Finding Home (12 page)

Brad
stared at her as if she'd just gotten sunstroke. “What are you talking about?”

Stacey indicated the pleasing display arranged around an island. The thought of an island in the center of her kitchen intrigued her. They'd have to do away with the kitchen table, but stools could be arranged around one side of the island. Her mind began to race.

“You like the cabinets, right?”

He'd already told her that, but his response was tentative, halting, as if braced for something more to pop out of the closet.

“Yes.”

“Well, so do I.” She looked at the cabinets again, envisioning them in her kitchen. “The first thing Alex is going to need once his crew rips out our kitchen are cabinets to put in their place. And I don't see why we need to look around any further since we both seem to like these.”

It was nice to stumble across an unexpected bonus like this. Mentally, she'd allotted a minimum of five hours of going from store to store, not to mention more time paging through the catalogs that Alex had left her, looking for just the right cabinets. And here they were, right in front of them.

As if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, Brad
stared at his wife. He recalled stories he'd heard from other doctors. Stories about how their wives could never make up their minds about things. That it always took multiple trips to the mall before a single item was finally purchased.

And here she was, saying she was satisfied.

He'd always known Stacey was different. Maybe he hadn't appreciated just how different. “You don't want to look any further for cabinets?”

“No. Why should we? You like them, I like them, they'll make the kitchen look brighter and breezier.” Her lips twisted slightly at the play on words. Until now, she'd never heard of a color called “breezewood.” It seemed almost like serendipity.

“So would a new coat of white paint,” Brad couldn't help pointing out, “and it wouldn't wind up costing nearly as much.”

Brad had come a long way today. She couldn't fault him for a little backsliding. “The new coat of paint is part of the deal,” she told him matter-of-factly. She could see that he hadn't even considered that. “They're going to be ripping all the cabinets out and putting new ones in.”

She paused to open one double-hinged door and saw that the shelves inside spun around, affording easy access to whatever was stored inside. No more getting down on her hands and knees, foraging for a pot that had gotten lodged at the back of the shelf. Funny how such little things could matter so much. But it made her smile. She closed the door again as she went on.

“That's going to wreak havoc on the paint job we have in the kitchen—especially since,” she added pointedly, “if I recall correctly, the last time we had it painted was more than seven years ago.”

She kept harping on how old everything was. The furniture, the rugs, the paint job. “What's this obsession with getting rid of everything because it's past a certain age?” he asked. Before she had a chance to answer, he laughed shortly. “I'm surprised you haven't tossed me out.”

She smiled at him, batting her lashes comically. “Don't be silly, Brad, I put in too much time and effort into you. I'm not about to start from scratch with someone new.”

Wandering from one store to another had sapped what little sense of humor he had. “I didn't say anything about replacing me.”

Her expression was totally innocent. Turning her back on him, she tested the drawers. They rolled beautifully. Unlike the drawers in her cabinets at home. Those kept getting stuck, moving like square wheels along concrete. “I thought that was what you implied.”

“No.” He moved, blocking her way so that she was forced to look at him. “Is that what you were thinking?” he pressed.

“Have you found something you like?” the salesman asked smoothly, picking that moment to join them.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, pausing to smile at her husband before continuing, “we have.”

This was going to be a joint effort, and she was going to drag Brad into it, kicking and screaming, even if it killed her.

 

When it was done, they left the store. The whole ordeal of filling out forms had taken a little more than three hours. Way over the time limit he had set for her.

Although weary, she still felt a sense of triumph dancing through her. They'd placed their first order. The remodeling
had begun. She could hardly believe it. After all this time, it was finally happening.

Thank you, Uncle Titus. I couldn't have done this without you.

Brad was scowling as he walked to the car. She would have thought that he'd be relieved. High on the triumph of finding the right cabinets, she'd decided to postpone looking for tile until another day. For all intents and purposes, the man was free.

“What's the matter?” she asked, then braced herself for the answer.

He looked at her over the hood of the car. “I don't like handing my credit card to a stranger.”

Brad was quick to point out every article he came across dealing with identity theft, always asking if she was being careful with her cards. So far, they'd never had a single problem. She was fairly optimistic that it would remain that way. And realistic enough to know that the cards were a necessity of life.

“In our case, it's safer letting the salesman run the card through than handing it to a family member—Julie,” she added when he looked at her, puzzled. His expression indicated no enlightenment. “Remember that first credit card statement we received her first month away at college?”

And then it came back to him. Brad shuddered. He'd forgotten all about that. Forgotten the misgivings he'd initially had, letting his only daughter leave home and go somewhere where he couldn't have daily contact with her. When the outlandish credit card statement had arrived, he'd blown up over the amount she'd charged in one month, but in his heart, though he admitted it to no one, he knew that it had
been a matter of displacement. The real reason for the fit of temper was that his baby girl was growing up and he felt cast off. That his role had suddenly diminished in her life and that he was only to take care of the bills, but not the girl.

Brad cleared his throat, pushing the memory away. Like everything else, he'd dealt with it. Fought his war quietly and gone on. “Julie outgrew that.”

Stacey laughed. “Lucky for us, not so lucky for the economy.” Brad's expression gave no indication that he saw the humor in her words. She addressed his complaint, hoping to put it to rest. “This is a reputable business, Brad. We just placed a sizable order and they require payment. We can't exactly carry around the kind of cash that we'd need to buy those cabinets.”

Cash was his payment of choice, but he had to admit that it was inconvenient when they were dealing with the amounts this remodeling venture was necessitating. “There are always checks.”

Stacey did her best to look sympathetic. “And if we did that, we'd be giving him our checking account number.” She managed the statement with a straight face, only to see the light dawning in his eyes. Oh, God, the next thing Brad was going to do was try to clamp down on the checking account. “I was only kidding, Brad,” she insisted wearily. “In this life, we have to take some risks. We can't just hang back, afraid to venture out.”

“I take more than my share of risks on the operating table,” he informed her, his voice distant. “I've got someone's life in my hands, Stacey. Do you realize what kind of pressure that is? One wrong move, one wrong decision on my part, and life as that patient knows it is over.”

She knew the kind of pressure Brad was under, knew that it didn't lessen as the years went on. Because each case was new. Each case was like the first one, except he had a little more experience to fall back on. That allowed him a measure of control that had been missing in the early years.

“Then this should be a cakewalk in comparison,” she pointed out. When he said nothing in response, she tried to tap into the cheerful feeling she'd had a moment ago. “I think maybe we've seen enough for one day. We bought the cabinets. I'd say we've made a great start.”

In response, Brad moved his shoulders restlessly in a half shrug. And then, as if her words played back in his head, he looked at her.

“A start?”

“Well, yes. A start,” she repeated. “We're not finished. We haven't picked out the tile for the bathrooms or the kitchen. And then there's the granite for the countertops and the tub for the master bathroom.” She enumerated the items as they came to her in no particular order. “Not to mention the fixtures—”

“Then don't mention them,” he barked, fishing in his pocket for his key. Any sense of contentment he'd fleetingly entertained was gone. The process wasn't over.

“Brad—”

Finding his key, he unlocked the driver's side door, then took a deep breath. “We're going to have to do this again, aren't we?”

When he wasn't snapping her head off, when he looked like just a tired husband, struggling to keep his end up, she could feel her heart softening toward him. “I'm afraid so.”

He frowned. “You know, there are people who get paid to shop for other people. Have you thought of getting someone like that to pick out all that stuff you just mentioned?”

“You mean like an interior decorator? No.” And they both knew why. Neither one of them would be happy with someone else's choices. “Because you just demonstrated that you have very specific tastes. If we do all those renovations and you wind up hating the way the house looks, then what's the point?”

He sighed, glancing down the long block. There were tile stores as far as the eye could see. Tile stores that they would probably be entering sometime in the foreseeable future. “I hate it when you talk logic.”

Amused, Stacey laughed. Impulsively, she rounded the car and came to his side. She kissed his cheek. It occurred to her that it had been a long time since she'd experienced that impulse.

Stacey
drew the calendar away from the kitchen wall and tugged until the nail gave way. It was the last thing she removed from the kitchen.

Calendar in hand, she stood back and glanced around.

The kitchen looked so barren. Just like when they first moved here. Except for the refrigerator, which was their first major purchase together. Up until that point, they'd lived in furnished apartments that could have easily doubled as shoe boxes.

The only thing they had brought with them in the way of furniture was a secondhand sofa that had long since met its demise. But before she'd called one of the local charities to pick it up, she'd moved it from room to room until it had finally found its way into the garage. The kids had loved it there, turning the space into their own special area. Julie had read books there, and Jim—he'd still been Jimmy at the time—had waged endless battles between his army of action figures.

The reason for the meandering path of the sofa was because she hated giving things up. Even as much as she wanted this remodeling, she was having trouble letting go.

“Stupid,” she murmured to herself. It was stupid to get sentimental over pressboard cabinets that were too dark for the kitchen and a floor that had seen many better days.

Putting the calendar into a drawer in the family room, she glanced at her watch. Almost seven. Stacey pressed her hand to her abdomen. She had no idea why she felt so jittery and unsettled. This was a good thing that was happening. She supposed maybe she was nervous because she'd been waiting so long for this to come about. Nervous that perhaps, just perhaps, the remodeling wouldn't go as well as she hoped. That had to be it. There was no other earthly reason for the existence of wild, dueling butterflies to be dive-bombing in her stomach.

Brad had left early this morning. Earlier than usual. He's said something about getting out before the chaos began. She laughed softly to herself, shaking her head. As if it was all going to be cleaned up by the time he returned home again tonight.

No, order wasn't going to be magically restored by the end of Brad's day. It wouldn't be back for a very long time. She made no attempt to drive the point home this morning as he left. With so much to do, she didn't have time for another heated discussion. And she was secretly glad he'd left when he did. Otherwise, Brad would be underfoot, questioning every move that the contractor and his people made.

That was just his way.

She opened the pantry doors for the third time, to make sure everything was gone.

Whenever he did get involved in something, Brad had a tendency to take it apart down to its smallest part, its lowest common denominator. Most people didn't appreciate the kind of intense questioning he was capable of. If they were being paid, they usually grinned without feeling and put up with it. Usually. She wanted nothing scaring off the workers. She'd waited too long for this to happen to suffer yet another delay.

They'd already had one. The order for the cabinets had taken longer than anticipated. The starting date for the remodeling had to be moved over. But Alex assured her there was no problem. Brad had laughed under his breath and assured her that there would be.

The doorbell rang. Stacey felt her adrenaline soar.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. At the sound of the chimes, the dogs began barking in unison. Dog was clearly taking his cue from Rosie.

“You two be quiet or you're both going to be locked up for the duration.” For good measure, she added a glare to her words.

Both dogs quieted down and trotted obediently behind her as she went to open the front door. Whenever Julie stopped by, she always had something to toss the dogs and they loved her for it.

But it wasn't Julie on her doorstep this morning. It was Alex. He'd brought two people with him. Apparently his crew consisted of a man and a woman. The woman was a head taller than the man and looked as if she could beat him in an arm-wrestling contest with little to no effort.

As for Alex, whom Stacey was trying hard not to notice, he wore a work shirt and jeans. The jeans were worn and had molded themselves to his body, acting like a second skin. And the sleeves were missing from the work shirt. The man had more arm definition at rest than most men had after a two-hour workout at the gym.

Her mouth went dry. Stacey wondered if she could get one last drink of water from the sink before it was ripped out.

Alex sipped coffee from what looked like one of the largest containers she had ever seen. When he saw her, he stopped
drinking. Lowering the container, he flashed her a bone-melting, sunny smile. His eyes as well as his lips were involved.

All of her was involved.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sommers. Beautiful day, isn't it? Ready to get started?”

Stacey took a deep breath before answering. “Absolutely.”

He laughed and the sound bathed her. She wondered if he was married. And what did that have to do with the price of tomatoes? He was her contractor and all that mattered was that he did a good job and hired good people. If he was married, single or having an affair with a turtle in no way figured into the job.

“Good to hear,” he said. Turning, he stepped to the side as he made the necessary introductions. “This is Joe and Alba.” He nodded at the man, then the woman. Looking back at her, he grinned. “They're here to trash your kitchen.”

Joe nodded his greeting without saying a word. He looked to be in his own world. Alba was his exact opposite. Flashing a friendly smile, the woman reached over to give her a hearty handshake. It was only then that Stacey saw the woman had a sledgehammer with her, its head resting at her feet while she held on to the shaft with her left hand.

“I just had a difference of opinion with my teenage daughter about the length of her skirt—I thought it should have some—so I'm dying to get started and work off a little tension,” she confided. Alba's gray eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Okay,” Stacey murmured, hoping that the woman knew when to stop swinging that hammer. “This way.”

Alba picked up her sledgehammer as if it was hollow. Stacey turned on her heel and walked back into her denuded
kitchen. Alex kept pace and entered the room right beside her. He held up his hand to keep Alba and Joe from starting.

Stacey looked at him, curious. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

Alex shook his head as he slipped his hand along her shoulder. “I just wanted you to take one last look around. Remember what it was—and envision what it's going to be. Are you envisioning it?” She slowly nodded her head, wishing that she didn't feel as if she should be gulping in air in order to sustain herself. “Close your eyes and see it with your mind, Mrs. Sommers.”

One of the scenes from the old movie,
The Rainmaker,
came back to her. A young Burt Lancaster, as Starbuck, was standing beside a very spinsterish looking Katharine Hepburn as Lizzie, one hand on her shoulder, the other sliding along the air as if to create images, weaving a spell and telling Lizzie to envision the possibilities that lay ahead—if only she'd risk a little.

Stacey's breath caught in her throat. She could see herself and Alex in those roles, as those characters. Except that he wasn't a rainmaker, and she wasn't a spinster.

With effort, Stacey shook herself free of the image and returned to her life. It was far from easy. She laughed, although it sounded a little fluttery to her own ear. “I'm afraid that right now, I'm having trouble envisioning getting dinner ready tonight.” Her pulse had accelerated, she suddenly realized. Just a beat faster than it normally went.

The contractor flashed her another one of what seemed now to be his endless supply of grins. “Have your husband take you out.”

Brad didn't care for eating out. Once, when they were
first together, eating out was special. Even grabbing something at a fast-food restaurant, their knees touching beneath a small table, had been special. But now, if they weren't going to a fund-raiser or some kind of function associated with the hospital, meals were taken at home. Or on the fly, separately.

She shrugged away the suggestion. “Most likely he'll probably get something at the hospital before he comes home,” she speculated.

“He can still take you out. You deserve it after all the work you put in,” he told her.

“Work?” Was he talking about her emptying out all the cabinets in the kitchen?

“Looking for someone to renovate your house,” he explained. His eyes swept over her once. A warmth shimmied up and down her spine in response. “Your husband's a very lucky man.”

Stacey sincerely doubted that Brad felt that way, especially after this last month. “Maybe you'd like to put that in writing,” she joked. When he looked at her curiously, she added, “So I could show him.”

For a long moment, Alex said nothing. He just looked at her. She had no idea what he was thinking. The grin on his lips softened into a smile that seeped into her bones and created havoc within her. “Anytime, Mrs. Sommers, anytime.”

Had it suddenly gotten warm in here, or was it just her? She moved to open a window. Normally, she left the windows on the first floor closed when she went to work, but Alex and his crew were going to be here, so she supposed it was safe.

Stacey cleared her throat, telling herself she was being silly. “I think under the circumstances you should call me Stacey.”

“Fine. Stacey.”

He said her name as if he was trying it out for size on his tongue. It was obviously a perfect fit because he nodded his head. And smiled.

The next minute, he turned to the two-person crew he'd brought with him purely for their expertise in demolition work. The man handed Alex a crowbar. He wrapped his fingers around it and gave the order. “Okay, Joe, Alba, time to get cracking.”

Stacey tensed as she heard the sledgehammer make contact with her pantry doors. The resulting sound reverberated through her whole body.

At least, that was why she told herself her body was vibrating.