The Collectibles (19 page)

J
oe walked into his office feeling refreshed and chipper, having slept the whole night, for a change. As usual, Alice was there earlier than she needed to be.

“Hi, Alice. How are you doing? Thanks for looking after Buck at the house.”

“I'm doing well,” Alice said. “It's never a problem looking after my hero. He's such a sweetheart. How did things go?”

“As I expected. It's up to them now. I like Tom Gallagher, the bank's president. I enjoyed meeting Terry Perkins, the chairman. He's from Wilmington. Good guy.”

“So you like Tom and Terry. A little male bonding? That means they aren't full of themselves and love to either hunt or fish.”

“You're right. It was fishing, and a little golf. But you're wrong about the male bonding. Why do women always bring that up? This was business, remember, Alice?”

“Yeah, all business. When are you going to Wilmington to play golf?”

“I'm not, but I might go there to fish.”

“I knew it. How did Preston and Casey do? And how did the bank like your plan?”

“Preston did fine. Casey ate well. The bank liked the plan, to the extent that they read it. Some of them are probably still reading it. Their lawyers didn't like it, I'm sure. I brought Alex in. He did a good job.”

“I bet you got 'em,” Alice said.

“We'll see. In any event, I'm done with this deal. Our work is finished.”

“Good. Then we can bill these guys, right? You didn't get any retainer, and we do have a lot of time and expense in this.”

“You can prepare a bill. What I'd like you to do is to prepare a detailed bill showing what you did and all of your time. I'd like you to bill your time at $100 an hour. Also, you should have a bill from Alex, but he's got added time and expense from coming to Charlotte. Also include the time for the summer interns, and all the out-of-pocket expenses. Then send a bill to Wilson Holdings, attention Casey Fitzgerald.”

“Got it. But you haven't billed my time before, let alone at $100 an hour. And I didn't hear you say anything about your time.”

“In this case I don't want to bill for my time. It was time for me to come back to Braydon, and this case got me to do it. I almost enjoyed it. I want your time billed, and I want the money from your time to go directly to you, with no argument from you.”

“You can't do that, Joe.”

“I just did. Stop arguing, Alice; I don't want to have to fire you for insubordination. You've always worked hard; you've always given me your best. And apart from your over-inquisitive personality, I find you to be a fantastic secretary, office manager, and everything else around here, not to mention a shrink to my clients. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you, and that I'm grateful for all you've done for me, and for hanging around all the time I was up in the mountains.”

“Thank you,” Alice said. “That's very thoughtful and much appreciated. Oh, by the way, your friend Mr. Corrigan stopped by while you were gone. He's such a dignified old man. He said something about teak in your boat. I tried to take a good message, but he just laughed and kidded around with me and I never did understand what he wanted.”

“I'll go see him,” Joe said, with a big grin on his face.

 

Joe couldn't help but smile every time he thought about Corey Corrigan. His full name was Cornelius C. Corrigan, but everybody called him Corey. Corey had been seventy-two years old when Joe met him five years before. Six-feet-tall, white curly hair shining against his black skin, and thin as a rail. Ashley and Joe had wanted to have the den in their home on South Live Oak Parkway remodeled, with three walls of bookshelves and the fourth set up for the elaborate sound system Joe envisioned. But Joe sought a finish carpenter, one who really understood and appreciated wood. He'd heard about Corrigan Yachts, a boat building company along the waterway north of Charleston, so he and Buck went there one day to look it over. That's when he met Corey, the son of the late Cornelius Calvin Corrigan, Sr., who had inherited the small yachting company from his father.

Joe was immediately aware of the man's quiet confidence and humor. And Alice was right, he had a true sense of dignity. Corey's dark brown eyes actually sparkled, not only when he talked, but all the time. He had a kind way about him, a gentleness, not only in the way he moved, but in the way he spoke. He was the kind of man you would pick, if you could, to be your grandfather.

Corey had turned the large shed where the boats had been handmade one at a time into a woodworking shop. Joe loved the shed – the look of it, the smell, the raw wood stacked on the right side floor to ceiling, all the clamps, miters, chisels, and other tools neatly hung on the wall over a woodworking bench with vices at each end, and the saws in the middle of the shed, with large exhaust tubes hooked up to take away the sawdust.

Corey gave Joe the grand tour of an adjoining building where more wood was stored to age, having had its bark cut or stripped, and another where a small tractor, a forklift, and other heavy machinery were stored. Corey showed Joe the block and tackles and the power chain lifts, allowing heavy objects being worked on – and formerly the yachts – to be lifted while stanchions or other metal and wood braces could support them.

Corey took Joe into the old house where he lived alone, explaining that his wife had died and his daughter would come by from time to time and straighten the place up. The house was a two-story wood frame with a large, hand-laid, fieldstone fireplace on the south end of the living room. On the mantle hung an old picture of a striking black man with hair standing straight up. Corey pointed to the picture and proudly said, “That there is Frederick Douglass, born in a slave cabin in 1818. He became a very famous man.”

The front had a walk-around porch directly facing the waterway, with a long, sloping front lawn, filled with old oak and maple trees. At the end of the lawn there was a small wooden dock with a twelve-foot john boat and an old outboard motor tied up.

After the tour, Corey invited Joe to sit out on the front porch in one of the two rocking chairs to smoke what he called a “ceegar” and gaze at the water. Joe accepted the invitation with delight. He and Corey, with Buck at their side, settled on the porch, Corey talking about everything and nothing at the same time, with it all coming back to boats. It dawned on Joe that Corey had never asked him what he wanted. Joe loved the man.

Joe finally told Corey about how he and Ashley wanted to refinish their den. He explained that he wanted the right kind of wood, with the right look and the right grain and that he wanted the bookshelves to be built in without any holes and fasteners to hold the shelves. Corey, rocking gently, with Buck's head on his knee, had said, “You don't want them removable shelves, you want what they call today ‘built-in' shelves, and you want them all fitted, not just glued or nailed. And you want 'em curved in the right places. And then you want the kind of wood that just gets better with time, you know, looks real good years later with all that light coming in the window. I would use bird's eye maple.”

Joe hired Corey that day, no contract, no plans, no discussion of money, and asked him to come to the house, look it over, and just do it the way he thought he should. When Corey showed up several months later, he spent the whole time drinking iced tea, talking with Ashley in the backyard, except for one quick look in the den. Ashley, too, fell in love with the old gentleman. Half-a-year later, Corey did the work. Joe still admired the bookshelves, the cabinet holding the television, and the bird's eye maple with its tiny knots, growing lovelier every day. When it was finished, Corey had simply asked Joe whether he liked it. When Joe said that he loved it, Corey said okay and told him the price. It was far less than Joe was prepared to pay, but he felt if he argued with Corey to take more, it might offend the man. He gave him the money in cash.

Since then, Corey had, in his own time, refinished the inside of Joe's forty-three-foot Riviera Sportfish boat in cherry wood. Joe was delighted with that and next wanted Corey to finish the cockpit with an overlay teak floor and fit teak on the step to the salon and the two side steps. Corey hadn't gotten to that. Joe was glad to hear that Corey had stopped by, and was eager to see him.

He left the office and picked up Buck at his house. Buck leaped in the back of Joe's truck, but Joe asked him to hop up in the cab. Buck bounded through the sliding windows and sat erect in the front seat with his head out the window as they headed for Corey's house.

 

When they arrived, they heard Corey in the woodshed working on the lathe, turning what looked like wood into a furniture leg. Buck jumped up with his front two legs on the bench and licked Corey's face, his tail wagging back and forth rapidly.

“How you fellas doing?” Corey asked with a smile. “Come on, Buck, let's go to the house. I got some fish I want you to sample.” With that, Buck jumped down and headed for the house. Corey strolled to the refrigerator and got out some fresh perch that he had fried. They ambled out on the porch, and Corey set the fish gently down on the front step, together with a bowl of water. While Buck ate it all in what seemed like one gulp and loudly lapped up the water, Joe and Corey took their seats in the rocking chairs.

“I hear you came out to see me,” Joe said.

“Nope,” Corey said. “Just working out here, young fella.”

“Well, you stopped by to see Alice, didn't you?” Joe said. “I thought maybe you wanted to tell me that you were ready to finish the teak in the cockpit of
Mountain Stream
.”

“What's
Mountain Stream
?” Corey said.

“It's the name of my boat, remember?”

“I know you got a boat, young fella. Boats are good. Especially the wooden ones. They don't make 'em in wood anymore. What kind of boat have you got?”

“It's a Sportfish. A 43, made in Australia by a company named Riviera. They don't make the 43 anymore, but it was one of the best boats they ever made. It's five years old now, but I can't see buying a new one. Mine runs perfect, and I love the woodwork you did in the salon when we changed the windows and fit in the TV. What a fine job you did with that wood, with the fit and finish.”

Corey looked puzzled. “I did that job? What kind of wood did we use?”

“Cherry. Exquisite cherry, which you had right here in your woodshed. I wanted to use teak, but you talked me into cherry, and I'm glad you did. But you and I talked about putting teak in the cockpit, you know, the floor and the stair to the salon and the steps on port and starboard.”

“We can do that,” Corey said. “I'll have to take a look at your boat, figure it all out. We can do it. How about some iced tea?”

“Sure, Corey. I'd love some.”

Corey simply sat there, until Joe heard a knock at the back door, and a middle-aged, heavyset woman with brown hair and a kind face walked in through the house and out to the porch.

“Hello, Dad.” She ambled over to give Corey a kiss on the forehead. “My name is Barbara Johnson,” she introduced herself. “I'm Corey's daughter. I just came over to check on him and make sure he didn't leave a pot on the stove with the gas going and burn the house down,” she said, resting her hand gently on Corey's shoulder. She had Corey's dark brown eyes, without the twinkle.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Johnson. My name is Joe Hart,” he said, getting up to shake her hand. “Corey has done some woodwork for us, my wife and me, in the past. I think the world of your father.”

“Everybody does,” she said. “Please call me Barbara. If y'all will excuse me, I'm going upstairs to do some cleaning, especially in Dad's bathroom and bedroom, and then the kitchen. Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. Hart?”

“Joe, please. Some iced tea would be great. Thank you.”

In a short time, Barbara returned with two iced teas, handing one to Joe and the other to Corey. Then she went upstairs.

“Your daughter seems like a very nice lady, Corey.”

“She fusses over me. She wants me to be neater. She picked out these pants I'm wearing. Thought my dungarees weren't right anymore. And she makes sure I wear a belt, which I need to do to keep 'em up. She cooks a lot for me, too. Very nice girl, Barbara. Always has been. Married to an engineer. I can't think of his name right now. Nice fella. No kids yet.”

“Corey, I have to get back. If you feel like it, give me a call and let me know whether you want to put the teak in my cockpit. Okay?”

“I don't use the phone much,” Corey said. “But I'll come and find you one day. Where do you live?”

“We live in Braydon, on South Live Oak Parkway. You refinished the den in our home. Did an excellent job, with bird's eye maple, remember?”

“Bird's eye maple is good wood. It ages good, too.”

“It's nice to see you again, Corey. I'll come out and visit you again soon.”

“You do that, young fella. And bring your dog. I would like that. We can sit out on the porch and talk. And you're the fella that likes going in my shop and seeing all the wood, right?”

“Yes, sir, Corey. I'm that fella. Joe Hart. I love going to your shop, and I love talking to you about your wood. You're a real woodworker, Corey. It's a lost art. I'll come see you soon.” With that, Joe shook Corey's hand and headed through the house, Buck at his side.

When Joe got to his truck, Buck hopped in the back. Joe sat there, thinking of the man Corey once was, the man he was now, and it saddened him, like losing a friend.

Joe started the engine and was about to leave when he saw Barbara running up. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

Barbara had walked around to the driver's side and was looking at Joe through the open window. “Everything's fine, but I wanted to talk with you privately about Dad. I try to keep my eye on him, and I do his bookkeeping, what's left of it, and his checks, look after the house, and make sure he's got plenty of food. I remember your name from the files, and I know that Dad did some work for you and Mrs. Hart a few years back. He also did some work for you on your boat.”