Finding Home (13 page)

“What
the hell is all this?” Brad demanded when he walked into the family room that night. Or tried to. The room was so packed, he almost needed a shoehorn to enter.

It was past seven in the evening. Since Stacey's contractor had started in at seven in the morning, he felt it was safe enough to come home and not encounter any workers. He wasn't in the mood to try to conduct his life amid deafening noise and debris.

The deafening noise was absent, but the debris was another matter. It was definitely present and accounted for. To such a degree that he hardly recognized either room involved. The kitchen looked as if it had been gutted by a flameless fire. The fluorescent lighting fixtures were hanging at half mast, a shattered remnant of their plastic covering crunching under his foot as he walked in to survey the area.

In the center of the room, on a small, wooden folding TV tray, Stacey had set up what looked like a hot plate. The microwave and some kind of grill was on the floor. Beyond that, the kitchen was stripped of everything.

The cabinets, sink, appliances—including the refrigerator—and the table with its accompanying chairs had been pulled out, leaving the kitchen looking like a hollow memory
of its former self. Everything but the cabinets had found their way into the living room, strewn every which way.

Brad stared into the family room, trying to discern shapes beyond the refrigerator and stove. He liked to sit on his recliner and unwind in the family room. Now he couldn't even find it. His frown deepened. This had been a bad idea from the start. He'd known that in his gut. There was nothing wrong with the way things had been.

Damn, he should have put his foot down. Now it was obviously too late.

“Everything's out of the kitchen,” Stacey said, walking in from the dining room and answering his question.

Brad turned around to look at her.

He seemed lost, she thought. He'd left before she'd gotten even one pantry shelf emptied. Now the large coffee table in the family room was completely covered with as many of the smaller items from the pantry as she had been able to cram into the space. Butted up against it was yet another wooden TV tray, this one holding the coffeemaker and the toaster.

There wasn't as much as an inch of unclaimed space available in the area. Maneuvering was tricky, especially with the refrigerator taking up a large section of the area in front of the coffee table. If he were claustrophobic, this would have been his worst nightmare.

As it was, he wasn't exactly thrilled about having to see it.

“Just how long is it supposed to look like this?” he asked, waving an already impatient hand at the clutter.

A lot longer than he would like. She already knew that. Stacey braced herself for his reaction. “Alex says about five weeks. Maybe more.”

His eyes widened. Brad reacted as if she'd just declared that she intended to stage the reenactment of the Invasion of Normandy and play all the parts herself.

“Five weeks!” The idea was entirely unacceptable.

“Maybe more,” Stacey added in case the last part of her statement had escaped him. She offered him what she hoped passed for a soothing smile.

Numbers flew through his head. “Do you have any idea how much five weeks' worth of eating out is going to cost us?”

When they were both poor and struggling, it didn't always used to be about money. Why had the focus changed now that they were well off and the ends not only met, but went around the block several times before rejoining again? When had he become such a miser?

“We don't have to eat out,” she told him quietly.

“We have to eat,” he countered. “Unless, of course, you plan to put us on some kind of weird starvation diet.”

Because she was feeling sensitive, she couldn't help wondering if that was intended as some sort of comment about the fact that she'd gained a few unwanted pounds since they'd gotten married.

For the sake of peace, she let that go and addressed only the main problem. “I can cook.” As a matter of fact, she already had. Challenged, she'd been creative and managed to make dinner in a minimum of space by rummaging through the garage and taking a few forgotten appliances out of mothballs.

But before she could tell him that, he discounted her suggestion. “How? The stove's not plugged in and you can't just stick the plug in anywhere. It needs a special line.”

“You'd be surprised what you can do with a hot plate and
one of those indoor grills.” She took his hand, leading him into the dining room. Chaos had not quite reached there yet. “I've got the meals covered,” she told him. “All you have to do is show up.” She nodded toward his chair. “Think of it as camping out.”

But he wasn't ready to sit down yet. He was still trying to process the fact that his kitchen looked like the aftermath of Dorothy's thrill ride to Oz.

“Camping out,” he echoed. “Where? In a sardine can?”

“We can have the meals in the dining room. Or on the patio.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the back of the house. “You'll find a minimum of stuff out there,” she added in a voice that was a tad more quiet. Alex had set up a makeshift work table out there and had begun cutting some of the molding to size for the kitchen.

He frowned, but she had managed to placate him to an extent. “I guess I can put up with it.” Instead of sitting down, he went back into the kitchen and surveyed the area. “This isn't such a big space,” he pointed out. “Why does it have to take so long?”

Mainly because the workers weren't going to be there, she thought. A great deal of waiting would be involved.

“Everything has to be coordinated,” she told him. And it would be arriving in stages. “The appliances, the cabinets, the floor—” Her eyes widened as her oversight dawned on her. “We haven't picked out a floor yet.”

He groaned. More tile places. “Why don't you take some time off from work?” he suggested. “That way, you can devote yourself entirely to finding a floor.”

Her first thought was to say she couldn't do it. But juggling
the remodeling and the office was becoming a challenge and this was only the first day. And she knew how much Brad hated having unsupervised people in his house. Taking some time off might make things simpler all around. She was going to need to talk to Dr. Reynolds about revamping her schedule.

She nodded slowly, thinking. “Maybe you have something there.”

Surprise stirred through him. “Of course I have something there. You're the one who wants all this, so you're the one who should pick it—”

“I mean about asking for some time off—at least during the week,” she clarified. “I can try to catch up on whatever needs doing at the office on weekends.”

He didn't know if he liked the sound of that. “You're going to work weekends?”

“And after hours,” she added. “Just until the house is done.” It was beginning to sound plausible. “Alex and his people don't work on weekends, so I don't need to be here for them.”

“How about for me?” he asked.

She tried to replay his words, searching for his meaning. “Excuse me?”

“Tool-belt man and his cronies aren't going to be here on weekends, but I am. What if I want you to be here on weekends?”

Stacey stared at him. This was a first. Brad
never
said anything about wanting to have her around. The subject just never came up. Because it was a given, she thought. Brad was so accustomed to having her around whenever he was home that he'd taken it for granted. Taken her for granted. But she couldn't let herself go there now. There was too much to take care of.

She shrugged the topic away. “We'll work something out.

Now,” she continued, trying to focus on the positive side of things, “I made you your favorite. Grilled salmon. I've also got baked potatoes and broccoli with cheese sauce.”

Skepticism nudged through him. “How?”

She gestured over toward the corner where the TV tray stood. “I've still got my microwave, my indoor grill and that two-burner hot plate I bought at a discount store when we first moved in here.”

Very slowly, a smile materialized, curving his lips. “I didn't realize you could be that resourceful.”

Yes, I know.
Out loud, she said, “Dr. Sommers, I think that there are a lot of things about me you don't realize.”

Before this gruesome adventure had begun, he would have argued that he knew her inside and out, knew everything she was capable of and everything she could do. But he was beginning to learn that he was wrong.

Brad looked at her for a long moment, the air pregnant with words that were unspoken. “Maybe you're right,” he finally said.

“Why don't you sit down?” she suggested, indicating the dining room. “Dinner's ready.”

He did as she asked.

She went to unearth the plates from under the pile of loose sandwich-size plastic bags and wondered what Brad would say if he knew she was discovering things that she'd never known about herself, too.

Including the fact that, until recently, she had been absolutely convinced that she wouldn't so much as look at another man.

Now, she wasn't all that sure.

Because she had looked. Looked for a very long time. And it had left her feeling unsettled. About everything. Most of all, about herself.

Brad
put his fork down on his empty plate and finished the last of the white wine that Stacey had poured for them. One glass of alcohol was always his limit. There was no telling when an emergency call might come through, summoning him to the hospital. He had to keep sharp.

But one glass helped to mellow him a little, to take the edge off his day. And, at times, it allowed him to see things more clearly.

Like now.

Sitting back in his chair, he watched his wife for a long moment. Stacey was just finishing her meal. The conversation between them had faded and he hadn't even noticed until now. Sometimes, his own oblivion astounded him.

“You know, that is pretty amazing.”

The sound of his voice surprised her. Stacey raised her eyes to his. Something inside her braced for a scene. These days, because of the remodeling, half their conversations were confrontations of some sort. “What is?”

He nodded at his empty plate. “That you can make the same kind of dinner you usually make even with a nonexistent kitchen. Maybe it's not a miracle on par with the loaves and the fishes on the Mount, but it's still pretty amazing.”

Stacey stared at him. What was that, two compliments in the past few months?

Slowly, a smile budded on her lips as warmth spread its way through her. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well…” His voice trailed off as he shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of the fact that he had said anything about dinner. She acted as if he never paid her compliments. And then he paused. Maybe he didn't. He supposed that he rarely did take note of what she did and compliment her on it.

Rarely?
an inner voice mocked him. That would mean that he could actually remember the last time he'd given her one, and the truth was, he couldn't.

But then, husbands and wives were supposed to instinctively know things without having to have them verbally reinforced every few minutes. He couldn't stand around all day, telling her that he thought she was smart and clever and a good wife. She was supposed to know that by now. Know that he appreciated the effort she put into running the house and working as well.

He didn't need any positive reinforcement when he performed a surgery. He just knew whether or not it was good and no words to the contrary would take away from that.

He supposed that women were different.

Brad nodded at the plates on the table. “What are you going to do about the dishes?”

She smiled. What did people usually do with dirty dishes? “Wash them.”

“How? The dishwasher's in the family room and there's no sink.”

“In the kitchen,” she pointed out. “But there's one in the bathroom.”

Just before she left, she'd heard Joe saying that while they were here, he and Alba could take apart the downstairs bathroom as well. She'd nearly twisted her ankle getting back to them and vetoing the idea. There was no way she was going to be left without running water somewhere on the first floor. Otherwise, until the kitchen was back in, every time she wanted a glass of water or to cook something or even to wash her hands, she'd have to go upstairs and then come down again. While that might be good for her leg exercises, the rest of her wasn't keen on the idea.

The sink in the downstairs bathroom was the smallest in the house. He looked at her incredulously. “You're going to wash dishes in the bathroom sink?”

“Not much choice,” she answered.

Stacey gathered together the dishes and utensils they'd used and debated taking the glasses, too. She hated making multiple trips, but this time, she decided it was more prudent if she came back for the glassware rather than risk breaking it.

Her first stop was the kitchen to clean the crumbs from the plates. Unlike Brad, she'd left her potato skin. “It's either that or throw them away and get a new set every time we run out.”

He figured the kitchen would be up and running before that happened, but there was no sense in letting the dishes pile up. “I see your point.”

Because he was curious, Brad followed her to the bathroom just off the family room. Leaning against the doorjamb, he watched her close the drain and then squirt dishwashing liquid into the running water. After a moment, he walked away.

Stacey unconsciously listened for the sound of the television set being turned on, thinking that Brad had gone into the living room to watch the news on one of the cable stations he favored. When she didn't hear anything, she assumed that he'd gone upstairs.

He surprised her by returning, with a dish towel in his hands. She raised an eyebrow, silently quizzing him. “It took me some time to find it. The cabinet you used to keep these in is gone.”

“Yes, I know. All the cabinets are gone.” She couldn't contain her curiosity any longer. “What are you doing with a dish towel?”

“What do most people do with a dish towel?”

“Most people dry dishes with it. But you're not most people.”

A hint of smile passed over his lips. “I am for tonight.” He nodded at the sink. “You wash, I'll dry.” The way he saw it, he had the better part of the deal.

For a second, she was rendered speechless. The last time they had done that—when she washed and he dried—was when they'd lived in that tiny furnished apartment they'd shared just off the campus. Just standing here like this brought back memories. Tons of memories.

She smiled fondly at him. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of running water and a dish being scrubbed. He began to feel awkward. A man wasn't supposed to feel awkward around his wife, was he?

“So, five weeks,” he said finally, plucking the conversation out of the air.

“Or so,” she reminded him. She pressed her lips together, holding her breath and waiting for his reaction. Worried that
the words might in some way set him off. She had no idea what to expect.

Brad took the first dish from her and began to wipe, his attention elsewhere. He was trying to remember something. “Isn't there some kind of penalty clause that states he has to make a payment to us if he doesn't finish the work by a certain date?”

“We're having some remodeling done,” she told him. “Not constructing a major office building or housing development.”

He set the dried plate down on top of the counter. The space was limited. “In other words, no.”

“In other words, no,” she echoed.

He sighed heavily as he took the second wet dish from her hand.

 

“Wow, this is major chaos, isn't it?”

Startled, Stacey took her head out of the pantry. On her knees, she was finishing restocking the bottom shelf in a quick bid to restore some order to the kitchen before she left. She'd heard the dogs barking a minute ago, but since the doorbell hadn't rung, she didn't think anything of it.

Jim stood only a few steps behind her, looking around the room. He'd obviously let himself into the house with his keys.

Dusting off her hands, she rose to her feet.

The workers had come and gone for the day, arriving at seven as had become their habit and knocking off at ten. Before leaving, they'd announced they were going to another job. Stacey knew that the nature of their business being what it was, where famine could easily follow feast, a contractor couldn't afford to turn away any sort of work. In the first four
weeks of remodeling, it had become abundantly clear that Alex had his people working on three, at times four, different projects. Some days she didn't see them at all. If no one showed up by seven-fifteen, she knew that she was facing a nonwork day.

As with everything else that was thrown her way, Stacey had learn to adjust her schedule, working around the construction crew's abbreviated hours. She'd given herself twenty minutes to finish putting things into the pantry before she left for the office. Though the remodeling was slower going than she would have liked and there was Brad's displeasure to put up with, she had to admit that this way was easier on her when it came to her own job. She could catch up on work if she tackled it every day instead of leaving everything to the weekend. Going in after hours hadn't worked out too well, either. Not for Brad or the doctors she worked with.

This was better.

“Not so major anymore,” she assured him, stretching up to brush a kiss against his cheek.

It pleased her that Jim had obviously outgrown his “no physical parental contact period” and no longer pulled away. Being a hugger and a toucher all her life, this form of abstinence had been particularly hard on her. Rosie had been on the receiving end of a great deal of hugging during that period.

“At least we've got the refrigerator back in the kitchen instead of the middle of the family room.” She'd felt like cheering when the deliverymen had come with the new model. They'd taken the old appliance with them when they left. The family room had instantly doubled in size.

She realized that she'd gotten used to the refrigerator being
in the family room. Funny how quickly she could get accustomed to things. Changes just stealthily sneaked up on her.

Like Brad's behavior. She hadn't realized how much he'd changed until she was treated to a glimpse back to how things used to be. Like the dish-drying incident. He'd only repeated it a couple of times in the past four weeks, but it still had the same effect, it made her nostalgic for the people they used to be.

“And I've managed to get most of the things into the new pantry.” She was running behind schedule, but she didn't care. Taking his hand, she pulled Jim over to the new cabinets. She wanted to show them off.

Jim looked and nodded, not overly interested in the renovations other than the fact that it obviously made his mother happy to have all this going on.

Standing in the middle of the work-in-progress, he glanced up. The opaque sheeting that had covered the fluorescent lights was no longer there. The fixtures were now opened and exposed. Several components dangled loose. “When's that going to be done?”

“Hopefully before tonight.” Alex had said that one of the electricians would be by after five. “I'm having recessed lighting put in. With a dimmer.”

“A romantic kitchen.” Jim laughed softly. “Seems like a waste.”

“As a matter of fact, it's to save on electricity.”

Jim shook his head, a knowing expression on his face. “Let me guess, Dad's idea.”

It gave her great pleasure to contradict him. “No, the contractor's, smarty pants.”

The trite label made him grin. “You never were much
good at name calling, Mom. What other changes are you making?” Then before she could answer, he asked another question, “What's my room going to be?”

“Your room,” she replied simply.

Her answer surprised him. He had friends whose rooms were gone before their cars made it to the end of the block when they moved out.

“You're not making it over, or knocking out a wall and turning it into a big study?”

“Nope. Just putting in a few improvements.” She was having the closets deepened in all the bedrooms, as well as expanding Jim's and Julie's rooms. “You can stay over any time. Or move back if you need to.”

He shook his head as they walked together to the front door. “Not going to happen. I just came by to tell you that the band and I've got a gig at the end of next month. At the Wild Orchid. Three nights—Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I thought if you weren't doing anything…”

He was trying hard to sound casual about this, but she knew how much it meant to him. How hard he'd been working to make something of the band. She shared his excitement. “And even if I was, I wouldn't miss this for the world. Maybe your father would—”

“No,” Jim said with finality, cutting her off before she could finish the thought, “he wouldn't.”