Page 3 of Salvaged Heart

3

BECKHAM

T he house itself was in much better condition than anyone had anticipated. Three of the five bedrooms needed little more than a thorough cleaning, a fresh coat of paint, and the floors refinishing. The primary required the most work, along with the second largest bedroom directly opposite it across the landing. The kitchen and all of the bathrooms would need to be gutted and redone as they hadn’t been updated since the early seventies.

Margery, who had flown in to meet with the realtor and home inspector on the second day, determined these areas should be the focus and where the bulk of the cash would be spent. The rest of our time and energy would be put towards the cosmetic restoration of the formal living room, dining room, third-floor study, and grand foyer.

“Anything else won’t add much to the selling price. Families want to redo bedrooms and casual spaces the moment they move in. No sense in wasting your resources on something that the new owner will change.” The realtor had advised. “The outside of the house will be a major selling point, so invest in any outdoor repairs that might be needed. New siding, front door, and the landscaping needs a major overhaul.”

Margery had pursed her lips together during most of the walk-through. Having volunteered to front the cash for renovation and now faced with the sheer cost of supplies and work needed, she was starting to look a little pale.

“I can do a lot of this myself.” I’d offered that night over take-out pizza and five-for-five dollar wine coolers. “My dad is a contractor, and I spent much of my childhood on job sites, helping out and learning the trade.” This seemed to lighten her mood a little, “And some of this furniture must be worth a small fortune. We should get an antique dealer to assess it before deciding what stays and what goes. I am sure you could sell a lot of it on consignment. People in neighborhoods like this one are always looking for original pieces like these.” This earned me an approving nod and the task of calling around town the following morning to find someone for the job.

Next came the home inspector, who strolled around the house, tapping, measuring, grunting, tutting, and talking to himself for over three hours while we followed him silently, biting our nails before he determined that the house was structurally sound. Besides a few rotten boards on the back porch, a minor and easily fixable electrical issue in the library, and some water damage in the kitchen, the house was given a surprisingly good bill of health considering its old age.

“I would get someone out to assess that water damage. It doesn’t take long for mold to grow, and we have no idea how long that has been sitting idle.” He gave each of us a firm handshake, including Anders, who had been notably absent for the majority of the day but had reappeared in the last thirty seconds with a sketch pad grasped in his hands. “I can’t wait to see what you do with the place.” The inspector left with a tip of an invisible hat.

On the third and last day of Margery’s whirlwind visit, the girls broke off on their own to select paint colors, tile samples, and wood varnish—all things men could not be trusted with—leaving me and Anders to begin ripping out the kitchen cabinets.

“I wouldn’t expect much help.” Laurel had muttered on her way out the door that morning. “If he didn’t keep showing up at meal times, I would have forgotten he was here already.”

“Who knows, throwing a sledgehammer around this place might be enough to tempt him out of his room,” I answered with a shrug. “You don’t need to worry about it. The house will still be standing when you get back.”

She popped up on her toes to kiss me softly and then disappeared into the passenger seat of Margery’s rented Kia. I watched them take off down the driveway before heading back into the house in search of my supposed demolition partner.

I found him sitting in front of the large bay window in the room he had earmarked for himself. It looked out over the lake, but instead of gazing at the view, Anders sat with his legs tucked almost to his chest, brow furrowed in concentration, a pencil flying over the surface of the same sketchbook I’d seen him holding yesterday. Rays of early morning light came through the window, casting a hazy glow across his bronze skin. He was much darker in complexion than Laurel’s stepmother, who I had met on many occasions. Laurel had once told me Anders’ father was African American, but other than his tanned skin and soft ringlets, he was the spitting image of his mother. As elegant as well, if such a thing could be said about a man.

He looked so peaceful sketching away that I was hesitant to disturb him. It took me several minutes to realize I’d been standing in the doorway, staring at him.

Feeling my eyes on him, he lifted his slowly. “Most people knock.” He smirked, but his tone was friendly and inviting as he ushered me into the room.

“Laurel didn’t tell me you draw.” I nodded at the sketch pad in his hands, and to my surprise, he held it out towards me, the page facing down.

“I don’t think she knows I do. I was artistic as a child but hadn’t drawn for several years before our parents married. I picked it back up recently to keep my hands occupied.”

I flipped the book over, immediately stunned. “This…is incredible.”

The page showed a life-like rendering of the manor’s grand lobby. However, instead of depicting it in its current state of tired disrepair, it showed it fully renovated. The image was black and white, but somehow, Anders managed to capture how the light reflected off the refinished hardwood floors, the fresh paint, and the less dated chandelier. A new banister ran up the sweeping staircase, and in the background, replacing the old wooden door that led out onto the back porch, there were now gorgeous glass french doors. If I closed my eyes, I could see the image in full color as if it were the actual room before me.

“This would be stunning.” I tapped my finger on the french doors in the back.

“If we line it up just right, you could stand on the front lawn and see all the way through the house out onto the lake.” He pointed over the page, showing me how the light flowed through the space.

“I love that idea.” I lifted my gaze to meet his hazel eyes, noting they looked lighter and more focused than they had the days before. “You’re good at this.”

He looked away, giving me an uncharacteristically shy nod in thanks, and took the book from my hands, placing it on the side table next to the bed.

“I have always had these imagined spaces—rooms, landscapes, architecture—just floating around in my head. But I can’t always reach them. Most of the time, they get stuck somewhere between my mind and the end of my pencil.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I plowed ahead with the mission that had brought me upstairs in the first place. “The girls headed out a few minutes ago. I was going to start tearing out the cabinets in the kitchen. Thought you might get a kick out of taking a sledgehammer to this place.”

A chuckle came from deep in his chest, and it struck me that it might have been the first sincere laugh I had heard from him. “You thought right.” He grinned. “Give me ten minutes, and I will meet you there, yeah? Don’t start without me. I think I have earned the first swing.”

I gave him a nod and left him in peace.

True to his word, Anders met me in the kitchen ten minutes later. An old, scraggy T-shirt replaced the soft linen one he had been wearing when I stopped by his room, and an unlit cigarette hung from his lips. “You mind?” He motioned to it.

I did, but I shook my head regardless and mumbled, “Not at all.”

He gestured next to the hammer, sitting at my feet. “I’d presumed you were joking about taking a sledgehammer to the house.”

“I mostly was.” Unscrewing the cabinets would be quicker and less messy than smashing them into a million pieces that would take hours to clean up. “But I figured a swing or two each could be a good bonding experience.”

“Maybe by the time Laurel and Margery return, we could be braiding each other’s hair.” He scoffed, picking up the hammer. “Any special instructions?”

I passed him a pair of work gloves and safety goggles, then put on my own. “Stick to swinging that at the cabinets. I don’t want to risk taking out something integral to plumbing or the electrical system.”

With a final nod of understanding, Anders raised the hammer over his head and brought it down in one fell swoop, smashing the cabinet he had been aiming at to the floor. After that, he became a man possessed. The hammer was heavy, but he wielded it effortlessly, bringing it down on each set of cabinets, tearing down all but the pieces screwed into the wall. I had intended to let him get a few swings out of his system before redirecting him to a more civilized approach, but, as I had predicted earlier, he needed this release. I watched him work for several minutes, noting the subtle ripple of muscle as he smashed at the wood like it had personally offended him. Then, coming out of a haze, I forced myself to go to work, gathering as many broken pieces as possible and dragging them out to the dumpster that had been delivered the previous afternoon.

When I re-entered the kitchen, Anders had ended his destructive rage on the cabinetry and stood, catching his breath in the center of his self-created chaos. His eyes were glazed, and sweat beaded his forehead, but a devastating grin was plastered across his handsome face. He threw back his head as a slightly manic laugh left his mouth. It started deep in his chest and rumbled out of his throat, morphing into something that sounded more like a scream by the time it ended.

It was evident from the unbridled moment that he hadn’t heard or seen me re-enter, so I gave my best “incoming” cough and shuffled my feet, alerting him to my presence. He jumped slightly and whirled around, erasing the mania from his eyes in half a breath.

“Do therapists know about this?” He chuckled, still gasping slightly. “That might be the best I’ve felt in a long time.”

He looked years younger, like each swing had taken down a personal demon instead of fifty-year-old cabinets.

We worked alongside each other in companionable silence for the remainder of the day, falling into a rhythm of hauling debris and unscrewing the remains of the desecrated cabinetry from the walls. He was a surprisingly hard worker and seemed to know his way around most tools. Laurel had made it sound like Anders was an uptight city boy who would have little to contribute to the project. Still, so far, he was proving useful indeed, and considering his eye for interior design, the house would look amazing once we were through with it.

Around eleven a.m., Anders made his way to the little mini fridge we had plugged in the kitchen corner and produced a beer from within. “You want one?”

I gave a gentle shake of my head. “Nah, I don’t drink it.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrow in question. “Like at all?”

“I never developed a taste for beer. More of a wine and fruity cocktail kinda guy.”

“Right.”

He looked conflicted, like he should put it back, but I waved him on. “I’m not stopping you, man.”

“I’m sure Laurel will have a field day when you tell her I’m drinking before noon.”

“Why would that be something I need to tell her?” I shrugged, returning to a particularly tight bolt that did not want to come loose from the bracket holding the corner unit on the wall.

Within moments of meeting Anders, I’d decided that until he gave me a reason to feel otherwise, I wouldn’t let Laurel’s feelings toward her stepbrother influence my own. He seemed like a decent dude and was obviously working through something he didn’t care to share with the rest of the world. Being hostile toward Anders would do nothing to help mend the rift between Laurel and him. So, I’d tread on the side of caution and stay the hell out of it.

A click of the can lid a moment later told me he’d made his decision. “You should know.” His voice barely more than a whisper. “Everything Laurel has told you about me is true.”

“I don’t believe that.” I returned my full attention to him. “At the very least, I know every story has two sides.”

He took a long drink, and my eyes tracked the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. “And my side? I presume you want me to tell you that?”

I shook my head. “Not unless you want to.”

Getting him to share his side would mean admitting Laurel hadn’t told me the story at all. So, we left it at that. But later, when I pulled the cover over the dumpster and saw five beer cans and an empty bottle of vodka sitting on top of the dismantled kitchen, I couldn’t help but feel like maybe he had needed me to ask after all.