Page 5 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

I head down toward the coast on the southern curve of the Cape. I’m looking forward to this project. I always look forward to working in Mermaid Shores. It’s a great town. If I had the money, I’d buy some property there. I’m sure the boys would also love to move closer to the beach.

“Thirteen fifteen Atlantic Lane,” I murmur to myself as the familiar sensation of tingling warmth passes over me when I cross the town line.

It’s early, so Main Street isn’t difficult to navigate yet. No reckless tourists darting across the street, paying no heed to pedestrian walkways or bothering to look both ways. That’ll come soon enough, though. The people who vacation here sometimes forget that normal rules of the road still apply in paradise.

1315 is easy enough to find. Atlantic Lane is the main stretch along the beach, famous for its collection of luxury cottages and fancy manors owned by America’s elite. The locals live further inland, which means that this part of town is usually dead during the offseason.

I pull into the gravel drive of a gorgeous white cottage with vinyl siding—admittedly in need of a soft wash—and classic green shutters. There’s a stunning porch that wraps around two sides of the house, and I can tell even from inside the truck that it’s a decent piece of craftsmanship.

The new owner is a woman named Poppy Minton. I don’t know much about her except that she’s from California. That could mean anything. Given the type of people who gravitate toward Mermaid Shores every summer, she could be an Oscar-winning actress that I’ve never heard of, or some generationally wealthy heiress. She could be a no-nonsense career woman, or a hippie from one of the more rural areas.

I try my best not to pass judgment without good reason. I’m happy for the business no matter what.

Still, I sincerely hope she’s not some valley girl princess who only drinks matcha lattes and wants me to install marble columns inside. Those people are always the most difficult types to work with.

With a sigh, I glance at my watch and realize that I’m seven minutes late. There’s one other car in the driveway—a sensible Camry with Massachusetts plates. I recognize it as Misha’s car right away. She’s a talented interior designer thatI’ve collaborated with on a bunch of projects before. She’s also in high demand, which means that the owner of this property must have a lot of money to toss around.

Misha, dressed in a magenta suit, is standing on the porch. She turns toward me when I hop out of the truck, her brow knitted with concern.

“Morning!” I call out. “Good to see you again!”

“Hey, Joe. You’re looking handsome as always. You sure you’re not aging backwards?”

I snort, accustomed to Misha’s flirtations by now. She’s about twenty years my senior and happily married. This is just how she talks to people, thick Russian accent and all.

“Pretty sure,” I answer, climbing the porch steps. “What’s going on? What’s the frown for?”

Misha sighs, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “We are supposed to meet at eight thirty, yes?”

“Yep. I know I’m a little late, but—”

“It seems Ms. Minton is late, too,” she interrupts, gesturing dramatically at the front door.

“Pardon?”

“I have knocked and knocked for ten minutes now, and there is no answer! There is no car in the driveway! No lights on inside! She is not here, Joe! I have driven all the way down here from Chatham! Oh, these people! These out-of-towners always give me migraines.”

I do my best not to chuckle at her dramatics. Misha, like many artists, is highly reactive. Her sensitivities make her a great designer, but it takes some getting used to.

“Let me try,” I suggest, walking to the front door.

My work boots thump against the chipped planks. Already, I’m making mental notes of the small improvements that this fantastic piece of property needs. Honesty, if it were me, I’d leave it mostly as is. It’s in great condition. The front lawn coulduse some TLC, and it looks like the side gate leading toward its private beach access is a little crooked, but it really is a beautiful cottage. I can’t even fathom why this client apparently wants to change so much.

I knock on the door three times, loud enough that it’ll echo throughout the house, but not so loud that it’ll come across as aggressive. I’m already a tall, broad-shouldered guy. I don’t want to scare anyone off based on first impressions.

Misha and I wait a minute, but there’s no answer.

It’d be a shame if we were stood up. It’s happened to me before, usually from the rich, flighty types of people who think that the entire world—and everyone else’s schedules—revolve around them.

But, still. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

“Did you try giving Ms. Minton a call?” I ask Misha.

“Yes. She did not answer! Went right to voicemail!”

“I see.” I knock again. Four times, just a little bit louder. Shouting through the thick oak, I ask, “Anyone home?”

A moment later, a heavybangechoes from within.

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