1
Johnny
“Life is to be lived, not controlled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.”—Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
Sunlight flooded the space through the wall of newly installed windows, casting an ethereal glow reminiscent of a church at sundown. It bounced off the shiny hardwood flooring and sleek built-in cabinetry in the living area. Everything sparkled and shone like a shiny penny. Well, not everything. The cans of paint stacked beside the tower of scaffolding where the ceiling’s peak was at its highest ruined the illusion. Or maybe it was the death metal blasting through the speakers.
Nah, music was life. It brought depth and character to this otherwise blank canvas and made it feel a little more like home.
My home. My first ever actual house. I’d bought this place myself with my own hard-earned rock and roll money. No outside assistance and no roommate needed to help pay the mortgage. This was all me and damn, it felt good. A reason to celebrate for sure.
I played air guitar as I danced around a ladder, adding a screechy soundtrack for effect. When the song climaxed with a wicked crescendo, I fell to my knees, raising my phantom instrument above my head like a true rock god performing in front of twenty thousand fans. I held my pose, then collapsed theatrically with my arms and legs spread wide and a big, stupid grin on my face. My cell buzzed in my pocket before I could jump to my feet and take a bow to my party of none.
I sat up and answered my phone with a self-satisfied grin. “Marry me, Ann. I’m in love.”
The woman on the line chuckled softly. “I’ll pass along the proposal. This is Fiona, her business partner. She’s in Aspen at the moment, but I promised to check in on her famous client.”
I snorted. “I don’t know about famous, but thanks for checking in. Wyatt’s doing an amazing job.”
“And what do you know? I’m sitting here with Wyatt now, chatting about a few of our upcoming design projects. I’ll put you on speakerphone.”
“Hey, Johnny. What do you think?” a masculine voice inquired.
“I think it’s fucking amazing. I love it,” I gushed.
My contractor chuckled. “Which part? We still have a ways to go, you know. What do you think of the paneling in the entry?”
“Awesome.”
“And the tile in the master bathroom?”
“Freaking beautiful,” I replied, lying flat on my back to stare up at the ceiling.
I had no intention of darting from room to room to give them my report card, which I assumed was what this phone call was all about. Ann Berenson’s interior design firm was a well-respected entity, and Wyatt was a newbie.
Wyatt Pearson might have been new to the West Coast, but he’d been in the construction industry for decades and had an impressive résumé. He knew what he was doing. I’d trusted him to turn my mid-century ranch-style home into a modern retreat, and he’d delivered. He’d been diligent, timely, and thorough. It wasn’t quite finished, but I had no doubt that the end result would be spectacular.
Wyatt snorted. “Why do I have a feeling your eyes are closed?”
“They are,” I admitted. “But I took a quick peek when I got home from the studio. It’s really coming along. What’s left to do?”
“The guest bathroom, the closet installation, and we’re waiting on a few light fixtures. I wanted to start painting on Monday, but Ann wants to approve the colors first and—”
“Oh, shoot,” Fiona groaned. “She needs that color wheel.”
I heard them chatter amongst themselves. The gist was that Wyatt had left that very specific color wheel with a client or at Fiona’s ex’s house…I lost track. Ann was flying directly to Orange County to meet with a real estate agent who wanted them to handle staging and blah, blah, blah. They were kind of killing my buzz. I was about to excuse myself from their conversation when I realized the real estate agent in question was my friend’s mom.
“Look, if it’s important, I can deliver it. I’m going to see Dec’s mom at a barbecue tomorrow,” I interjected. “Get it to me before noon, and I’ll hand it over.”
“Oh wow, that would be a huge help,” Fiona said. “I’m going to call Ann from another line. Keep talking. I’ll ask Sean to get it to you. Thanks, Johnny.”
“Uh, sure.” The line clicked. “Who’s Sean?”
“Her ex. I just redid his home office,” Wyatt replied. “He lives a couple of blocks away from you.”
“Oh. Well, I’m going to run errands later. If you give me his address and ask him to leave the book on his doorstep, I can swing by his house tonight on my way home.”
“I hate to ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask, I offered. It’s not a problem at all.”