Ladies' Night by Andrews, Kay (find a book to read TXT) 📗

was out for my run Monday I passed this really rundown house over on Anna Maria. There was a huge pile of junk at the curb. Obviously, somebody was doing a clean out. I stopped to look, because this guy had just dumped a great old midcentury rattan sofa. And then he added more pieces, and I kind of struck up a conversation with him. The house had been a rental, but the tenants trashed the place and skipped out on the rent, and the guy I met was the landlord. The rattan was really good stuff. Very collectible, so I asked him if I could have it, although God knows where I’d put it. He invited me inside the house—which was a disaster area, but it could be really wonderful.”

“Slow down,” Rochelle ordered. “You went into a house with a strange man? Are you nuts? What if he’d been some kind of deviate or something?”

“He wasn’t a deviate; he actually knew Dad,” Grace said. “So he was complaining about how long it was going to take him to get the place fixed up to rent again, and I asked him if he’d let me do it. You know, as a before-and-after story for the blog. And he said yes!” Grace was practically jumping up and down.

“How much?” Rochelle asked.

“I finally got him to agree to a minimum budget of five thousand dollars, although I think it’ll probably run more than that,” she said.

“He’s paying you five thousand? Honey, that’s great,” Rochelle said. “I’m so proud of you.”

Grace shook her head. “No. He’s not paying me anything. The budget to fix up the house is five thousand. Or more. I’m doing the work for free. So I can do a before-and-after series for my blog. Wait ’til you see this place, Mom. It’s over on Mandevilla, on Anna Maria, about a block from the bay. It’s a real old-timey Florida cracker house, with the pitched roof and the screened porch. All the inside walls are the original pine. Right now, there’s some skanky carpet on the floors, but I’m sure there’s hardwood under there. It’s got a tiny little galley kitchen, again with the original cabinets. I’m thinking I’ll take the doors off the upper cabinets…”

“Wait,” Rochelle said. “You’re going to do all this work? Without getting paid? How is this a good thing?”

“Because it’s design work,” Grace said. “I’ll be rehabbing a historic old cottage. It’s what I love to do! And I can photograph it from every stage and blog about it. And that is something that not even Ben and J’Aimee can rip off.”

She dug into her camera bag and brought out some Benjamin Moore paint chips, rifling through the colored cards until she found the one she wanted. “Here. Dove White. I’m thinking of using it for all the interior walls. The house is kind of dark inside, because of the porch overhang, so I want to brighten it up, make it look crisp and clean. Have you ever seen a prettier white?”

“You know all white paint looks the same to me,” Rochelle said. “But if you say it’s the best white ever, I believe it.”

“I might do the kitchen another color, maybe a soft aqua, something like that,” Grace mused. “But I want to get it all defunked, have a clean slate, before I make too many design decisions.”

“What’s the owner going to say about all those design decisions? And who is it? You said it’s somebody who knew Butch?”

“He doesn’t care what I do, as long as I get it presentable and ready to rent again,” Grace said. “He’ll be the perfect client—especially since he’s leaving soon to spend the summer in North Carolina. I won’t have him breathing down my neck, second-guessing everything I do. Oh yeah. His name is Arthur Cater. He said he used to take Dad fishing on his boat.”

“Arthur Cater? He’s your client?” Rochelle rolled her eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean? No, never mind. I don’t want to hear it. I am not going to let you rain on my parade. Whatever you know about him, keep it to yourself.”

“I wasn’t gonna rain on your parade,” Rochelle said. “Arthur’s an okay guy. He used to come in here a lot, when they lived on the island, back before he got fancy and moved over to Longboat Key. There’s just one thing I want you to know about him.”

“Whatever,” Grace said, packing up her paint chips impatient to get started on her new project. “Can I have the key to the shed? Thank God I didn’t get around to cleaning out Dad’s tools. All my stuff is still back at Sand Dollar Lane. I don’t even have a hammer or a pair of pliers to my own name now. And I want to get that nasty carpet pulled up this morning. First thing.”

Rochelle went into the kitchen and came back with a key ring, which she handed to her daughter. “Just know this about Arthur. He is the world’s biggest cheapskate. He’s got tons of money, but he didn’t get that way throwing it around. He will nickel and dime you to death. Your dad used to say Arthur was so tight he squeaked when he walked.”

“I don’t care,” Grace said, cramming her sweat-stained Sandbox ball cap on her head. “I’ve dealt with cheap and I’ve dealt with difficult. I’m just happy to have a job again.”

*   *   *

Arthur Cater was standing in the driveway of the house on Mandevilla, directing two Hispanic day laborers as they loaded the avocado-green stove into the back of an ancient rust bucket of a pickup truck.

“Hey, Arthur,” Grace greeted him.

“So you didn’t have a change of heart, huh?” He took in her work clothes and toolbox.

“No way,” Grace said. “Did your wife give us the thumbs-up?”

Arthur mopped his face with his handkerchief. “She says you’re a big-deal interior designer. She’s all excited now. Says she reads your blog and she can’t believe I could trick