I decide to leave the bath for later and give Suzanne a call about the contractors. She picks up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Suzanne, it’s Megan Dunn.”
“Hi, Megan! Did you arrive safely?”
“Yep. Came in last night.”
“How was the trip out?”
I think of gas stations and bad coffee, endless hours of staring at the tailgates of eighteen-wheeler trucks. “Long.”
“Yeah, that’s a hell of a drive. But I’m glad you made it. If it’s okay, I’ll come over later. I’ve got a little something for you.”
Realtors and their housewarming gifts. She better have bought me something nice, because though I got a good deal for the Buttercup due to all the repairs it needs, two acres of beachfront property still ain’t cheap.
“Sure, I’ll be here. Come over any time. I was calling to get the numbers of those other contractors in Portland you mentioned, but you can bring them with you if it’s more convenient.”
A short pause follows. “Theo wasn’t available?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t call him.”
“Why not?”
“I stopped at Cal’s Diner on the way in, and he was there, sucking up all the happiness in the place like a black hole. No matter how good a contractor he is, I’m allergic to assholes.”
Suzanne’s tone turns defensive. “He’s not an asshole. He’s just…been through a lot.”
Why is it that when a woman’s been through a lot, she’s expected to handle it gracefully with fake smiles and a stiff backbone, but when a man’s been through a lot, he’s given full license to storm around like a giant baby throwing a tantrum?
“Everyone’s been through a lot,” I tell Suzanne, my voice flat. “If you make it to thirty, you’ve got enough emotional scars to keep a therapist in business for the rest of your life. That’s no excuse to go around glaring at strangers like you want to chop off their heads.”
Her voice rises in surprise. “He glared at you?”
“Let’s put it this way: if the man had a chainsaw available, I’d be missing a few body parts.”
“You must’ve misunderstood. I mean, he’s not what you’d call friendly, but I’ve never heard him described as a glaring asshole before. He’s very hands-on with all his projects, oversees everything from start to finish, and is totally trustworthy and reliable. I recommend him to all my clients and have never heard a complaint.”
“Great, so it’s just me. Even more reason not to call him. I’ll see you later.”
I hang up before she can answer, because I know more defense of this Theo, Moody Raincoat Guy is coming, and I know I’ll only get more and more irritated listening to it.
I’m not the kind of woman who thinks surliness is charming. All these alpha-holes from romance novels have given women the wrong idea that bad manners are attractive. I also hate talking on the phone, which I stubbornly refuse to remember until I’m in the middle of a conversation, wondering why I didn’t just send a text.
I go back to cleaning and organizing, emptying boxes, and attempting to make a dent in the mountain of work I’ve got ahead of me. By the time I hear Suzanne’s voice calling my name, it’s six o’clock, and the sun is going down over the ocean.
It’s a spectacular sight. I stand in the middle of the master bedroom and stare out to sea, nearly blinded by the huge orange ball and its glittering reflection on the water. This alone might be worth the price of the place, even if I never fix a single thing. Born and raised in Phoenix, I’ve never seen a sunset over the ocean. I find it strangely moving.
Cass would’ve loved this.
“Megan? Are you in there?”
I cross to the glass doors that lead to the balcony, pull them open, and look over the edge. There stands Suzanne on the brick patio below, her neck craned and a hand shading her eyes as she stares up at me. Gusts of wind blow her dark hair all around her face. She waves.
“Oh, hi! Your doorbell isn’t working!”
“I’ll be right down.”
I take the stairs two at a time and head out to the back patio. It’s enormous, as wide as the house, with an excellent view down to the beach. Off to one side, there’s a fire pit made of huge chunks of stone thrown together in a circle, ringed by half a dozen ancient Adirondack chairs, which look so weather-beaten, I can’t believe they haven’t collapsed into piles of rubble.
I open the French doors and wave Suzanne inside. “C’mon in.”
She picks her way across the patio, careful not to twist an ankle on the uneven bricks. Why she’s wearing high heels, a short skirt, and a blouse unbuttoned almost to her navel to visit me is a question I’m not sure I want an answer to.