I build nice houses in Cherry Hill all day long — originally as a carpenter, and now as a team leader. I watch the walls of large floor plans go up board by board. I watch my crew set trusses that span wide rooms, create vaulted ceilings and two-story great rooms with skylights. I survey the work of electricians who’ve wired five bedrooms. When a home is nearly finished, I inspect the tile work in spacious kitchens and multiple-head showers floored in slate.
I spend all day with my mind inside houses of my dreams then come home to this.
I don’t want to, but I find my thoughts moving to our model homes. To our options packages. To our price sheets.
I ignore the truth that I’d have trouble qualifying for a mortgage and ballpark the down payment it would take to move into one of my many work homes, plus the monthly mortgage. That’s enough to depress me. It makes me want to go to a bar. To see if I can find some company. It’s not hard to find women. It’s hard that none stick, and I don’t want them to. The way I feel now, I won’t drink lightly or make smart decisions. I’ll find a girl who’s like junk food — good for a moment, but nothing more. We’d both leave satisfied … but we’d leave, for sure.
I want to do it anyway. I want to forget for a while then deal with feeling bad in the morning.
The only thing that stops me is that spending even a few bucks on a single beer seems horribly irresponsible.
I wonder if Mason’s daughter hits the bars. Not the ones I usually visit, of course, but the upscale ones in Cherry Hill or Old Town.
I wonder if I could justify going out, if I could go to one of those bars. I don’t have my suit anymore, but I remember the swagger. I could pass for one of them. I play below my station anyway. I’m not a hammer monkey anymore. If I didn’t end up digging into jobs as much as I shouldn’t, I suppose I’d qualify as a white-collar guy. I don’t wear fancy shirts to work, but most have a collar since my last promotion.
How expensive could drinks at the Old Town bars be, really?
I wonder if Riley is much of a drinker.
I wonder if I found her, if she’d be friendly enough to talk for a while.
Then I wonder why I think she’d need to be drunk to have a conversation me. But maybe that’s not what I’m wondering. Maybe I’m wondering if she’d go home with me, since that’s where this whole going out chain of thought initially started.
I sigh. I can’t afford it. There’s a roof over my head and beers (but not company) in the refrigerator. My friends aren’t people who like to chat on the phone, so I’ll have to be alone with my thoughts. I can do it if I try. I can be an optimist. Hell, I am an optimist. I did a good thing today. I helped my sister, unlike the time I didn’t interfere and left her with Keith. Now she’ll be able to get her surgery in the time frame she needs. It won’t interfere with her work. She should do well with this new audiobook trilogy and the work that will inevitably follow. I’ll endure two weeks at critical then recover slowly but surely.
Or, if I get the job I went in for today, I’ll recover quickly.
Mason didn’t tell me the salary he had in mind for his VP of Land Acquisition, but it has to be nice. Companies don’t pay their vice presidents thirty grand a year. They pay them six figures at least. Maybe moderate to high six figures. And what would I be able to do if my salary suddenly tripled or quintupled? How quickly would I leave this shithole? How instantly would my problems be over, debt paid, credit cards clean, and worries erased?
With a salary and a cushion, I might be able to consider buying a Cherry Hill home in six months. A half year from the bottom to my ideal version of the top, setting my own toaster on those imported tile countertops.
Holy shit, would that be amazing.
I wonder if I’ll get it. I wonder if Mason will promote me. Three years ago, I was hanging sheetrock; now I’m touring headquarters and contemplating a job that might pay $200K or more. I’m definitely a rising star, as humble as I usually think I am. And although I know I’m not the only candidate, I get the feeling I’m one with a decent shot.
I wonder how I can make Mason James like me more. I wonder how I can suck up enough to get that position because, holy hell, would that solve everything.
The phone rings. To my surprise, it’s Margo, who Mason described as his Gal Friday. She wants to know if, instead of heading to the Stonegate project tomorrow, I mind dressing down and heading to an area not far from Reed Creek instead. It’s a place I recognize because I used to hike around Reed and the hills beyond.
She wants me to scout the land. It’s the kind of thing an acquisitions guy might do. Maybe even the vice president.
I grab a pen and my electric bill, preparing to take notes on the back of the envelope.
“Sure,” I say. “Where specifically?”
Instead of giving me an address, a vague description, a parcel number, or GPS coordinates, Margo tells me that I’ll get everything I need on arrival.
Margo seemed plenty smart enough to realize what’s wrong with this request, so I give her a few minutes to recognize it without my pointing it out. But once she’s closing the conversation and preparing to hang up, I interject.
“Hang on,” I say. “I still need an address or something, at least.” Maybe I’ll get all I need when I get there, but how the hell am I supposed to arrive without knowing where I’m headed?
“I don’t have it on hand,” Margo says. “Sorry. I’m away from home.”
“But … ”
Margo laughs. “Oh, right. I guess I forgot something kind of important.”
I ready my envelope and pen. Vague directions, here we come.
“She’ll pick you up. That way, you’ll have the survey equipment, which is in one of the company trucks.”
“Who will pick me up?”
“Mason’s daughter. Looks like she’s the new intern.”
I’m already thinking about the promotion to vice president. I was just wondering how to make Mr. James like me better than the other candidates. And for some reason, Margo’s words are a wrench in the works. I feel nervous in a blink. Jittery. Like I might start sweating, even though it’s cold in here.
“That sounds fine,” I lie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Riley
I WEAVE DOWN FROM CHERRY Hill to Old Town, trying to stay awake.
Margo told me to pick Brandon up at Hill of Beans coffee shop, which struck me as strange since Margo made the rules and set the pickup time for 7 a.m. I assumed I’d be going to his house, but for some reason she said he’d be at the coffee shop. I told Margo yesterday that I’d want to stop for coffee anyway and that I’d just pick him up and then drive through Starbucks, which is on the way and doesn’t require us to get out of the truck. But she said Brandon had been specific: He wasn’t there to pick up coffee. He was there because he’d already be there, implying he’d been there for hours.
I wonder if I really want to spend my morning with someone so eager. I hate playing into clichés, but it’s true that I got used to staying up late and sleeping in at college. I sprang up and out of the house with a smile so that Dad would see I’m capable of holding a normal schedule, but I started to droop once inside the truck. I haven’t had my coffee either. Getting dressed took all the time I could eke out of this morning’s wee hours.
I could have moved faster if I’d just pulled my hair back, rubbed on some deodorant, and gone out in whatever I could dig quickly out of my still-unpacked boxes. But I didn’t sleep that well and dragged myself out of bed at just after six. It seemed proper to shower. It then felt proper not just to pull my hair back, but to take ten minutes to dry and tame it. My decently prepped hair looked funny without makeup, so I put on a low-key, five-minute face, mainly trying to hide my tired eyes. By then it was sunny out and I knew the day would be warm, so I said what the hell and put on a light sundress. Choosing my sandals took the rest of my time, and now, as I pull to a stoplight, I catch my reflection. I flash the mirror a toothy smile and realize that it all seems fake. I look like a moderately cute zombie.