Page 26 of To Have and to Scold

“The client meeting’s not until noon.” I make a show of looking at my watch. “Whew. Glad I made it. That was close.”

I shouldn’t. But I just can’t stop myself sometimes.

She gives me a withering look. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

I unlock the door for her and already she’s giving commands. “We need to mop this floor. It’s covered in dust. And I called Mary. She’s sending someone over with a sample of the carpet. Is the flooring for the entry in the truck you brought or some other truck?”

When I don’t answer, she wheels around. At my quizzical look, she sighs.

“You didn’t get my texts, did you?”

“I’ve had a morning, okay?”

“Haven’t we all? Look, I’m really hoping the sheetrock for that back bathroom shows up today.”

How does she know about the sheetrock delay? Probably from Mary. Still, her tone—the sheer bossiness—irks me. And the way she says it like I’m somehow personally responsible for the entire sheetrock supply chain.

Her gaze travels around the room before returning to mine. “I can mop if you can please bring in a sample of the flooring.”

Oh, boy. “You can’t mop my particleboard subfloor.”

She drops the large bag to the floor and rolls her shoulder back. “I read up on it. It’s fine as long as it’s a very light coat of water and you dry it afterwards. Have you seen the dust on thisfloor? It’s thick! We may not be able to show them the actual floors, but we can at least make these as clean as we can.” Her gaze darts around the room, and her narrowed eyes and tight mouth tell me she’s picking apart everything she sees.

“It’s really too bad none of the original flooring could be saved,” she says. “I was looking at some archival photos at the county library on Saturday and I think we can do a lot to restore this place to its former glory. It won’t take much.”

“We?” Whatever happened to you doing your job and I do mine?

A smile quirks her lips. “Well,you. You and your company. I guess what I’m saying is, I hope the flooring that was chosen is keeping with the spirit of the place.” She takes in the room again, her eyes lighting on the crown molding.

She is having a hard time giving up control of this project, isn’t she? “I think you’ll like it. It’s nice. And trust me, no one wants this place restored to its former glory more than I do. I grew up coming here.”

This renovation has to work. I’m counting on it. I made a commitment to Mayor Dobbs that I’d do a good job on the mansion. Besides, if I do, maybe she’ll persuade the board to pick my bid for the new wing of the YMCA. I came up with the design—with some feedback from Leo and a group of his friends—and I’m donating the labor. But none of that can happen if we don’t finish the mansion in time and if Dallas can’t book enough weddings.

“Well, good. I have a bucket and solution in my car.” She picks up her bag, slings it on her shoulder again, and hefts it on the counter, having to go up on her tiptoes to heave it up and over.

How she’s going to mop in that white blouse and straight, royal-blue skirt, I can’t even guess. I bite the inside of my cheek. “You need some help?” It’s almost painful to offer.

“I just need the flooring sample.” She taps her mouth with her finger and closes her eyes, like she’s making a list for herself. “And I have a bunch of samples of linens and then of course canopies and arch possibilities. We have to make a good impression.”

“We will,” I insist. This woman is trying my patience.

She’s just doing her job. Sometimes some of the most difficult people to work with end up being the most successful. I know this. But she’s still maddening.

My crew starts filtering in and settling into the jobs they were doing before the weekend.

“Can I get some help with something?” she asks a couple of members of the crew as they enter the mansion.

They glance at me, and I reluctantly nod my permission. I guess the sooner she’s squared away, the sooner we can work without interruption.

Within seconds, she’s got everyone up and scrambling, bringing in things from her mid-sized SUV, which is starting to look more and more like Mary Poppins’ bag. Or a clown car.

By the time I’ve brought in one of the boxes of hardwood that will go in the entry, she’s standing there, barefoot, the top buttons of her blouse open and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, walking a mop along the subfloor. She is a sight to behold, and no it’s not that she’s mopping—I’m not sexist.

It’s that I’ve never seen her without tall shoes on. When she notices me staring, she stops and rests the mop handle against her shoulder. She moves an auburn coil of hair out of her way. “What? It’s barely even damp!”

“I know,” I shoot back, abruptly arrested by the flash in her eyes. “Where do you want this sample?”

“Well, the floor’s wet.” She traps her bottom lip between her teeth.

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