Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
As they stood looking at the dismal room, Will said, “She told me she’d recently had the kitchen remodeled, and wasn’t it lovely. Apparently, by ‘recently’ she meant forty years ago.” He laughed and Jack smiled in return.
“I figured we could start in here. Get a stove that actually works and cabinets any color but that hideous green. I was thinking stone tile for the floors, but maybe hardwood would be better. What do you think?”
They discussed countertops, cabinets, flooring, light fixtures, colors and possibly breaking down a wall to open the space into the dining room. Jack had pulled a small notebook from his hip pocket, into which he was busily scribbling notes with a small pencil. A swatch of thick hair fell over his forehead, brushing into his eyes as he wrote. He looked like he needed a haircut. Will glanced at his ring finger and saw no telltale golden band. Not that that meant anything—he knew lots of married guys who didn’t wear wedding rings.
“I’ll work something up for you,” Jack said at last, tucking the small notebook into his back pocket. “Gather some prices and bring you some samples. I’ll bring a couple of catalogues from the home-improvement warehouses so we can get a feel for what you’re looking for.
“I’ve got a job I need to finish but I should be able to wrap it up by tomorrow. How about I come back day after tomorrow? I’ll have a better handle on costs then.”
“Sounds like a plan. See you then.”
~*~
Jack stroked the curve of wood with his fingers, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensual feel of the smooth grain. Emma used to laugh at him when she’d catch him in his workroom, “making love” to the furniture he built. He had to admit, it was a labor of love. He didn’t produce much—the occasional chair or table for their home, nothing for actual sale—but each piece somehow became a part of him by the time he was done with it.
His real work, the one-man renovation company he’d started twenty years before, had provided a decent income for his family. They’d bought a three-bedroom house in the north end of New Rochelle before prices went through the roof. The mortgage was paid off. The boys had grown up and moved out. And Emma was dead.
He leaned his cheek against the wood, the word echoing in his mind. Dead. She woke up one morning with a terrible headache and said she felt sick to her stomach. He’d brought her tea, assuming she was getting the flu. She drank a few sips, set it down and turned very pale.
“Jack,” she said, her voice urgent. And then…she was gone. The autopsy revealed a ruptured brain aneurysm. At the age of forty-two his wife of twenty-four years was gone. Just like that.
Though two years had passed, he still sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, reaching for her. Recently a few friends had begun rumblings about trying to fix him up with someone new. Though he knew they meant well, he wasn’t interested.
He’d grown up with Emma. They knew each other so well he sometimes felt as if she were more of a sister than a lover and wife. They were best friends, no question of that. But now that he’d had time to mourn her loss, he knew theirs had not been a passionate union.
Not for the first time he wondered if they would have married at all if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. He’d had plans back then to go to college in the city with his best buddy, Luke, while she was planning to attend a local nursing school. Odds are they would have drifted apart, met new people, gone their separate ways.
How different his life might have been, without the challenge of an instant family at such a young age. He would have gone to college, maybe travelled the world. He might have become a teacher or an engineer. He might have been the one hiring a handyman to come into his fancy Scarsdale home.
Jack shook his head as if to clear it. These kinds of thoughts were never fruitful. What was the point of wondering at what might have been? He’d done the right thing by Emma and they had two wonderful sons and a good life.
You play the hand you’re dealt, he said firmly to himself.
~*~
Two days later found Jack on Will’s doorstep, catalogues and a toolbox in his hand. He’d called the evening before, pleased when Will suggested he come by early. Glancing at his watch, he hoped it wasn’t too early.
As he waited for Will to answer the door he looked around the front yard. It was a small yard by neighborhood standards, but already daffodils and tulips were popping up in brilliant yellows, reds and purples in the flowerbeds in front of the house and along the old stone walkway leading to the door. The beds needed weeding and the lawn needed mowing. He made a mental note to recommend a gardener for the rich city boy.