Love on the Lake (Lakeside 2)

“I was wondering if the position for the house stager has been filled.” I point to the window where the sign is displayed.

“Not as far as I know. Do you have a résumé handy? What kind of experience do you have in staging houses?”

I pass over a résumé and try not to fidget. “I’ve decorated a few houses, and I’m a very quick learner.”

“Firestone is your last name? You wouldn’t happen to be related to Van?”

“I am. He’s my brother.”

And just like that his expression shutters. “I appreciate your interest, but we need someone with experience.” He passes me back my résumé. “Have a great day.”

I stop at two more places, and twice more I’m turned down. Once because they don’t think I’m a good fit, and once again because my address is in the city. It’s hard not to be discouraged or to let the feeling that I don’t belong take root. I don’t want to have to go back to Chicago, at least not right now.

I decide to take a break from the disappointment and make a stop at Harry’s Hardware, since I need paint supplies and some light fixtures to cover the bare bulbs currently hanging from the ceiling.

I pull into the parking lot and notice that many vehicles are pickup trucks. Normally my car wouldn’t stick out, at least not in the city, but here it does.

I shoulder my purse and head for the front entrance. I’m feeling self-conscious at this point. And my outfit is drawing more attention than I’d like, even though I thought I toned it down this morning.

I push through the front door and take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut wood, the chemical odor of paint, and the stinging bite of tire rubber. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a hardware store before, come to think of it. Thankfully, there are signs at the top of each aisle, telling me where everything is.

I grab a shopping cart and wander toward the paint department. For a small town it’s a pretty big store with a decent selection, although I’m assuming the mansion-size cottages on the other side of the lake have something to do with that.

I check out their wallpaper selection first, which consists mostly of country themes and floral designs. I stand in the middle of the aisle, tapping my finger against my lip as I browse their selection, looking for colors to complement the furniture I plan to bring back from Chicago.

I stop in front of a very cool geometric pattern in navy and white, which would look great with gray walls and yellow accents. I pick up several paint swatches, including a vibrant mustardy yellow. I can see the pieces coming together, especially with the neutral floors and the white country kitchen.

I bounce a couple of times on my toes and clap my hands once, squealing with excitement. I’ll need some fun art eventually, but first the basics. I stop at the paint desk, where a woman who looks like she’s fresh out of high school is standing, head down, clearly looking at her phone under the counter.

I wait for her to notice me, but after several seconds I give in and say, “Hi there.”

She startles and shoves her phone in her pocket as her cheeks flush. “Oh, hey, hi. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. How can I help you?”

I give her my brightest smile. “I’m a beginning painter, and I could use some help figuring out what all I need to paint my apartment.”

Her brow furrows as she takes in my outfit, assessing me, maybe. “Apartment?”

“More like a loft.” At least that’s how I would classify it.

She nods as if she understands. “Like the ones a lot of people put over their detached garage?”

It must be a popular thing to do around here. “Exactly.”

“Cool, cool.” More nodding. “So you need paint and stuff for the contractors?”

“No contractors. I’m going to paint it myself. I’ll need all the stuff: brushes, rollers, trays, and obviously paint.” I roll up on my toes, then force my heels to stay on the ground. It’s a nervous habit. One I need to get rid of. “Would you be able to help me out with that?” I’m not sure how much experience a high school girl might have with painting, but there’s a solid chance she’s more knowledgeable than me.

“For sure.” She leans on the counter. “Do you have the square footage of the space you’re planning to paint? How many rooms, what the dimensions are?”

“Hmm.” I tap my lip. I guess I should have realized I’d need that kind of information. “Let me check with my brother. I bet he has the blueprints.”

“No problem, I’m here all morning.” She smiles and pulls her phone out of her Harry’s Hardware apron, keeping it below counter level.