To Build a Home

18 | Old Flames

"Just don't stand behind me and teach me how to use a hammer like we're in a romantic comedy," I said to Darren.

It was early the next morning, the sun still making its long climb over the Pennsylvania mountains that bordered the east side of town, the grass, trees, and car windows damp with last night's rain. I was wearing my Baker Brothers t-shirt, jeans, and boots, ready to paint or caulk or measure.

The ride in Darren's truck was mostly silent. We listened to the weather forecast and the local news, each looking out our own windows at the town just beginning to stir. There was the paperboy on his bike in the neighborhood, the commuters filling up their gas tanks and ordering coffee along the main roads, and the shop owners in the town center unlocking their doors and flipping over the open sign. Occasionally, Darren would comment on the broadcast or curse at the driver in front of him, but we didn't talk about pizza or dancing or what he couldn't do.

Our first stop was a small town just outside of Windber. It took thirty minutes to get to Spring Hill on 160 North. The homes had dramatic stone facades on the front and large modern doors that were dark gray or black with long vertical handles. They were much larger than the homes in Windber, separated by lots of green space between them. We pulled up to a gorgeous cottage that sat on a hill with unused land for as far as the eye could see. There were countless trees on the property and a dark stone driveway.

"You won't be handling a hammer or any other tool for that matter," Darren said as we climbed out of the truck.

"Then what am I supposed to do? I want to help, Darren."

"Just watch and listen. Don't even say anything. I'm going to show you how to conduct an estimate."

As we made our way to the front door, a young woman opened it and welcomed us. Although it was early in the morning, she looked like she had been awake for hours. She had blonde curly hair and blue eyes outlined with black pencil, pink lipstick, and rosy cheeks.

"Amelia, this is Phil's brother––" Darren said.

"Oh my god. Is that Ryan Baker?" She pushed Darren aside so she could hug me. She stepped back to take a look at me, her manicured hands still holding onto my arms.

"You know each other?" Darren asked.

"He was in the grade above me at Windber. We were on yearbook together." She led us into the house. "Though I'm surprised to see you working for your brother. I would have thought you'd be in the city by now."

"I'm just helping out after everything."

"Oh, I'm so sorry about Phil. We wanted to be at the funeral, but we were out of town. Bill!" she called.

In school, Amelia had been involved in almost every club. She participated just enough to know what was going on and had an in with every friend group and grade. She moved seamlessly between crowds, which led to a random string of boyfriends. She had dated the head of the chess club, the class vice president, a football player, two basketball players, and a mathlete. Her ability to adapt like a chameleon also gave her a lot of power. She was one of the first people to hear the rumor that I had stalked Darren and spread it like wildfire.

"Now how ironic is it that you two ended up working together?" she asked. "You're not a couple, right? I'm only kidding." She laughed and tapped Darren on the shoulder. Darren winced. "I've been trying to set this one up with one of my girlfriends, Stacy, for ages, but he plays so hard to get."

"That's what I hear." I smirked.

Amelia guided us to the kitchen. The entire south-facing wall was floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the backyard. There was a long granite counter with appliances and a farm sink along the only wall in the kitchen and a large wood table in the center with a modern chandelier hanging above it with exposed bulbs. The ceiling was almost twenty-feet tall with large wood beams across it.