understand a word she said, although I didn’t really need to. Her manner was restrained, and her voice never rose above polite conversation, but her questions were quick and direct. Her meaning was clear too: she wanted value for her money and wanted to make sure that Trip and I could protect her interests.
Much to my surprise, Christy argued in our favor. She spoke Japanese, although her looks and gestures came through loud and clear. Trip and I knew what we were doing, she explained. Trust us, she said. She folded her hands in front of her and lowered her eyes in deference to the older woman.
Sayuri thought for a moment and then smiled. Once again, I had the feeling of deferred judgment. She clearly liked Christy, but Trip and I would have to earn her trust. Fair enough, I thought. Trip could dig into the contractor’s estimates and expenses, line by line if necessary. And I could do the same for the houses themselves.
Sayuri said to us, in English, that she’d be very grateful if we would advise her on the renovations. We said we’d be happy to, of course. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and then said goodbye.
“I hope we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew,” Trip said. He gestured to our house as we approached. “This place isn’t even close to what I’d call a good job.”
Wren started to object.
“He’s right,” I said. “You probably don’t see it, but we do. It’s little things. Lots of ’em. Rough edges, cut corners, half-assed work.”
“I don’t even know how some of it passed inspection,” Trip said.
“Nonsense,” Wren said. “It’s fine.”
“Fine to live in,” I agreed. “But the work isn’t something I’d brag about.”
Wren started to say something else, but I stopped her again. “Most of the things I’ve noticed are cosmetic. Trip and I can fix them. But it’ll be a problem if we find anything structural.”
“Or any serious code violations.”
“Exactly.”
“And these other two houses might also be a mess—”
“Our house isn’t a mess,” Wren objected. “We had it inspected before we bought it.”
“Okay, maybe not ‘a mess,’” I said to placate her. “But it certainly isn’t up to Hughes-Whitman standards.”
“Whitman-Hughes,” Trip corrected absently.
I grinned. It was a friendly argument we’d had many times.
“But he’s right,” Trip went on. “These other houses might take up a lot of our time, especially if we find problems.” He turned to Christy. “How do you think Sayuri will take that? Does she want to hear the truth, especially if her contractor isn’t… um… up to our standards?”
“Absolutely.”
“Have to be careful, though,” he mused aloud. “We don’t want the job ourselves.”
I perked up. “Why not? I mean, I’d like to see the houses first, but they might be fun projects.”
“No way. Maybe if we could work on ’em full time, but not with school and everything else.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Still, I imagined what we could do with an old Victorian. Most of them had fine bones, even if they’d seen better days. We could make them beautiful again.
We spent the rest of the day unpacking boxes and arranging furniture. Wren and Christy concentrated on the kitchen and dining room. Trip and I worked our way through the living room, octagonal front room, and the little main-floor bedroom.
The next day Trip and Wren worked in the master bedroom, while Christy and I did the same in our separate ones. I heard her struggling to move furniture, so I offered to help. Then I hung around to unpack an entire box of purses and store them on the top shelf in the closet.
“I know what to get you for Christmas,” I teased. “A stepladder.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. Why do you want these up here? You won’t be able to get
’em down yourself.”
“I don’t need them very often.”
“Then why’d you bring them?”
“In case I do need them.”
“Yeah, but…” I made a quick guess, “Thirty?”
“Most go with formal outfits or cocktail dresses.”
“How many formal events do you plan to attend?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll need the right outfit.” She opened another large box.
“Holy crap! Are those all shoes?”
“Of course. That box too.”
“What do you need all those for?”
“They match different outfits. Some match purses. Some are just pretty. I haven’t found an outfit for them yet.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. Why?” She looked up. “What’s the matter?”
“I can’t believe you have all these shoes and purses.” I pointed at the pile of dress bags on the bed. “And those. Same with them?”
“Same what?”
“Formal dresses, cocktail dresses, dresses you haven’t found shoes and a purse for yet?”
She smiled but was clearly nonplussed. “Yes.”
“And you shipped all this stuff from home? From California?”
“How else was I supposed to get it here?”
“Why?”
“Why what? I can’t wear them if they aren’t here.”
“Why do you even need all this?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Clearly.”
She knew she was being insulted. She bristled like a Chihuahua snapping at a Doberman. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.”
“No, tell me. What don’t I understand? And what’s it to you anyway?”
“Whoa! Sorry I asked. You can have whatever you want. It’s your stuff.”
She continued to look belligerent until I gestured innocuously at the shoe boxes.
“You want me to put those in the top of the closet too?”
She wasn’t ready to back down but couldn’t find a reason to argue.