A Mile in My Flip-Flops (22 page)

I
spend most of Monday morning running from tile stores to home improvement stores to lighting stores and finally to my dad’s to check on him and fix him lunch. Afterward, as Im cleaning the kitchen, I begin to list things he can do to help me with the house. He sits at the kitchen table and writes it all down on a yellow legal pad. Mostly the list is just the subcontractors he can call, but it also includes finding a good deal on hardwood flooring since he “knows people,” and we need matching hardwood so that the kitchen and dining areas can seamlessly connect to the living room in my new open floor plan. As Im getting ready to leave, he seems pleased and already has out his Rolodex and is flipping through it, which makes me think Noah was right. Dad does need something like this to keep him busy.

“And you need to order some turf too,” he says as I’m heading for the door.

“I know.”

“Have you done it yet?”

“No.”

“I’ll take care of that too.”

“I planned on it going in right before the open house,” I say.

“Why?”

I shrug. “Why not?” The truth is, that’s how I’ve seen it done on
House Flippers
. They always seem to wait until the last minute to put in the yard, and it’s always a dramatic improvement just in the nick of time. I guess I just figured that’s how it’s done.

Dad frowns. “I can think of lots of reasons.”

“Like?”

“Like the lawn needs time to establish. It keeps the dust and dirt down when you’re doing the exterior painting. It’s a—”

“Fine, fine,” I say impatiently. “Go ahead and order it then.”

“Not if you don’t—”

“No, really,” I say more gently. “It’s fine. I’m sure you’re right.”

“But it’s your house, sweetie. I don’t want to—”

“Really, Dad, it’s okay. I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed. Did you know that our time is more than half gone? And it seems there’s still so much to do…”

“Sometimes it just looks like that, Gretchen. Sort of like being darkest before the dawn.”

“I hope you’re right.”

He grins now. “Of course I’m right. I’m your dad.”

I get back to the house just in time to see a white Mercedes convertible pull up. Fortunately I beat her into the driveway, and she parks along the street. I’m tempted to dart into the house without speaking to Camille since she’s obviously not here to see me, but then I realize that Noah’s truck is gone.

“Where’s Noah?” she demands as she clicks up the driveway in what I swear must be five-inch heels, making her look like an Amazon. Okay, a gorgeous Amazon.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“I thought he was working for you.”

“He is.” I force a smile, trying to be nice for Kirstens sake. “And he was here when I left this morning. My guess is he’s picking something up.”

“Well, I need to leave Kirsten with him today.” She glances over her shoulder to where Kirsten, once again dressed in an adorable outfit, is standing near the car as if she’s afraid to make a move.

I consider this. It would be very easy to say “Too bad, tough luck.” But I can see that Kirsten is the one caught in the middle here. And then I remember the work duds I got her at Old Navy and think it might be fun to have her here. Also I know Riley would love someone to play with. “Why don’t you just leave her with me?” I suggest in what I think is a cheerful tone.

Now Camille grimaces, folding her thin, tan arms across her front as she looks down on me like she thinks I might be some degenerate loser lady who enjoys hosing down children with power washers before she rolls them in the mud. “I, uh, I don’t know… Do you think Noah will be back soon?”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” I say, sounding more patient than I feel. “Don’t worry; Kirsten will be fine. If it makes you feel better, I’m a kindergarten teacher, so I’m technically licensed to hang out with young children.”

She looks surprised.
“You’re
a teacher?”

I nod. “I have been for eight years.”

“Well, okay then…” She turns to Kirsten. “Come on; it’s all right. Greta is going to baby-sit you until Daddy gets here.”

Kirsten chimes in, “It’s Gretchen, Mom, not Greta.”

I want to hug her, but I simply stand straighter and wait.

“Sorry.” Camille tosses a long strand of glistening blond hair over her shoulder in an impatient way.
“Gretchen
is going to baby-sit you, Kirsten.” Then she kneels, looking her daughter in the eyes as if she thinks Kirsten is uneasy with this. “You’ll be okay, Kirsten,” she says in a babyish way, like Kirsten is two and a half. “Gretchen is a kindergarten teacher.”

“I know,” says Kirsten in her wonderfully no-nonsense voice.

“Well, good then.” Camille stands up and smiles down on me. “Perfect.”

“Do you know when you’ll be back?” I call out as Camille clicks back toward her car.

She turns and frowns. “Tell Noah I’ll give him a call.”

Then Kirsten and I watch as Camille starts her car, waves, and drives away. Fortunately a little slower this time.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” Kirsten says in a serious tone. “I know you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

I sort of laugh. “You don’t need to stay out of my way. In fact, I might put you to work.”

“I get to work?” Kirstens face brightens.

“Do you like to paint?”

“Paint?” Her eyes light up, then suddenly darken as she looks down at her cute yellow and white sundress. “I’m not supposed to get dirty.”

“Well, you’re in luck because I bought you some work clothes.”

“Really?” she looks up eagerly at me. “You got work clothes in my size?”

“I think so. I sort of had to guess, but they should be close. Let’s
go inside and check them out.” I take her to my makeshift bedroom, find the Old Navy bag, and pull out the things I got last night.

“Wow,” she says, “these are cool.”

“I felt really bad for ruining your other outfit,” I explain. “So I thought maybe you could keep a set of work clothes here…you know, in case you dropped in again, like today.” I go to the door now. “You can change in here if you want.”

Then as she’s changing, I hear someone at the front door and go out to find that the refrigerator is being delivered. “Oh yeah,” I say, slapping my forehead. “I totally forgot.”

“Where do you want it?” asks the guy.

“In the kitchen,” I say, like,
Duh
. Then I realize I don’t really have a kitchen. But before long, they’ve set it up in the spot where I think it should go.

“Most people get their appliances delivered
after
the cabinets are in,” says the guy as I sign the delivery paperwork.

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m not most people.”

“Can I go say hi to Riley now?” asks Kirsten when she emerges, looking adorable in her overalls, T-shirt, and flip-flops.

“Sure,” I tell her. “By the way, I like your outfit.”

“Me too.” She grins now. “Thanks, Gretchen.”

I smile as she walks out the door. I transfer drinks and a few cold snacks from the cooler into the new stainless-steel fridge, then unload some stuff from the pickup, and do some sweeping in the house. Finally I am ready to begin painting where Holly and Justin left off on the front of the house.

“It’s really okay for me to do this?” asks Kirsten after I’ve given her a quick painting lesson.

“Sure, why not?”

“What if I make a mess?”

I laugh. “You know, that’s just what my best friend, Holly, asked. I’ll tell you what I told her. You can’t possibly make more of a mess than what’s here already. Just do your best, and don’t worry about it.”

“This is fun,” says Kirsten as she swipes some white primer on a board below the window.

“And if you get tired, just stop,” I tell her. I don’t want to be accused of breaking any child-labor laws. To make sure I don’t drip on her, I go to the other end of the house to paint. After a few minutes I hear Kirsten talking to someone and turn to see that the boy from across the street is watching her.

“It’s easy,” Kirsten is telling him. “You just dip the brush in the paint like this and then go like this.” She swishes it across a plank like an old pro.

“Can I do it too?” he asks eagerly.

“I don’t know.” She frowns at him. “How old are you?”

“Almost seven.”

“Well, I’m already seven,” she tells him. “What’s your name?”

“Cory.”

“Hey, Gretchen,” she calls. “Can Cory paint your house too?”

I come over and look down at Cory, like I’m doing an inventory. “Well, he looks strong enough.”

He stands straighter. “I am.”

“But you would need to get your mom’s permission. And you’d need to wear painting clothes.”

“I can do that,” he says eagerly, and I start feeling like Tom Sawyer.

“Tell your mom to come talk to me,” I say. “If she’s okay with it, Im okay.”

“Cool!” Then he heads back to his house, carefully looking both ways, I observe, before he crosses the street. Then I notice his mom out front, working on her flower beds. She waves, and I wave, and I once again think,
This is nice
.

Before long, both Cory and Kirsten are hard at work. And although there’s a lot of dripping going on and it takes them awhile to cover much territory, I think it’s better than nothing. Plus, they are having fun, and Kirsten is acting like a regular girl instead of a little dress-up doll.

“You got quite a paint crew going on here,” says Noah after he pulls up and comes over to check out my laborers.

“Daddy!” says Kirsten eagerly. “Gretchen said I can help her paint.” She holds out her arms to show off her new outfit. “And she got me work clothes.”

Noah tosses me a surprised but appreciative look. “And who’s this?” he asks, nodding to Cory.

“That’s Cory,” says Kirsten. “He’s almost seven, and he lives in the yellow house across the street. His mom is Jenna, and she said he can work too.”

“I’ll be seven in July,” proclaims Cory. “And I’ll be in second grade next year.”

“The same as me,” points out Kirsten.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Cory,” says Noah. “You two keep up the good work.” And they do keep it up for about another half hour, but then they need a break, so they go into the backyard, where Kirsten introduces Cory to Riley. Meanwhile, I continue priming.
Im intently painting around a bedroom window when it suddenly opens, and Noah sticks his head out. I jump and nearly smack him across the face with my brush.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.” I continue painting now.

“I was surprised to find Kirsten here. Sorry I wasn’t around when Camille dropped her off.”

“You mean you didn’t know she was coming?”

“No…and it’s not that I mind her being here. I just hope you don’t mind. I didn’t really plan that Kirsten would be around this much, and I don’t want to take advantage of—”

“I’ve already told you. I
like
Kirsten,” I say as I dip the brush again. “I don’t mind her being here.”

“Okay … I just thought I should check.”

I nod as I swipe the brush beneath the windowsill. “Seriously. She can come here any time.” He smiles, and I smile back, and then I return to my work. Of course, I’m wondering what that exchange was really about. Did he seriously think I don’t like Kirsten? Or that I’m irritated about having her around? Or was he simply being thoughtful? I think I know the answers to my questions. And although those answers make me feel good about Noah, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that feeling.

My goal is to focus here. I need to get the rest of the house primed today. It’d be helpful to have it done before the roofers get here, which I hope will be tomorrow, like Dad promised. Thinking of Dad makes me check my paint-splattered watch. In a couple of hours, I’ll need to head over there. I’ll fix us a quick dinner, make
small talk, then hurry back here to finish the priming before dark. It almost seems possible.

Being a normal kid, Kirsten gets antsy about midafternoon. Cory’s gone home, and she’s bored with painting and tired of Riley. I suggest she go inside and take a break. But, of course, there’s nothing in there to entertain her. Still, as I paint furiously, racing the clock, I tell myself that’s not my problem. As I continue to paint, I also begin to create a mental list of things I might keep here for times like this: picture books and crayons, felt pens, paper, scissors, art supplies—things I already have at home. And maybe some sidewalk chalk to use in the driveway. I also make a mental list of supplies I can bring to make the kitchen more user-friendly. I’ll borrow Dad’s card table and bring my microwave and get more paperware, like cups, plates, napkins, paper towels. It’s amazing how much you can think about while painting. But finally it’s time for me to call it quits and go check on Dad. Noah and Kirsten have already left, apparently to drop Kirsten at her mom’s in time for dinner.

When I get to Dad’s, he happily reports on the contacts he’s made while I fix a dinner of broiled salmon filets and a mixed-greens salad. I can tell that it’s been good medicine for him to be on the phone today, setting things up and probably having some friendly chats with his old subcontractor buddies.

“Don’t plan on doing anything outside tomorrow,” he tells me as I slice a tomato, “because the roofing crew will be there early in the morning, and they plan to have the old shingles stripped off by noon. It’ll be pretty messy.”