Page 50 of Good Days Bad Days
Chapter 19
Charlie
Present Day
“That was built in the thirties. Big names performed there in the upstairs hall, like Eartha Kitt and Frank Sinatra. Mail is delivered by boat during the summer to all the lake houses. And that’s the public beach.” I point to the large octagonal brick boathouse, the Riviera, and the strip of sandy beach to the right of it, digging into the part of my brain that holds all the bits of information I learned in my years of school trips and history reports.
Olivia asked if we could take the long way through town as we drive over to the paused worksite, where Ian is meeting us and Olivia will meet her grandfather for the first time. My eyes are scratchy from too little sleep after a long night of catching up, and I’m taking my time with the tour, avoiding what comes next.
“And that’s the store,” I say on our final loop through town before heading to the house. I point to the two-story red building a block off Main Street. “My parents bought it before I was born.”
“Was it always an antique store?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, turning around in the parking lot. “The previous owners also ran it as an antique shop. It was once just a house, I think.”
I try to run through the very few memories of my father’s business. The two-story house is one of the handful of antique shops in town, my father acquiring pieces through estate sales, auctions, and private sales all over the Midwest. It always seemed like he brought in more supply than the demand of our small town, but now that I’ve been in the home renovation circuit for some time, I know better.
Lake Geneva is not only a summer playground for middle-class Midwesterners, but also flush with well-to-do families who own the hundreds of mansions that line the shore of the lake. Not to mention the other nearby communities with residents who have money to spend on a piece of furniture with a story behind it. With wealthy clients, once money isn’t a concern, it’s the uniqueness of an item that gives it appeal, and my father sells rare, unique treasures.
“And that was my elementary school.” I point to a brick building surrounded by fenced fields. “It was so close to the store, I’d sometimes walk there during lunch and eat my peanut butter sandwich at my dad’s desk.”
Olivia leans against the window, taking in the novelty, unaware of how many difficult memories these buildings evoke.
Dad’s shop, though cluttered in its own way, was a haven for both me and my dad. I’d do my homework in the upstairs storage room on a velvet chaise lounge my father always intended to have reupholstered. Even with the springs poking at my bony legs through the thin fabric, it was more comfortable than my own room, which by third grade my mother had started to fill with boxes.
When I was removed from my parents’ house, I imagined my dad moving us into his shop, me and him, clearing a few of the rooms so we could have a place to sleep. It seemed so easy to me, choosing to keep me instead of my mom and her belongings. And no matter how manybooks, photographs, or name tags I find in my mother’s hoard, I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand his perspective.
“I can’t believe you grew up here. It’s so ... sweet.”
“It’s a beautiful town,” I acknowledge wistfully, attempting to view it all through my daughter’s sheltered eyes, which grows more difficult the closer we get to the house on Lake Shore Drive.
When we finally arrive, Ian is standing in the driveway, holding two large disposable coffee cups, wearing the same coat and jeans combo as last night but with a different-colored flannel and a stocking hat instead of the baseball cap.
It’s no wonder this man is on television. He’s so ruggedly handsome, even with his somewhat obvious spray tan and bleached white teeth, that it’s hard to blame the women in his Ian’s Angels fan club. But I notice one difference between today’s Ian and TV Ian—this Ian looks like he hasn’t slept in a month, and his shoulders slump like they’re carrying a crushing burden.
“Hey,” I say to Ian when Olivia and I join him on the salted cement driveway. He holds out the drinks.
“Americano with oat milk and two pumps of hazelnut. And for you—a chai tea latte.” I take his offering in my gloved hands. I still haven’t put my ring back on.
“This looks like a”—he assesses the scene before him—“big project.”
“That’s an understatement. We’ve already removed six dumpsters full of junk.”
“Six?” Olivia chokes slightly on her chai.
“And we still have the main floor and the basement to go. Not to mention the yard.”
“Wow,” Ian says, though it seems like what he’s really saying isYou’re bonkers to take this on.
“Can we go inside?” Olivia asks, rising on her toes like she’s trying to see through one of the many blocked windows.
“I don’t know. It’s a little sketchy in there.” A familiar anxiety scratches at my throat, the same sort I felt as a kid when one of myfriends would ask to come over. I don’t want Olivia to see the house this way, to get a close-up of what my mother’s dysfunction looks like, what my childhood looked like. Not yet at least. “I’ve been promised the inspector will be here by Monday morning, first thing. Then Dino will be back to help with the next phase.”
I leave out Alex’s offer for the crossover episode. I still need to check in with Ian about Alex’s proposal and make sure we’re both giving a firm no.
“And your dad, he still sleeps in there?” Ian asks, bewildered. “If it’s that bad—no one should live here.”
“He won’t leave,” I explain, making a tsking sound. I try every single day to convince my father to leave the house, spend a night in my spare bedroom, or let me check him into one of the hundreds of available hotel rooms in town, but he refuses every offer.
