Page 14 of Lovingly Restored

Pappa died three years ago. Most of the time, she remembers that.

“Okay, Mummo. I’ll take your list. Are Pappa’s tools still in the workshop?”

“Where else would they be? The key is under a can of red paint in the garage.”

She opens a drawer in the desk near her chair and rifles through it, presumably for a pen and paper.

“Your new personal nurse can help you with your list. Now who’s fancy?” I squeeze her shoulder jokingly. “I wasn’t aware Dad was hiring somebody.”

Nurse Ashlyn.That’s going to take some getting used to. It’s at odds with how I’d pictured her in the weeks since our meeting. Broken down car, dead cell phone. Assuming that she was irresponsible and reckless was easy. Yet neither of those traits seem to fit this woman who cares for the elderly and scrubs their homes to boot.

“Catherine is friendly, strict though.”

Strict? She better be treating my Mummo like gold.

“I think it’s Ashlyn.”

“Right, right. I knew that.” She covers my hand where it still rests on her cardigan-clad shoulder. “Don’t worry about being bored, Little One, I’ll have a list of things that need doing before you can say go.”

Between my new list and the woman a few walls away, boredom is the last thing I’ll have to worry about.

The key is right where Mummo said it was, tucked under a dust-coated paint can with a rusty ring beneath it. She remembers where a tiny piece of metal hides but not the name of her live-in nurse. The mind is a funny thing. I rub the gold key against my pant leg and unlock the workshop door, leaning my weight against it until the sticking jam pops open. I breathe in a cloud of dusty air, violently coughing as I wave my hands in front of my face and force open the windows that will budge. The lights buzz as they warm up, doing almost nothing to cut through the February gloom. I squint up at the rafters; most of the cobweb-covered utility bulbs hang black and lifeless. Sighing, I brush my palm across the large table in the centre of the workshop, sending ancient cedar shavings to the floor. I lean against a wall between two filthy windows and slide on the heels of my boots until my ass hits the floor. When Pappa was my age, he’d already moved across an ocean, established his own business, purchased land,andhad a wife and son. What do I have? A big truck payment and my old room at Grandma’s house. Let’s not forget a disgruntled roommate who looks at me with utter contempt.

My credit card is maxed out, the sun set hours ago, and the workshop looks a hell of a lot better. It’s still old-school, which I love, but parts of it look like they belong in this millennium. Resisting the modern conveniences of the construction world had practically been a hobby for my grandfather. His devotion to doing things the old way is what got me into carpentry. It’s probably what pushed my dad so far in the other direction. But it’s a new era, and I’m going to embrace every comfort modernity can provide. Blending those older techniques and my experience of the current construction world should be the perfect pairing. I underestimated how hard it would be to work in a space that is so distinctly Pappa’s. For every warm memory I have of watching him work under this roof, there’s the acute hurt that comes with losing the man that was a hell of a lot more like a dad than my biological one. Pappa lived a long life, a good life. But I still wasn’t ready for the news when he passed away in his sleep three years ago. How could I be? Naturally, that leads me to think of Mummo’s fragility and the fate of the home I love so much, for so many reasons.

On my last trip out, I stocked the new beer fridge. There’s a good dent in the row of pale ales, and another beer cap clinks to the floor, my reward for a job well done. The clean wood floors gleam, reflecting the brighter lights that hang above. I take a selfie with my fresh beer and the new table saw that sits on a modern workbench behind me, sending it off to my group chat with Chris, Berg, and Dean.

It’s going to be okay. I can do this. Surveying my work once more, I kill the lights and secure the new sturdy lock. I’m sweaty, my back aches, and my childhood bedroom is calling to me. Living at Mummo’s house won’t be so bad after all.

Chapter five

Ashlyn

“Youneedtogetover here right now.” I grip my phone in one hand and hug myself for warmth with the other.

“Should I bring Mrs. Peabody and her perm rods along with me?”

Anna recently became the owner of the most popular full-service salon in West Isle. Okay, it’s the only salon, but it’s modern and bright and always busy.

“No, obviously not. Come after work.”

“Okay, she’s my last client. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t.”

I need her here, in person. I kick at a blackberry vine in a severely overgrown garden bed. The state of this backyard is a crying shame. That blackberry needs to be ripped out before it takes over. I can hear running water and laughter in the salon, and when a beeping noise comes through the phone, I know it’s time for those perm rods to come out.

“That’s my timer. Gotta go. See you soon.”

I tuck my phone away and sigh in resignation as I make my way back to the house. Isaac Lauri looked just as good dry in the daylight as he did soaked on a stormy night. Touchable dirty blond hair, strong jaw, and a physique that says he knows all about hard work. While we aren’ttotalstrangers, Isaac is still a mystery to me. It’s unsettling. Dropping his bag earlier spelled out a simple message, and propping his gigantic feet on the clean tabletop delivered it.

Back in my slippers, I check my calendar. Mrs. Lauri’s medications and vitamins are tucked into a clear bin on top of the fridge, easy for me to see and manage. I’ve been working in her home for three weeks already and am settled into a routine that suits the sweet eighty-year-old. Now, all of a sudden, we have a third wheel. While I’m sure Mrs. Lauri doesn’t see her own grandson as such, I sure do. I busy myself by making half a tuna sandwich and a nutritional drink for her lunch. Pills go into a tiny dish after I meticulously note the dosages and time. Less than a month ago, her meds were a mess. After a few phone calls with her family doctor and the pharmacy, I have everything perfect, and I’m not going to let anyone mess that up. Balancing the lunch tray, I push open her bedroom door with my hip. Her wingback chair is turned to face the square window framed with blue gingham curtains. She greets me with a smile. The powerful rumble of an engine travels through the house. For a second, I’m transported back to the night we met. The safety of being tucked into the rich leather seat, hot air sinking into my skin, Isaac’s rich laughter as we chatted. The sound of the truck fades. It’s good he’s leaving, so I can focus on my afternoon. I hope he’s headed to work and that he clocks long hours and has a gruelling commute. The less time we spend together, the better.

“Lunch time, Mrs. Lauri.” I place the tray next to her chair and spread a white cloth napkin on her lap.

“Already?”

I hold the dish of pills toward her in one hand and a cup of water with a bendy straw in the other. “Can you believe it?”

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