Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I head downstairs to get started on the dining room, passing the study along the way. When we were kids, my mom turned the room into a hybrid library (for her) and playroom (for us). Now there’s nothing but a folding table-and-chair set.
When my parents first bought this house, my mother insisted that it was too much. We were a family of four, and she stayed at home full time. She wanted to spend more time making memories with her sons and not maintaining a gargantuan house. My father refused to see it her way, only focused on the size of the place and its history. He was consumed with having the biggest house on the block.
My mother eventually relented because she loved the bastard, but she set up the house to be efficient—ensuring each room had dual purposes. In the end, we didn’t utilize half of this place. And in the very end, my father let it go to shit.
Talk about a waste.
“Hi, Jana! Hi, Greg!” Anneliese waves at the computer screen as I pass. “How are you? It’s so good to see you again!”
There’s a light in her eyes, the same one my mother used to have when she was in her element, doing something she loved or coming across something shiny and new to add to her collection. She came alive.
“Are you ready for the big reveal?” I hear her ask.
I head to the dining room to get started. She’s already laid out all the materials—masks, gloves, cans of lacquer and stain, a roller brush, drop cloths, plastic sheets, masking tape, fans. I tape off the entrance to the room to keep the odors from coursing through the big empty house and open the four windows along the far wall to get some air circulating.
“All right, so I know you said you wanted something timeless and classic.” Her voice travels from down the hall. “So the first name I have for you is Benjamin James. The j theme goes well with your last name, Johnson, and we have mismatched syllables, which is just . . . chef’s kiss to me.” She laughs. “I’m a total nerd about that, I’m sorry, but it gets me really excited.”
I chuckle.
She’s . . . cute.
“Number two, I wanted something that started with an n because there’s a little-known trick you can do to take a name to an entirely new level,” she continues, “so there’s something just visually and audibly stunning about a name that starts and ends with the same sound. For instance, think of Taylor Swift. It just . . . flows.”
Crouching, I crack open the first can of stain and slip on some gloves.
“So with that in mind,” she says from the study, “my second name for you is Nathaniel Benjamin Johnson. In this case, I’m recycling Benjamin, but I think it fits.”
I grab a roller and get to work, starting in the far corner of the room and working my way toward the taped-off exit.
By the time I’m halfway finished, the rustling of plastic sheeting steals my attention. I wipe my brow and turn to find Anneliese leaning in the doorway. I hadn’t realized it before, but she’s all done up—her sandy hair curled into waves that cascade down her shoulders, her lashes darkened, her lips a shiny shade of ruby red. She’s even wearing a polka-dot blouse with a pencil skirt that hugs at her soft waist and accentuates her feminine hips.
An unwelcome surge of . . . excitement . . . runs through me, but I peel my gaze off her and return to the task at hand.
“Wow,” she says, scanning the room. “You work fast. It would’ve taken me all morning to do what you’ve done in . . . what . . . thirty minutes?”
“I don’t like to waste time.” I’ve stained, painted, drywalled, and tiled more rooms than I can count, and at the end of every project, there’s another one waiting. Another sight to see. A new adventure waiting for me.
A drunken, twice-divorced middle-aged woman at a bar in Dublin once told me that if I kept my eyes focused on what’s in front of me, I wouldn’t be tempted to look at what’s behind me.
So far she hasn’t been wrong.
It’s only when I look back that I lose my footing.
“This looks really good,” she says, stepping closer but keeping away from the wet planks. “I can’t wait to see it all dry and lacquered.”
“I couldn’t help but notice it seems like you’re sanding and staining each room at a time,” I say. “Might be more efficient if you sanded everything at once and then stained everything at once . . .”
Her mouth twists into a knowing smile. “I know. Believe me, I know. I just . . . I like having my little projects. And I like having a room complete and done before moving on to the next one.”