Page 33 of This Is How It Started
He’s scrolling through his phone and shows me an entry on his calendar with the house’s address. For all I know, he stuck it in there five minutes before he rang the bell and he’s Ted Bundy’s cousin.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“She said it was unlocked. I’m just here to take a few measurements.”
My eyes go to the tape measure clipped to his belt. His truck is parked in the driveway, and Bleu Construction is written in bold red letters on the side. Looks like he’s legit. I point him in the direction of the pool house. It only dawns on me as he’s halfway around the house that I didn’t ask what the measurements were for.
I race upstairs and throw on jeans, a hoodie and a pair of shoes, then cross the wet grass to the pool. None of the patio furniture has been covered, and everything has taken quite a beating. I find the man walking around the pool house, taking measurements with one of those surveyor’s wheels. I only know what it is because of Josh.
“What are you measuring for?” I ask, trying for friendly rather than nosy. This is no longer my family’s home, and what Brooke does or does not do with it is none of my concern. But I’m wildly curious.
“Your stepmother wants a bid for expanding it and adding heat.”
It sounds to me as if Brooke is considering Vrboing the pool house now. It’s just a studio with a bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. When I was a kid, my parents would let me have sleepovers in there with a few girlfriends. We’d make popcorn in the microwave and stay up all night, watching movies. On hot summer mornings, we’d wake ourselves up by diving into the pool and letting the cool water from the rock fall sluice over us and pretend we were in a remote lagoon in Hawaii. Sometimes, Campbell and I would rendezvous there while his father weeded and trimmed the lawn.
And now Brooke wants to open the studio, a perfect replica of the Queen Anne, to perfect strangers. Not my business, I remind myself. But it’s so bizarre. Is she planning to turn the entire place into a boarding house?
The question sticks with me until dinner, a cobbled-together meal of carrot sticks, smoked almonds, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I’m sitting at the center island, waiting for the water to boil for tea, when Brooke walks in. It’s the first time since I’ve moved in that we’re in the same room together. Typically, on the few occasions we’ve come face-to-face, it’s been in the hallway or the staircase, like two ships passing in the night.
I instantly freeze up, feeling awkward. Brooke, on the other hand, breezes in, wearing a pair of green scrubs and white clogs. Her hair is pulled back, and there’s not a stitch of makeup on her. She looks tired and, yes, even a little old.
She grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and joins me at the island. For a long time, we sit there without speaking.
Finally, I break the silence. “A man was here today to measure the pool house.”
“Shit. The guy from Bleu Construction. I totally forgot.” She rubs her temple and mumbles, as if she’s alone, “I’m working so many shifts I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”
“Why?” I blurt. She can’t possibly need the money. But between the guest cottage and the pool house, I’m starting to wonder.
Brooke looks at me and shakes her head. “Why? Because I enjoy having a roof over my head.” She says this as if someone with my privileged upbringing wouldn’t understand, which to be perfectly honest isn’t altogether untrue.
I know I’ve led a charmed life. First, with my parents, who made sure Hannah, Adam and I had the best of everything, including top-of-the-line orthodontia work and first-rate education, which I’m very thankful for. And second, with Josh, who did the heavy lifting as far as our finances were concerned. But Brooke wasn’t exactly married to a pauper. She’s sitting on millions of dollars’ worth of real estate, not to mention all my father’s other assets, including part of a lucrative cosmetic surgery practice.
So, save me the woe-is-me pity party.
“Do you know how much it costs to keep up this place?” She stares up at a brown spot on the tin ceiling, which is original to the house, or so my mother says. As far back as I can remember, the stain has been there. But it does seem to be spreading.
We go back to being silent until the whistle of the kettle rends the air. I pour myself a cup of chamomile.
“You want one?”
She appears to think about it for a beat, then says, “Sure.”
I find another bag in the pantry and fix her a cup.
She blows on the top of the mug, then tests it by taking a small sip. “Did the guy from Bleu say how much?”
“No. He took measurements and left. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you expanding it?”
“The cottage brings in four-hundred dollars a night. I figure with a little work, the pool house could bring in at least two fifty, even three.”
A quick calculation in my head says even if the two apartments are only occupied half the year, it’s roughly more than a hundred thousand dollars in income. Not bad if you don’t mind strangers roaming around your backyard.
“Why not just sell?” I ask, wondering if I’m crossing a line. I have no idea how private Brooke is about her finances. And I certainly hope she doesn’t think I’m angling for the listing, because I’m not. This house means everything to me, and to watch hordes of people walk through these halls, talking about all the things they’d like to rip out, change and refinish would make me physically ill.
She sucks in a breath and takes another sip of tea before resting her cup on the counter. I can tell she’s choosing her words.Mind your own business, Rachel Gold.What I do with this house is none of your concern.
“Your father wouldn’t want me to,” she says after a few seconds.
