Page 31 of She Was Made for Me

Three days have passed since lunch with Rich and Di, and Violet and I have kept our distance from one another. I don’t know if she figured out what I was trying to say the other night—what Ididn’tsay—and I’m trying not to think about it. She’s right; we need to focus on the project then return to our normal lives.

I’ve kept myself busy with the crew doing demo, which we’ve just finished. They’re a nice enough bunch—two guys in their sixties called Bob and Dale who have a lot of experience on restoration projects like this, a young guy around Violet’s age called Phil who’s pretty green but a quick learner, and a guy in his forties called Ryan who’s a bit of a joker. They’re hardworking and listen to what I say, and I haven’t yet seen one of them leer at Violet, so I’m happy.

Today we’re beginning to frame up the bedroom walls upstairs, now that we’ve demolished all the damaged plaster. After an hour of work, I remove my tool belt and leave the guys to meet with Owen, the realtor Violet contacted at Rich’s suggestion.

Violet’s already at the door when he arrives, leading him inside as I appear in the foyer. Owen looks to be in his mid twenties, in a crisp navy-colored suit with shoes so shiny I can see my face in them. His hair is blond and swept to one side with an inordinate amount of hair product, his jaw clean. I’m not too manly to admit he’s a good-looking guy, and as Violet’s eyes follow him through the doorway, I can see she’s noticed it too.

He shakes Violet’s hand enthusiastically as they make introductions. His gaze sweeps across her figure when she glances away, following the curve of her hips to her cleavage. I can’t help but clench my jaw in irritation as his eyes swing to me.

“And you must be Violet’s father?” He extends his hand and I shake it stiffly.

I already hate this kid.

“No.” I may grip his hand a little harder than necessary.

“Forgive me,” he says, not looking even slightly remorseful. “She mentioned in her email that her dad owned the place, so I assumed…”

Beside me, Violet snorts a laugh into her hand.

I frown at her, then at Owen. “I’m the foreman. Her father is a friend of mine.”

“Right. Of course.” He flashes a dazzling smile at Violet and she practically swoons. I trail behind as she leads him into the parlor.

“This is quite the place you’ve got here,” Owen remarks, glancing around.

The house is a mess at the moment, as we’ve ripped several of the plaster walls out to re-frame and re-insulate, exposing the rough brick underneath. It pained me to see some of the beautiful molding torn down, but it was too damaged to salvage. We’ll replicate any of the molding that was lost, and I must have taken hundreds of photos to ensure it gets redone properly. I open my mouth to tell him as much, but Violet speaks first.

“We’re in the middle of working on it, obviously,” she begins, “but what we hope to achieve is a contemporary feel without losing any of the historical features of the building.”

Owen smiles, apparently impressed. “These old places are cool. It’s nice to see you keep the original features rather than remove them.” He glances at me and I nod begrudgingly. At least he can appreciate that.

“I agree,” Violet says, and I swear to God she’s fluttering her eyelashes. “Shall we start the tour?”

“Absolutely.” Owen grins—two rows of perfect white teeth that make me think of a cartoon shark.

They turn for the stairs and I hesitate. I’m tempted to leave them to it so I don’t have to witness whatever the hell is going on here, but the thought of leaving her alone with him makes my stomach roil. I tell myself it’s because I’m supposed to be looking out for her, nothing else.

Heaving a sigh, I plod up behind them as they ascend the wobbly staircase, feeling like a chaperone on prom night.

“As you can see, it’s a blank canvas at this point,” Violet says. “But we’ll have two large bedrooms here, with walk-in closets.” She motions to the ceiling. “We’ve lost some of the plaster moldings in the demo, but they’ll be replaced with ones that perfectly match the originals.”

“Nice,” Owen murmurs, but his gaze isn’t on the ceiling at all, and I want to kick him.

Violet’s oblivious. “It’s a very specialized art, replicating plaster moldings. We’ll have a professional do them.” She turns to Owen with an amused expression. “I was reading the other day that the original plaster contained crushed limestone or shell, and was often mixed with cattle hair.” She giggles—she fuckinggiggles. “Isn’t that gross?”

Owen laughs too. “Yeah, it kinda is.”

“Of course,” Violet continues, with an air of expertise, “after around 1830 a lot of the ceiling plasterwork was mass-produced by steam-powered machinery, and made from papier-mâché or stucco, so I’m not sure if these are true plaster.”

“They are,” I mutter, but neither she nor Owen notice.

He gestures to the floors. “What’s the plan here?”

“Oh, we’ll restore the original oak flooring. It’s too precious to lose. Any damaged boards can easily be replaced by taking them from spaces where they won’t be missed, like the upstairs closets.”

Owen looks impressed. “That’s a good idea.”

Yes. It is.

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