Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (14 page)

Maybe it was pride or maybe it was my diehard belief that a Greek restaurant in Jersey would never be
my
home, but I hugged him goodbye and knew part of me was actually, really, truly dead to them.

Since then, I’d been home twice: Agapi’s wedding and my grandfather’s funeral.

He made a point of calling me at least once a month, and though the conversations became less tense, none of this got any easier.

“I wish I could, Dad,” I said. I ran my fingers through the brittle grass and sighed. “Really. But I can’t get away that week. I have midterms to grade, and one of my little friends, Lillian, is having a piano recital.”

“That sounds like something that’s important to you,” he said. “There will always be another Diwali.”

When we disconnected, I toggled through my phone to find tonight’s live music listings. Talking to my father stole my energy and the pounding delight of a concert was the only thing to refill my tank. I tagged several intriguing shows and sent a text to Sam.

13:44 Tiel:
let’s go out tonight. Too many good shows to miss.

13:49 Sam:
I wish I could. Business dinner with the landscape architect on my next big project.

13:49 Tiel:
I wouldn’t think you’d be a fan of business dinners

13:50 Sam:
eh. I’m not but I am a fan of this architect.

13:50 Tiel:
ok. I’ll be at the Roxy if you finish early or whatever.

The only thing that message was missing was a starry-eyed emoticon to go along with my aggressively casual tone. My preference was spending every night with Sam, and I think that inclination went all the way back to our first night together. There wasn’t a point when I wanted it to end.

13:52 Sam:
do you . . . miss me?

13:52 Tiel:
of course not but you still don’t know the difference between folk and funk, and that’s a crisis

13:53 Sam:
I think you miss me and want me to tell you some dirty stories

I really, really did. On both counts.

13:54 Tiel:
I’ve always been a captive audience

13:55 Sam:
unfortunately for you, I have to present a proposal but believe me when I say I’d rather talk about your tits than a 3 million dollar renovation

13:55 Tiel:
I’ll find a way to survive without

Needing more coffee, I headed down the street to the café I favored in this neighborhood. I was happiest with a cappuccino in my hand, and a steady stream of caffeine was my only real luxury. It wasn’t like I could afford many more luxuries; playing music and going to grad school were damn expensive, and it looked as though I’d be paying for my education for several decades. That fact gave me periodic flashes of panic, and it proved I didn’t have a plan for dealing with life yet.

When I came down from those bouts of hysteria, I reminded myself I preferred the unplanned life. I knew there’d always be special kids who needed my help, and I could figure it all out as I went along. There was no need to carve a future into stone or declare myself, forever and always, for any particular path. I craved the freedom to wander: travel the world, get a different degree, learn another family of instruments, join the circus, or whatever.

That didn’t mean I was blowing off my dissertation. I liked academia enough, but I wasn’t sure I was willing to kill myself for a tenure-track professorship. It was an enormous commitment, and I worried that I’d drift away from the things I loved: working with kids, and playing and sharing my music.

But there was a convenience associated with the never-ending story of my doctorate. My schedule gave me the flexibility to work one-on-one with kids, and spend the summer with a noisy crew of geeks at band camp, and the fluidity of my research allowed me the space to study and explore.

When I stepped away from all that and looked at it from a squinty side view, I knew I was also building a life free from expectations. No real obligations or responsibilities of any kind. I couldn’t disappoint anyone if I didn’t commit to anything, and no one could reject me if I didn’t stick around long enough to be rejected.

Most days I told myself I was unfettered by materialism or career-obsession, and that was a joyous gift in this world, but I knew it was so much deeper than that.

I could handle any amount of criticism of my work—the music, the therapeutic sessions, the teaching—but I couldn’t deal with rejection. It was less devastating to walk away from relationships, to be the one who stopped calling or broke it off with vague clichés about focusing on myself or not looking for anything serious right now.

I slept better when I wasn’t worried whether I was good enough for anyone else. I chose not to worry about the future, and the possibility that I’d end up sad and lonely and wishing I’d done it all differently.

With my iced cappuccino, I wandered through stylish shops on Newbury Street. As I ran my fingers over a display of vibrant ties, it occurred to me that Sam hid from rejection, too. The cavalier attitude, the consumerist approach to sex, the distance he required.

Perhaps that was what I recognized in him: the bitter taste of abandonment, the one that never fully dissipated.

That
was how I knew him.

“ALL RIGHT, JUST a few more things on my list,” Shannon said.

Those exact words had passed her lips twice already, and I was tempted to clarify her definition of
few.
I was tired and irritable, and after lifting weights for two hours in the middle of the night, my arms protested every time I reached for my coffee.

I loved Shannon, I really did, but there were moments when I was convinced she just liked hearing herself speak. It was phenomenal that she managed all the non-architectural elements of the business by herself, but that didn’t mean I needed to hear about it every goddamn week.

Shannon turned toward Patrick. “Do you want to talk through the Wellesley issues?”

He rolled his eyes, murmuring something to himself while he shook his head at his laptop screen.

“I’ll take this,” Andy said. “We’ve updated the energy systems and done a fair amount of restoration on the interior, but there’s quite a bit more that should be done. I would argue that, given the age and craftsmanship, we should be talking about more extensive preservation. I see this as a project we’ll carry for a longer term.”

When that quiet bomb detonated, the temperature in the room dropped. Everyone sat back in their chairs, eyes were averted, and silence lingered.

I knew it was just a house, but I also knew this house was much more than four walls, a roof, and some dirt.

It was true what they said about never being able to go home, and not just because my father told me never to step foot on his land again when I was eighteen. If, by some fantastical turn of events, I found myself at Wellesley—the shorthand we used to refer to our childhood home—it wouldn’t be the same place that spawned my fondest memories and worst nightmares.

I alternately loved it and hated it, wanted to keep it in our family for eternity and wanted it burned to the ground, thought about visiting and promised myself I’d never pass through those doors again.

Shannon cleared her throat, a sure sign for everyone’s attention. She said, “The real question, at least from my perspective, is whether we want to carry the property for another calendar year. Knowing that we can’t close out Angus’s estate until the house is sold. Any additional work means we’re leaving the estate open longer. We’re also paying property taxes on the house.”

Angus and his fucking will.

It wasn’t bad enough that the bastard took three full weeks to die after his stroke, but he needed to leave us with an obstacle course of a will, too. He wanted his money given to certain people (his non-existent future grandchildren, of course) and spent on specific things (restoring that godforsaken house), and even in death, he wanted to maintain his public appearance with contributions to all the right institutions (Cornell, the regional hospital).

“And what are the implications of that?” Patrick asked.

Shannon shrugged. “It’s mostly a pain in the ass for me. But—”

“Do we have to talk about this?” I asked. Every time Shannon brought it up, I could hear my blood rushing through my head like a water cannon, and I had to talk myself out of imploding on the spot. Angus owned enough real estate in my head already. “Can’t you just let Andy keep working and not bring it up?”

“Shouldn’t we figure out how we’re paying for this?” Matt asked.

“I’ve only used a quarter of the budget,” Andy said.

I glared across the table at her, and hated her frugality.

“Sam’s right,” Patrick said. “As long as there isn’t a specific objection to extending the work, Andy and I can figure it out later. And we have an hour of agenda topics to get through in fifteen minutes.”

The project updates were quick, and focusing on my properties brightened my mood. I’d always been able to fall into my designs and block out the world, and right now I was hoping for that relief from the Turlan restoration.

Shannon recapped the non-disclosure agreement terms, and reminded everyone to keep quiet on that front. “And,” she said, “Roof Garden Girl officially agreed to work on this project with Sam. If this goes well, I think we should talk about developing a more formal partnership with her.”

“If I never hear about another roof garden, I’ll be a happier person,” Patrick said.

“I’m sure you’d find something else to bitch about,” Matt said while Andy laughed into her tea.

“I think everyone’s heard this by now,” Shannon said.
If everyone knows, you don’t need to repeat it.
“To support some of Sam’s work so that he can dedicate the time necessary to this, Riley is finished with Matt’s projects starting today.”

Riley tapped his coffee cup against mine and offered a crooked smile. “I feel like the village donkey. Everyone’s getting a ride.”

If someone had told me two months ago that I’d be stepping into a dusty attic in Allston for some bluesy piano on a rainy November night, I’d have told her she was crazy.

It wasn’t as if my original plans were much better. I’d been thinking about finally building the chairs I’d promised Riley for his new office, and maybe making some vegetable soup. It wasn’t winter until I made vegetable soup.

But Tiel called, and she insisted I couldn’t continue living without seeing this pianist.

So, regardless of my day from hell and whether I needed to be alone with my snarly mood and beat the shit out of something, I went to her anyway. In all deference to honesty, I rarely denied her anything.

Much to my displeasure, Shannon and I had ended up arguing over inconsequential details relating to the Turlan project’s PR schedule, and I was now an hour late meeting Tiel. My attitude was out of control and I was more interested in hitting the treadmill than learning to appreciate niche music. The drive was a nightmare, and I was prepared to leave after a quick drink and a long hug.