Mr. George walked in and politely put on his boot covers. “Yes, Ms. Ari. We did. Remember? I wanted to show you some more ideas for the master bath and some wood samples. Just got in some nice ones for the laundry room cabinets.”
I slapped my hand to my head, signaling my forgetfulness. I was supposed to meet him after choir practice. I ushered Mr. George into the kitchen and offered him a seat at the island. Mr. George was a short, graying-at-the-temples, man from Ecuador who had come to this country with five dollars and a dream, eventually building a multimillion-dollar renovation business alongside his wife. He was so well-known that the popular home improvement television networks had offered him a show. But, as he always recalled when telling the story, he turned them down because he’s about the work, not the fame. Network show or not, Flores Construction and Renovation was still famous in the city for their beautiful restoration work of craftsman style homes like mine. Now that he was a widower, Mr. George put all his energy into work. Sometimes, I would catch him looking at a photo of his wife on his cell phone and my heart would ache. Maybe someday someone would look at an old photo of me that way.
Sitting at the island that Mr. George had beautifully crafted, we both smelled the coffee that was finally finished brewing and smiled at each other. Without a word, I took down a cup for Mr. George, pouring him a generous amount. He hummed, “Hmmm... Café Bustelo?” I nodded, knowing that it was his favorite and mine too. I went to the fridge, retrieved the half-and-half, and pulled the raw cane sugar out of the pantry. Along with a spoon and napkin, I sat all of this on the island in front of George, who looked up from his iPad with concern.
“Rough morning, Ms. Ari?” he asked as he poured a little cream into his coffee and stirred. I noticed that he always made his coffee the exact shade of his forearm.
“More like rough night,” I answered as I poured too much cream and spooned an unhealthy amount of sugar into my cup. Clearly, I looked crazy; I hadn’t bothered to run a brush through my hair, I was in an old, fuzzy robe, and raccoon rings of mascara were around my eyes. My stomach rumbled with discomfort, signaling I needed to consume a little more than overly sweetened caffeine. I went to the bread box on the counter and selected two slices of raisin bread, placing them in the toaster. I leaned against the counter to wait.
“Well, I won’t be long, Ms. Ari.” George rolled out the blueprints and pulled out his iPad. “Listen, I know you’re sure of what you want. But I think we can do a tub and the shower you want in the master.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, what would I have to lose to get this, Mr. George?”
The handsome gentleman gave me a sly smile. “Just a little closet space.”
I shook my head. “No way, Mr. George. I need the extra closet space. Have you seen all my shoes? You know better than to ask a woman to give up closet space.”
We both laughed, taking sips of coffee between chuckles. His laughter reminded me of my dad, big and boisterous. I looked away, trying to focus on something else. Three years and the pain was still there like a picked-at scab.
“Yes, my daughters would kill me if I took their closet space. Okay. We’ll think of something else. Speaking of ladies, how is Se?ora James?”
I smirked. Real smooth, Mr. George. “Mama’s good. She told me to tell you hello.”
Mr. George, with his deep, sun-worn complexion, blushed. “Si. Yes, tell her hello as well. The scones were wonderful last week.”
“I will.” I nodded with a knowing grin. Old people flirting was so stinking cute.
“Anyway, back to this bathroom.”
I bit my dry toast and watched as Mr. George scratched his temple with a pencil. “I don’t know. But I really don’t want you to lose the space with just a big shower. Plus, the classic tubs in these homes. Very popular for resale. You’re an architect. You know these things.”
When George mentioned the shower, my mind wandered. Images of Porter, naked with me in my imagined huge walk-in shower with the dual rainfall showerheads. Our bodies all slick with soap. Porter, standing behind me, moaning my name like he did last night. My body up against the wetness of the glass and his hands going down my...
“Ms. Ari?” said George, interrupting me from my very erotic daydream.
I blinked. “Okay. Mr. George. I hear you. But... I really want the shower.”
Mr. George pulled out his pencil and pad to make some notes. “Okay, Ms. Ari. But I’m telling you, a nice, traditional claw-foot tub would be so elegant.”
I frowned. Clearly an old-fashioned claw-foot tub would be too small for me, let alone me and another person. Clearly, we were still at an impasse. “Let’s table it. In the meantime, can you just look at the tile I brought back from Italy for the bathroom? I just took it out of storage. We can at least get started on tiling near the vanity.”
Mr. George shrugged, closing his iPad. “If you say so. Now...about these doors in the laundry room...”
Mr. George continued to speak about the plans for the house, his voice eventually sounding like white noise. I needed to get rid of these thoughts of Porter. He would not consume me for the rest of the weekend. No fucking way. As Mr. George walked into the laundry area to take measurements, I pulled my cell phone out of my robe and texted Bella.
Me: Bella, are you free? Too much to text. Brunch later? Technically, it’s a late lunch/early dinner. Pick a spot.
I expected Bella to take the requisite twenty minutes to text me back, but she responded in seconds.
Bella: Bitch, where were you last night? Better yet, with who? I almost called Doris because I thought you had been kidnapped or something. Anyway, I’m down for some adult time. I’m starving. Leaving the girls with Zach. I’ll txt you the addy.
I snorted. I could always count on Bella to be there for two things in this world: food and me.
I watched as Mr. George opened the box of tiles. He hummed his approval as he carefully examined each piece of tile out of the neatly wrapped box, holding them up in the soft light of the bathroom. It was a smoky blue and pure white color in a baroque pattern. I had purchased them on a whim in Florence. They sat in my storage unit in Chicago for years with the hope that I’d use them to build my house with my future husband. When that idea crashed and burned, I tucked those tiles away and let them collect dust until I decided to move back home. Finally, I’d have a use for them. Those tiles deserve to be used and admired. Husband or not.
Mr. George looked up from the box, adjusting the pieces neatly back in place. “No worries, Ms. Ari. I’ll handle the tile with care. It’s beautiful. Very romantic, si?”
Still in a daze, I nodded my head, grabbing the collar of my robe. “I thought that.”
That and a hell of a lot more.