also architects. Michelangelo, Raphael, da Vinci. Heck, Brunelleschi is the guy who discovered linear perspective.”
“Who?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She shook her head.
I rummaged for a book and sat next to her on the floor. “He was the world’s worst loser.”
“Huh?”
“He lost a competition to Ghiberti—”
“I know him! The Gates of Paradise, right?”
“Right. Well, after Brunelleschi lost, he threw a huge temper tantrum.”
“Sounds like someone I know.” She said it with a grin but flinched when she saw my reaction. “Me! I was talking about me!”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry. Well, anyway, Brunelleschi went on to build the dome of the Florence Cathedral.” I paged through the book until I found what I was looking for. “See? He used a catenary arch, like the Gateway Arch in St.
Louis, along with chains that acted like barrel hoops…”
Trip and I spent half a day going over details for Sayuri’s houses. She was surprisingly organized. She had all the original contractor’s estimates and invoices, as well as everything from the new contractor, including bid documents, specifications, construction drawings, and more. Trip pored over the paperwork, while I studied the drawings.
I thought I’d be disappointed, but I was wrong. The drawings were professional and thorough. Trip grunted a few times but didn’t find any problems either.
“What’s the verdict?” I said at last.
He straightened his stack of papers. “I think,” he said slowly, “that you and I should be working for this guy.” He nodded toward the drawings. “You find any red flags?”
“Nope. I couldn’t do better myself. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever done as well.”
We gave the news to Sayuri but warned her that the houses themselves might not reflect what we found in the planning.
She smiled a secret little smile. “I check a few times,” she said. “Work looks good.”
“Let’s hope so,” Trip said. “We’ll take a look and let you know.”
We crossed the street to the first house. We found the site foreman and told him that the owner had asked us to take a look around. He answered our questions, albeit grudgingly. He didn’t say so aloud, but his attitude made it plain that he thought we were snot-nosed college kids sent to second-guess him. He was right, in a way, but he didn’t know the whole of it.
“Listen,” Trip said about halfway through, “we aren’t here to make your life difficult. The owner asked us to look out for her interests. All right? So give us a break.”
“Her first contractor really screwed her over,” I explained.
“First contractor?” the foreman said. “Who? We started this job.”
“On that house.” Trip pointed to ours.
“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s different. Who was it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Trip told him.
The foreman rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, that guy. I don’t like to speak ill, but…”
“We’ve seen his work,” I said. “We’ll probably be fixing things for the next couple of months.”
“Who? You?”
“Yes, us,” Trip said. “I’m a general contractor, and he’s an architect.”
It was a white lie, but I didn’t correct him.
The foreman laughed before he realized Trip was serious.
“Don’t let my age fool you,” Trip said. “I’ve been doing it for years. Him too.”
“Where? In Knoxville?”
“No. Franklin, outside Nashville. And Atlanta this year.”
The foreman looked dubious but decided to humor us.
We finished our tour of the house and didn’t find anything wrong. Trip asked most of the questions, while I kept my eyes open and poked around in the background.
The foreman walked with us to the second house. “Haven’t done much here,” he explained. “Won’t start demo for another six weeks.”
“Not till you get closer to done with the first house,” Trip agreed. “I read the bid documents.”
The man looked surprised. Again.
“Listen,” Trip said in exasperation, “I can look into these houses like a building inspector, or you can just believe me when I say I know what I’m doing.”
“Whatever. I just work here.”
“Yeah. And we’ve kept you too long. Thanks for your time.”
“No problem,” he said insincerely.
Trip was in a surly mood as we walked back to report to Sayuri.
“I don’t like the foreman,” he explained to her, “but I didn’t see anything wrong.”
“Neither did I. Like Trip said, the foreman was a bit of a jerk, but the work is good.”
“That is all I ask,” Sayuri said.
“We’ll check on progress every week, if that’s all right with you,” Trip said. “And I can review any invoices before you pay them.”
“That would be fine.”
“Otherwise,” he finished with a shrug, “I don’t know what else to tell you. The crew is doing a good job. And I’ll be honest, they’re doing it for cheaper than I could do in Atlanta.”
“That is also good to know. Christy said you have a wealth of experience for your years.”
“She’s right about that.” Trip warmed to the compliment. “We’ll definitely make sure you’re getting your money’s worth.”
“I already am,” Sayuri said with a smile.
Classes started on Thursday. Trip and I didn’t have a single one together. He wasn’t disenchanted with architecture, but he knew he’d never love it like I did. So he’d decided to avoid the intense competition of Professor Joska’s class, not to mention the long hours. He was taking an extra business class instead.
I felt a little lost when I entered the design classroom and took a seat in the first row. I also dreaded seeing Gracie. I didn’t have anything against her, but was pretty sure she didn’t feel the same about me. Part of me hoped that we might be friends again, but another part told me to let it go. Besides, the
things I didn’t like about her had only grown in my memory.
I was talking to someone else when she entered. She sat at the other end of the row and pointedly ignored me. I halfway expected the air to freeze between us.
Freddie DeFeo saved me from brooding about it. He dropped his bag on the floor next to mine and gave me the full paisan treatment, including a back-slapping hug straight out of The Godfather.
Professor Joska arrived and started class with his usual brusqueness. He gave us the third-year version of his speech and then handed out copies of the syllabus and schedule. I skimmed them and groaned at the last page. We had a quarter project to design a building, from proposal to final drawings, as though we had a real client at a real architecture firm. It was a third of our grade and in addition to our normal coursework.
Joska seemed to read my mind. “Your lives will only get busier from this point forward. Fourth- and fifth-year students have almost double the workload.” He unscrewed the cap of a fountain pen. “I will sign withdrawal slips if anyone wants.”
No one did. Most of us had understood what we were getting into when we signed up for his class. I was a bit surprised that Freddie was there, but the others were familiar faces, the best and most competitive third-year students, including yours truly.
Wren made a special dinner for the end of our first week of classes. It had only been two days, but we still felt the need to celebrate. We polished off several bottles of wine and lingered over our empty plates.
“You think you have it bad?” Wren said, after Trip complained (again) about his course load. “Christy and I are seniors. So all our courses are 4000
level.”
“Two of mine are technically graduate classes,” Christy said.
“Yeah, okay,” Trip agreed, “but Architecture is a five-year program. So it’s even tougher than a regular degree.”
“Says who?” Wren shot back.
Christy sipped her wine and nodded.
“I’m taking six classes,” Wren continued, “plus a senior seminar in mass