Page 29 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Huh?” I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. He appears surprised at my confusion.
“Did no one tell you that Trish and Ron are moving to North Carolina?”
“North Carolina?”
“They’ve been building their so-called dream home up there in the mountains. They’ll be gone by the end of the summer.”
It is so like my mom to forget to tell me important family updates like this. And it’s hard to believe that Trish would up and leave when her dad is all alone and only going to need more help as he gets older. But I guess you can’t plan for everything in life, and if it’s her dream house… I’ll have to think about all this later. I try to return to the thread of our conversation.
“Maybe you could Uber to your appointment? Or take a taxi?” I can hear the pointlessness before the words even leave my mouth.
“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t think it’ll work for me. Now, I’m going to take a nap. Enjoy your afternoon. Maybe work on your tan before you go back to the city of clouds.”
“Have a good nap.”
I decide to do as he says and hit the pool. After all, I don’t have any more meetings this afternoon, and I’m only here for one more day—might as well enjoy it. As I’m changing into my bathing suit, I rehash our conversation. As much as I would like Gramps to go to therapy for his mental health, something else is bugging me. And then I realize: He’s saying he can’t take himself anywhere. Anywhere? What if he needed to see a doctor? What if he needed some kind of urgent appointment, let alone regular checkups? Is there some kind of shuttle service here to help the elderly residents with things like that? They have medical assistants on staff, but I think they’re mostly here to distribute medications.
Downstairs at the pool, I spread my towel on a lounge chair. Maybe he doesn’tneedtherapy. Maybe I can be the person he talks to. Obviously, I can’t provide real, professional counseling, but talking to me is better than nothing, right?
I lay out with my book and can’t ignore a nagging worry. The man had a panic attack in front of Bettina’s Beach Boutique. Do I really think he’ll be fine with a few extra emails and phone calls from me? I’ll just have to keep in close contact with Trish—while she’s still here—and do the best I can from home.
Chapter 13
I’ve gotten a couple of chapters into my book when my phone pings with two new emails. Squinting against the sun even with my sunglasses on, I see that they’re both from Daniel McKinnon. One is a forwarded message from Alan Gregson. I scan that one first. It’s an estimate of what Alan and his team would charge for the work we discussed this morning: reinforcements at the back of the house and in the attic, plumbing repairs in the bathroom. The estimate is just over eleven thousand dollars.
Feeling numb, I open the other email from Daniel. He’s helpfully provided the names of some paint suppliers and painters, a flooring supplier, and his “floor guy.” My eyes jump down to the end of the second paragraph.
If you use the folks I recommend, based on some of my past projects, my estimate would be about five grand.
I have such a visceral reaction to this number that I almost chuck my phone into the pool.
It’s an investment, he continues,but like I mentioned this morning, with a little polish you’d get a lot more interest from potential renters and could charge slightly above market. If you’re interested, I can also send over some ideas for new kitchen appliances.
“No, Daniel, I am not interested!”
I glance around to see if anyone noticed me yelling at my phone. Indeed, two white-haired women are looking at me from their lounge chairs a few feet away.
“Hi,” I say to them. They just stare. “It’s my property manager.” I attempt a nonchalant shake of the head, like getting frustrated with people who work for me is a normal part of life. The women exchange a smirking glance that clearly says,Young people.
I feel nauseous. I lie back and cover my face with my hands, thinking. I know homeowners have to go into debt sometimes—or as Maeve said when they remodeled their basement, they “pay it off monthly.” But I just finished paying off my parents monthly. I was looking forward to having some expendable income.
I sit up again and send a quick email back.
How much could I charge if I don’t do any of these things?
I lie down again, not expecting him to reply anytime soon. Inheriting Pebble Cottage was supposed to be a windfall. Instead, it’s a money pit. Even aside from the terrifying thought of spending so much money on the house, the thought of ripping up floors and all that makes my skin crawl. I just want to be back in my clean, orderly apartment, surrounded by curated objects that bring me joy. That’s what I want to spend my hard-earned money on: stuff. Pretty, comforting stuff. Not paint and dishwashers and structural reinforcements, whatever that means.
Ping.
Oh no. He can’t have responded already. I don’t want to think about this anymore. I want to think about being on the flight home tomorrow, drinking a crisp Chardonnay and watching a movie that’ll make me forget about real life for two hours.
I flip over onto my stomach and reluctantly tap open the email.
Ok if I call?
I frown at my phone. Daniel can’t be more than a few years older than me; shouldn’t he have the same millennial loathing of phone calls? I guess his line of work requires a lot of… communication.
I could tell him that I can’t talk right now. Or I could not respond.
