Page 48 of Ember Meadow
I roll my eyes as he grabs a red t-shirt from the countertop, shaking out sawdust from the material before he pulls it over his head. Air fills my lungs with relief now that I can focus.
“I’m here on a Saturday,” he starts, walking over to the doorway I’m standing in, “because I told you I’d fix your floor and I have a cattle ranch to run on the weekdays. The floorboards are more rotted than I thought they were, so I figured I’d have to demo this part of the floor. That’s a whole-day job.”
“AndItoldyouthat you didn’t have to fix the goddamn floor,” I counter.
“The goddamn floor needs fixing, Mac. If you want to help, grab a crowbar and start pulling.”
He turns around, grabbing the mallet again. Help? I guess I could help him. I’m wearing construction clothes anyway, since I was heading over here to paint baseboards in the first place.
“Fine, I’ll demo the floors with you. Just please, keep your clothes on this time.”
“I won’t make any promises,” he smiles, handing me some earplugs and safety glasses. The yellow-tinted ones we keep around for the crew.
It takes most of the day to knock out all of the brittle, rotting floorboards in the kitchen. Miles was right, they are in bad shape. We get into a good rhythm– me pulling up the nails and Miles knocking them out. Whoever built this floor in the first place did it well, some of the boards are pretty stubborn.
The very last ones are the hardest. They’re tucked underneath the cabinets just enough we can’t use Miles’s big mallet to knock them out of place.
“Hang on,” he says, running back to his tool box. When he returns, there’s a smaller rubber mallet in his hands, bright orange and filled with some sort of bead that sounds a little like a rain stick when it moves.
“Hold onto the board here, and I’ll tap it up from the other end,” he says.
I nod, taking a hold of the wood board with my gloved hands. Miles carefully taps on the underside of the board. It lifts up a bit more each time he hits it.
“It’s working!” I say. The board comes loose with a small thud against the cabinet above it.
We gather the tools, brush most of the dirt and sawdust off ourselves, then collapse on the porch swing cushions. My chest heaves, sweat plastering my hair to my shoulders and neck.
“I don’t think I’ve worked that hard on a demo in years,” I say.
Miles laughs with a nod. He’s not nearly as tired as I am. All that ranch work sure comes in handy I suppose.
“I’ll grab us some drinks,” he offers, standing up. “What do you want?”
“Water is fine.”
My phone buzzes with a notification in my pocket. I groan, moving to the side just enough to pluck it out. The screen lights up with a news notification, pulling another groan from my chest.
This can’t be good.
I have notifications on for any time either of my parents’ names are mentioned, as well as MacPherson Enterprises. Usually it’s a press release of some sort for the company, but this time my mother’s name stares back at me in a headline.
Florence MacPherson Announces New Project in Wyoming
I skim through the article enough to get the gist. She’s been interviewed by a local paper abouthernew project shehas worked so hard on. They ask her about the construction, her plans for the area, and how she came up with the idea to expand to Jackson Hole.
Her answers drip with entitlement and power. Each one carefully crafted by her team. My name isn’t mentioned once.
“There wasn’t any ice, but it’s probably cold enough from the fridge– hey, what’s wrong?” Miles returns with two of the mason jars we have been using at the cabin filled with water. His brows furrow with concern as he searches my face.
I force a smile and take the glass from his outstretched hand. “Nothing, just work stuff. It’s not a big deal.”
“What is it?” He asks again, sitting on the porch swing next to me.
“It’s just my mom,” I say. I pause, taking a long drink of water as he waits for me to continue. “She was interviewed for a newspaper and she basically took credit for this whole renovation, including the idea to come up here to Jackson in the first place.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” A dry, humorless laugh escapes my throat. I trace my fingers over the sparrow design sewn into the cushion of the swing. “It’s nothing new, I just have to get used to it.”
