Page 57 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Scotty doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.
He already made his point.
CHAPTER 20
CLÉMENT
“Okay,” Lucian grunts, wedging his shoulder against the bathroom wall. “On three, we lift. Gently. You keep saying this tub is ‘original,’ and I don’t want to end up with turn-of-the-century porcelain in my femur.”
“It’s vintage,” I correct, adjusting my grip under the clawfoot. “There’s a difference.”
“One, two, three!”
We lift. It moves.
Then something groans—no,shrieks—from beneath us, and there’s a horrible cracking sound.
“Put it down, put it down!” I shout.
We lower it faster than planned. One foot of the tub crunches into a cracked tile, and a jet of water—a literal jet—suddenly sprays from a pipe near the floor like champagne bursting from a shaken bottle.
Lucian jumps back, hands raised like the tub just bit him. “Didn’t you turn off the water?”
I scramble for the shut-off valve I think isbehind the old laundry chute. “I thought so! How many valves can a place have?”
We rush down to the basement, ducking to avoid the overhead beams, since this is mostly a glorified crawl space.
“Got it,” Lucian calls. The spray hisses, then dies with a cough as he twists the rusted valve. Silence falls. Damp silence that stinks like failure.
“Thanks—” I start, but something catches my eye
What is that?
I approach one of the floor beams overhead where something has been pinned to the wood. The closer I get, the more I start making out the details. It’s an old photograph. I’m careful as I remove the pin and take it down, lest it turn to dust in my hands.
It’s the house. My house. But in the photograph, it looks fresh and strong, which it needs to be for the twenty-or-so people standing on its front stoop. Children in old-fashioned outfits, adults with severe faces, there’s no doubt this is an original picture. But what strikes me are the two people standing at the top center, towering over the others.
While the others in the picture have faces frozen as we see in most old photos, serious and near-frowning, this couple has a soft expression. His eyes are crinkled, her mouth is curved at the corner, and their shoulders are affectionately pressed against each other in a way that must have been quite surprising at the time.
“Look at that,” Lucian says, looking over my shoulder. “I bet they’re the original family who lived here.”
Something about the picture, about that couple, has gripped me. They lived the life I’m trying to create now, in this same house. Family. Community.
A loud pop pulls me out of the dream, and water startsspraying sideways from the valve. I protect the photo behind my back.
“I’m on it!” Lucian whips a wrench from his back pocket and tightens it back into submission. He sighs and leans against the wall, dripping. “You may have bitten off more than you can chew here, buddy.”
I run a hand down my face. It comes away wet, dirty, and vaguely metallic. “I just need the bathroom functional,” I say as we start heading back upstairs. “That’s it. One room. And it has to be quick. I can’t bring in any professionals until the permit comes through. I just need it minimally livable.”
Lucian snorts. “Right. Nothing says ‘livable’ like structural plumbing failure. When you come up for auction, you’d better focus on your accent and not your DIY skills.”
I groan. “I’ve got to get out of doing this auction. Jamie told me I’m doing it like it’s a done deal, but?—”
“Hey, look. I get it.” Lucian passes me a rag, which I promptly use after securing the photo on a two-by-four out of harm’s way. Some disgusting liquid comes off my face. “But we’re all doing it for the sake of the town. Think of it as one of the hazards of the job. It’s just for fun.”
I know the guys have all been more involved in town-saving activities than I have, and it’s my turn. It’s just the idea that makes my stomach turn. Before I can say anything more, a voice floats up from the floor below.
“Clément?”
