Page 1 of His Build

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Graydon Mitchell stretched his arm out on the steering wheel of his truck as he took the corner of the country highway into Barkley Falls. He’d slept like a log after a long day of framing on his main job site last night. This morning, his muscles were paying for it. He was fit, but at 37, Graydon had to admit he didn’t recoverquiteas fast as he used to.

Let’s be real: he hurt.

But it was a good hurt.

Lifting a hammer was something he didn’t need to do now that he was his own boss at Grayscale Residential Contracting. But it was no secret amongst his crew that he loved rolling his sleeves up from time to time. Yesterday, Graydon’s second-in-command, Chris Slade, had called to tell him one of his framers had called in sick and he was having trouble filling the spot. Graydon had been up to his neck in paperwork at the office and had immediately offered to fill in.

“You sure, old man?” Chris had teased. He was four years Graydon’s junior and enjoyed reminding him of that. “Lotta heavy lifting for a pencil pusher.”

Graydon had growled. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

Even though Chris knew exactly what would happen when he called, Gray let himself claim the victory. Mostly he liked doing the hard labor because he didn’t want to forget how to do it. But part of him knew he was trying to fill some kind of hole he’d been feeling more acutely than usual these days. Lately, something wasn’t quite fitting together right. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

A familiar comfort settled into Graydon's belly as Lakeview Lumber came into view. The low-slung building and long piles of wood outside in the gravel parking lot felt almost as much as home to him as his cabin nestled in the corner of Emerald Lake. He used to come here with his dad, a carpenter, back before… well, back when he lived with his mom and dad and little sister. When they’d been a family.

“Hey Graydon!” a female voice called as he stepped out of his truck. Graydon turned to see a dark-haired woman in a form-fitting shirt and a few too many batted eyelashes leaning out a car window stopped at the red light next to the lot.

“Y’alright, Shelby?” He smiled at her, hoping it wasn’t too flirty. He wasn’t in the mood for a roll in the hay, especially not when it hurt to walk.

More batting lashes. Shelby Baker had warmed his bed more than a few times over the years, though it’d been awhile since they last got together.

“I’m alright, Gray. How come you never call anymore?”

“Been busy,” he said.

Shelby narrowed her eyes. But Graydon was spared from elaborating when the light turned green and she had to move on, waving a red-nailed hand at him. The truth was, he’d thought the fun he had with Shelby might fill the strange gap he’d had going on, but the last time they’d hooked up he’d left feeling more empty than before.

Graydon tried to shake the feeling off as he leaned on the cab of his truck, holding his phone out to check the text from Chris about what he was supposed to be picking up here. With the thing in his hand, he briefly considered texting Shelby to see if she wanted to get together this weekend. Maybe things were just off last time. Then he gave his head a shake. The Jones lake house was high stakes, both professionally and personally.

It wasn’t just any lake house they were building—it was a modern four-bedroom-and-matching-boathouse thing of beauty designed by Iwa Miyazaki, one of his favorite architects in the world. Graydon had a stack of coffee table books at home filled with her sleek modern designs. Alfred Jones, a hotshot lawyer in New York City who still managed to be a decent guy, hadn’t spared any expense in getting the job done right. He told Graydon he’d hired him because he was the best of the best up here in Barkley Falls. Jones had confessed he’d had to give up the lake house that had been in his family for years because of a property dispute last year. Because of that drama, he was meticulous about things being perfect the whole way through, from the land surveying to the view from the living room. While Graydon had high standards on all his jobs—it was why Grayscale was booked solid straight through to next year—this job felt special.

Graydon cut across the parking lot with his mind comfortably distracted on his work schedule over the final six weeks of the build. The designer to replace the fancy one who’d never showed up was arriving tomorrow, and he wanted the site to be spotless for them. He had words for the absentee designer. In his mind, when you signed up for a job, you saw it through, or else you helped make sure it got finished one way or another. But Graydon wasn’t looking after the design side of the job, so he kept his opinions to himself. He just hoped this replacement wasn’t half as flaky as the first.

There was an electronic chime as Graydon stepped through the automatic door of the building, followed by a decisive crash and accompanying cry of “Well, shit,” at the cash register.

An elderly Chinese man’s small lumber order—but big piece of lumber—had slipped off his pallet shopping cart onto the floor.

“Chuck!” Graydon called. The wood had narrowly missed the older man’s toe. He rushed to his side.

“Graydon,” the man said, relief washing over his features. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

“What are you doing trying to haul this load out by yourself? Let me help you get this to your truck.”

The older man let loose a weary sigh as they went out the door. “I’m not as nimble as I used to be, Graydon. I don’t know why I think I can manage like I did thirty years ago.”

“Hell, I’m not even 40 yet and I feel it,” Graydon said, his muscles twinging in agreement as he angled the cart toward Chuck’s truck.

Chuck scoffed. “Oh, how I wish I could be 40 again. Except for the kids. They were all pains in the butt when I was that age. You guys, too!”

Graydon laughed out loud at that. Chuck had been one of Graydon’s dad’s good friends, and he’d spent a lot of time playing with his kids way back when.

While Chuck dug around in the bed of his truck for some rope, Graydon balanced the lumber across the bed of the truck. Then he hopped over the tailgate and began propping the pieces up against the cab. “How were you planning on getting these up here yourself, anyway?” Graydon asked.

“Wait around until I found a young sucker to do it for me!”

Graydon laughed again, and Chuck launched into a story about a time he’d been fishing with Graydon’s dad, how they’d nearly capsized when they’d caught a giant carp. It was a story Gray had heard before, but there wasn’t a chance he’d remind Chuck of that.

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