Page 10 of Meeting Up with the Mason

I fought the urge to slow down. Her leaving wasn’t connected to my finishing. If I finished later—or never—she wouldn’t hang around, waiting. Her plane wouldn’t pause over Mashpee for a look down and say, “Oh, that slacker Chip still hasn’t added the border.” Her life awaited her in Georgia. She’d had a good time last night, but that was all it was—a good time.

Alyssa appeared on the porch in a t-shirt and shorts, but no sandals. Rumpled and sleepy, she perched on the top step with a mug in her hands. “You doing okay?”

“It was rough waking up, but the more I move, the better it feels.” For one thing, it felt better seeing her. “Are you recovered after traveling?”

She nodded. “What’s onboard today?”

“After I get the sand smooth on the main walkway, I’m going to start laying stones. We’ll save those steps for Wednesday. It’ll take a bit of digging and hammering to get them safe to walk on.”

Her mouth twitched. “I made the mistake of using them last night. It felt like I was going to pitch forward.”

“Probably because you were going to pitch forward. The granite risers have migrated over the last five decades.” I made a right angle with my fingers. “They should be like this, but instead they’re like that.” I closed the angle a bit. “If I leave them alone, there’s no way to make them level with the stones, so I have to re-grade the steps.”

Alyssa wrinkled her nose. “You know how you said ‘population reduction’ was a sanitary term to talk about something that was actually very difficult? ‘Regrading the steps’ sounds the same.”

I nodded with fake enthusiasm. “I have the same foreboding, and yet, that’s what I agreed to do.”

She saluted. “Brave, you are. Want some tea?”

“I brought coffee.” Even if we’d eaten dinner together last night—and Dad wasn’t happy about that—I hadn’t been on the job then. This morning I was, so I’d made a show of pouring my own very large thermos while Dad glowered in the kitchen.

All of which was ridiculous because how had Dad and Mom met? Oh, right—on the job. They had a hilarious story that involved an improperly-tied ladder and a tree branch in contact with the housetop. I grew up hearing that story, and yet splitting a pizza on the client’s front porch had triggered a sudden onset of Acute Ethical Considerations.

Alyssa said, “It’s going to be brutally hot. Anything you want, come into the house.”

I wanted to be with her. Did that count? No.

I worked right through the first break, hoping to keep ahead of the sun. With the paving sand evened out, I set out stakes and guidelines, then began laying down the pavers, using spacers to keep them even. This was not only easier but also somewhat hypnotic. Line by line, the stones went into position, and every time I moved the level, the bubble stayed right in the center. I broke into the second pallet of stones feeling as if there’d be an end in sight.

Oh, those steps, though. Not going to be fun.

My eyes stung from salt. My mind played games with the paving stones, too. I calculated how many stones I had versus the rate at which I laid them, then added up what that meant in terms of stones per hour.

I was dehydrated and exhausted. Dad was right to keep an entire case of water in the truck. Fortunately, I’d listened.

I’d also listened about bringing extra sunscreen. While I was spraying it on my arms, Alyssa returned to the porch with her laptop. “Don’t mind me! I’m not actually on vacation.”

I started rubbing it in. “While I was scraping the sand layer, you were scraping data?”

“Dude.” She gave me a wicked side-eye, and I grinned. “I’m ordering lunch. You want anything?”

“Brought my own.” The ghost of Dad’s disapproving stare bore through me even though Dad was alive enough to disapprove for himself.

Also, had I mentioned I wasn’t thinking clearly?

When her lunch arrived, Alyssa ate on the porch swing, and I remained on the steps because I didn’t want to foul up her wicker furniture with sand and sweat.

Alyssa checked the weather. “It’s ninety-five degrees. People were swimming in the pond last night, so let’s go cool off.”

With a mouthful of sandwich, I only pointed to the walkway.

Alyssa stood. “Nope, sorry. You’re not going to die of heatstroke on my lawn. I’m from the south, so trust me. You need to cool off, and I’m making it happen.”

I swallowed. “Being from the north, I don’t carry a swimsuit everywhere I go.”

Alyssa dropped her phone on the swing and pranced back a moment later with a pair of swim shorts. “My uncle’s. They’re not high fashion, but they’ll keep you decent.”

I shook my head. “If I do this, I’m getting fired.”

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