Page 1 of Lovingly Restored

Chapter one

Isaac

There’snogoodtime to interrupt your dad while he conducts a boring-as-hell project meeting, but when I sigh too heavily and every head at the meeting table swivels toward me, I figure now’s my chance.

“What if we go in a different direction with the cabinetry?” I say, rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans.

Except for my co-worker and best friend, Chris, and two other friends who aren’t in my dad’s pocket, everyone looks at me like I suggested we build a house out of papier-mâché. I swallow hard as the gaze of the man at the head of the table burns a hole in the side of my head.

”Adifferentdirection, Isaac?”

Matt Lauri, my father and the owner of Forward Construction, looks unimpressed, his mouth a flat line. It’s an expression I’m familiar with.

I gesture to the pile of blueprints. “I’m gonna grab these.”

I lift my butt off the squeaky rolling chair and slide the plans closer. The neat lines map out forty-eight identical kitchens. They look a lot like the forty-eight kitchens we did last year, too. If I have to build another vinyl floor, grey-paint, prefab town home, I’m going to scream.

“Since we haven’t taken the trees on the property down yet,” I continue, “we could reclaim some of the wood and incorporate it into the cabinetry. Not on all the units. Just some, as an alternative higher-end finish.”

I grip the arms of my chair. Even though I feel shaky as hell, my idea is solid. It will only add value and give me a chance to build something that isn’t cookie cutter like all the other homes we do. Hell, like most homes on the market. It’s the type of work I’m itching to do. I offer a tight-lipped smile to the group of men, waiting for a nod of agreement from any of them. Instead, they shift in their chairs, avoiding my gaze, as they wait for the boss’s response.

My father toys with his gaudy gold watch that glitters beneath the fluorescent lights. “That would take time we don’t have.”

I squeeze the plastic arms harder. “If I could borrow Chris, I could do it faster.”

Chris gives me aleave me out of thislook.

“Time is money, Isaac.”

His signature phrase.

He shakes his head and laughs, “You’d think that my own son would know that by now. We can’t all have the knack for business, I guess.”

I wince at the dig, biting the inside of my cheek.

“Isaac, I can have prefab cabinets on site by Monday if I put the right pressure on the right people. This is the first job of the new year, and I want it donefast. Get that money in our pockets, am I right?“ He rubs his thumb and fingers together until most of the middle-aged men and his suck-up assistant nod and chuckle at the thought of growing their bank accounts. Satisfied that the group is with him, he reaches over the table and drags the blueprints away from me. That’s how everything feels lately. Beyond my reach.

“Yeah, I get it.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth as I cross my arms over my chest, tuning him out. I can’t pretend to be interested in a project that’s the same as all the others.

I stare at the clock so long it blurs, the hour hand wobbling around eight p.m. When we’re dismissed from the first project meeting of the calendar year, I rush to the exit. Mere seconds from my escape, my dad calls out, “Isaac, stay.”

I sigh, stepping out of the way of the door to watch everyone else leave, listening to their conversations about weekend plans.

“Ooooh,” Chris, my best friend and coworker, teases as he swaggers by.

I stick out my leg, smirking when he stumbles and glares at me over his shoulder.

Dad stands at the head of the table, alone. I’m surprised his assistant didn’t stay. She treats taking meeting minutes like an Olympic sport.

“Yes?” I ask, leaning against the table on my knuckles.

“I think you already know what I’m going to say, so I won’t drag it out.”

Project manager.I’ve been stuck as a supervisor at Forward for years, waiting until some of the senior guys retire. Is this finally it? I fix my posture, reaching my full height. Several inches taller than my dad, I got my grandpa’s stature. Maybe my recent suggestions haven’t fallen on deaf ears. If we could lean into the restoration side of things, I think it could be beneficial for my father’s company. I want this, and I think I deserve it. He pulls a thick document out of a leather folder and slides it toward me. The paper stops halfway down the polished table, and my small bubble of hope pops. I can read the capitalized bold font from where I stand.

NOTICE OF TERMINATION

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