Page 10 of Mr. Fixer Upper
“Yeah, go ahead,” Gannon called after her. “Walk away and find someone else to exploit, princess.”
She heard a thud and knew he’d thrown his tape measure into the tent wall. For whatever reason, his tantrum made her smile. Every time he broke and she didn’t, she counted it as a victory.
She busied herself with the remaining items on her to-do list and promptly forgot about Gannon and his asshole-ish tendencies. Darkness fell, and Paige blew through the interviews with a speed and efficiency honed by years of experience. She’d gotten her start as a production assistant on a dating reality show. She knew which questions to ask that would get emotional answers and build good stories. Most of it was a ratings ploy. Taking exhausted volunteers who had strong feelings for the family they were helping and pushing a few buttons guaranteed tears.
Paige’s personal challenge wasn’t to deliver the drama, it was to deliver the truth. It always rang differently than a Frankenbite story that post-production cobbled together. Tonight’s volunteers were more than happy to sing the praises of the Russes, and with the family’s background there was no shortage of backstory.
She sat off camera while Mariel, a woman who had been homeless for two years before the Russes coaxed her into the soup kitchen and then their job placement center, made herself comfortable on the stool. She wore her bright greenKings of Constructionvolunteer shirt over a sweatshirt to ward off the evening chill. Her dark hair was pulled back in a stylish bun—her work hair, she called it. She clutched a tissue in her hand. “For the inevitable waterworks,” she told Paige.
“Well, let’s start there. What about helping the Russes makes you emotional?” Paige began.
Mariel rolled her dark eyes heavenward. “What about the Russes doesn’t make me emotional? I was a very young mom, and when my children’s father left, he took every dime we had in our checking account. I had no savings. I was working part-time as a cashier in a drug store. It wasn’t enough to support me let alone me and three children. We were evicted from our apartment and living in our car when one day Phil Russe saw us in the library. It was cold, and we were trying to stay warm, and the library was quiet and safe. He asked if we were hungry—” Mariel’s voice broke, and Paige gave her a moment.
“My little boy, God bless his heart, said ‘Yes, sir. We’re always hungry.’ And my heart just shattered into a million pieces. My children werehungry.” Tears glistened in those beautiful dark eyes. “I was failing them. They should have been happy and warm and safe, and I was failing them.”
Mariel took a shuddering breath. “But Mr. Russe didn’t judge. He just handed me a business card and said he had a hot meal waiting for us.”
Understanding the rhythm of storytelling, Paige prodded gently. “How long did it take before you went to the soup kitchen?”
Mariel smiled. “I had to make sure he was on the up and up, you see. So I used one of the library’s computers to look him up. We left for the kitchen thirty minutes later. And when my kids were having cookies for dessert, Mr. Russe brought Mrs. Russe out to introduce us to her. And my kids were never hungry again.”
Paige led Mariel through questions about the soup kitchen and the job center. The Russes helped Mariel find a better paying job, got her enrolled in online college courses, and gave her money to help furnish her first apartment.
“I paid them back, every dime, and started making contributions to their endeavors,” Mariel said with pride. “It wasn’t much at first, but I’m a vice president at a bank now. My two oldest are in college, and I fund a scholarship for teens who have been homeless.”
Paige smiled and wrapped up the interview. “That’s perfect, Mariel. I’m so happy for you and your family, and I know the Russes are really going to appreciate you being here and sharing your story.”
“Do you know that no one I work with knows my story?” Mariel cocked her head to the side. “I used to be embarrassed about my past, but now? Now it feels like something I can be proud of. I fought my way out of poverty, and now look at me.”
“Now look at you,” Paige echoed. “You should be incredibly proud of yourself.” She reached out and squeezed Mariel’s hand. “One last question. You’ve been a big supporter of the soup kitchen and the job center. You’ve already given back to the Russes. Why are you here tonight?”
Mariel straightened her shoulders, a single tear escaping her eye. “My family owes all that we have and all that we are to Mr. and Mrs. Russe. None of us will ever forget that. And so I am proud to give back to them in any way I can for the rest of my life.”
“I think that’s the perfect sentiment to end on,” Paige said, clearing her throat. She nodded at Rico who gave her a wink and started tearing down.
“Thank you so much for being willing to talk to us and for volunteering.” Paige offered Mariel her hand but the woman reached in and hugged her instead.
“Thank you for doing this for them. I can’t think of anyone who deserves something beautiful more than those two.”
Paige packed up her headset and gave herself a few minutes in the shadow of the craft services tent to swipe at her damp eyes. It was real people like Mariel and the Russes that made the rest of her job worthwhile. She may be dabbling in “drivel” as her mother liked to remind her, but she was also telling the stories of the brave, vulnerable, and triumphant.
“Didn’t know you were human, princess.”
CHAPTER SIX
Gannon’s rasp of a voice came from behind her, startling her. She took her time turning around, not wanting to give him any glimpse of weakness or humanity.
He was much closer than she realized when she came face to chest with him. She stuck out her chin and forced a cool expression. “What are you still doing here? Shooting wrapped hours ago.”
He reached out and swiped a tear off her cheek. Her skin burned where his thumb touched her.
“It’s allergies,” she shrugged.
“Whatever you say,” he told her amicably. “I’m here because I had to fix a hole in the tent, and I’m waiting for you. I wanted to talk to you—calmly and politely—about tomorrow’s call sheet.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being a smart ass or not.”
He crossed his massive arms in front of his chest. His stance was wide, powerful. “You may have had a point earlier,” he admitted, looking down at the toes of his boots. “A small one. Miniscule really.”
