The Purple Mansion on Maple

CHAPTER ONE

Rachel hadn’t stopped chattering since they merged onto Interstate 5, and Louise Chapman thought to herself that she had raised an intelligent, communicative, passionate chatterbox. It was ideal then, that Rachel was headed to the University of Washington’s Law School; if nothing else, she’d outdo any opponent with her sheer volume of energy and persistence.

Rachel’s bright green eyes were dancing along with her gesticulation. Her knees peeking out from her ripped jeans knocked together in her fervent, one-sided conversation. It wasn’t that Louise didn’t want to engage or add to it--but there was little room between her youngest daughter’s flow of passionate facts and concepts for her to slip in more than a murmur of agreement. Carrying the burden of knowledge with so little life lived to provide context for it, she thought.

“But mom, mom, can you believe that this is going on right now, right here, under our own noses. It could be that house--” she motioned to a row of houses whizzing by the car window as they neared Seattle-- “or anywhere. There could be kids trapped right now, women subjected to the worst imaginable situations, being drugged...it’s just all so insane.” She paused for a second and adjusted her hair tie in her dark brown hair. Louise used the opportunity to interject.

“You’re right, sweetie, it’s heartbreaking. But please do remember that there will always be evil in the world, and your job is to find and bring out the good. Hungry? Lunch on campus or do you just want to get settled in?”

They pulled into the parking garage under Rachel’s dorm. Rachel reddened a little before looking at her mother sheepishly. “Actually...I already told Icarus I’d go to the cafe with him in like twenty. Hope that’s ok, mom...I mean, I am only an hour and half away…” Rachel, the powerhouse of energy, the driven youngest, looked very much like the little girl of years past asking for forgiveness after doing something rather than permission ahead of time. It was fitting, and Lou was strangely at peace with it.

“I love you, Rachel. Have fun. And find a boy that doesn’t have a man bun and a ridiculous name to bring home for Christmas.” As if on cue, Rachel’s phone buzzed with a text, and she rolled her eyes with a smile.

“Love you, mama.” The door slammed shut as Rachel bounded toward her gangly, hipster boyfriend of the moment.

And with that, Louise Chapman was officially alone.

It took a full forty minutes of traffic before Lou realized she could listen to whatever she wanted, so she did.

It took an hour to realize she could just stop and eat anywhere, so she did. She grabbed a rice bowl and spicy teriyaki chicken, sat silently, and ate as traffic died down to a more manageable level. It felt like she’d been sitting for an hour, but a quick look at her phone informed her she’d been sitting for a total of 13 minutes; it was too quiet without Rachel. It wasn’t that she was unaccustomed to being alone--Rachel had friends, activities, a life outside of the house. It was as though she was terribly conscious of how her youngest wasn’t just out for the moment--she wasn’t coming back. Louise sniffed and shook her head, tucked her dark blonde hair behind her ear, and looked at the raindrops beginning their light decent on the sidewalk outside. She paid, waved thanks to the waitress, and headed to her car.

She planned to listen to a podcast, maybe a few songs to lighten the mood. But even as she scrolled through her phone for something ideal, or even moderately entertaining, she knew she just wanted silence. She sighed and turned on the windshield wipers as she accelerated onto the freeway. It wasn’t until she exited I-5 toward home that she let herself cry a little at how empty her car, her heart, and her house would be.

Louise thought about her wedding day to Rachel’s father. She had found him charming, interesting, and typically relaxed about crises and surprises. She found that his mellow character and lack of upset comforting; her own father had been a loud, chaotic narcissist that troubled Lou’s mother until his death when Lou turned sixteen. She’d remembered her mother remarking that it would have been much more convenient had he been more proactive about doing so, as Lou was nearly grown and she’d plan to leave in a few years anyway. Lou chuckled a little as she drove, the rain pattering down on the windshield of her hatchback as her thoughts returned to the nearer past.

Ashton had been so handsome. His family rarely spoke to one another, but Ashton managed to drift in and out of their lives with some relative ease. When Lou and he agreed to marry, it was more of a shrug and mutual acceptance; Lou’d never been one for dramatic, insincere gestures, and so it fit.

After six years of marriage and two children, Ash started going out less and less to work and pleasure functions. He’d sit at home, often clicking through mindless TV, convinced that his willingness to have Ellen and Maggie sit with him in the evenings was sufficient parenting. When Lou wanted to work less and be with the girls at home, he balked at the premise of being away more to compensate; he worked minimally until Lou finally found he’d lost his job. Behind on everything, she remembered debating if she loved him enough to coach him through the loss of work, the loss of direction, and the disinterest in being a father more than a few hours a week.

When Rachel was born, she couldn’t manage. Ellen was a bigger help than her apathetic, pseudo-partner, and by the time Maggie faced middle school, Lou had moved out with the girls and constructed a parenting plan. Ash never cared to adhere to--or even really read--it. He moved to Cancun shortly after and, ostensibly, lived a life of relative poverty, relaxation, and lack of responsibility. Lou built her community marketing business slowly over the years while working for other people to get by--and had never once regretted showing her daughters that a woman can stand alone, and stand strong, and push them to the same success for themselves. Rachel was living proof in the most obvious of ways--intelligent, quick, determined--and now, flying the nest and leavin Lou to her thoughts.

CHAPTER TWO

Lou drove slowly down Maple, the connecting neighborhood road prior to her little rental. She always loved this street, with its maple and oak trees taking center stage despite being on her peripherals. The mighty trunks twisted upward and framed each craftsman-style house, unique in their own ways, as they sat back from the street in a resigned and stately manner. At the next corner, the ever-present “For Sale” sign stood against the mammoth light purple house in the background. The realtor changed from time to time, but the house was far too large and run down to appeal to local buyers. Lou drove slowly past, and thought again how beautiful and stately it was, despite it’s sad life as an unwanted attraction. Louise found herself stopped in her little VW hatchback, staring at the windows, the roof, the unfinished conservatory on the corner of the structure. She pulled out her phone, and did a quick search.

“Listed in...2004? Sheesh, that’s a while. Dropped to $375,000 this spring...eight bedrooms, conservatory--oh my gosh that’s prettier than I thought…” she continued perusing the house’s insides from outside until a sharp knock on her passenger side window jolted her to attention.

“Hey! Oh, crap, sorry Lou,” apologized Marcy, Lou’s neighbor, friend, and owner of the most annoying dog the planet had ever hosted. It was currently yipping incessantly at the wind, or leaves, or the house for all Lou could tell. “Maggie’s been waiting at yours for like an hour, I think. I asked her in while she waited but she just said it was a mom-only moment. I just...I don’t know what to say to her. So I took Elmer for a walk...what are you doing?” It was as though Marcy just realized Lou was sitting six blocks from home staring at her phone.

“Thanks, Marcy, just wondering about the purple mansion here,” chuckled Lou. “Wonder what fresh hell Mags has dug up. See you.” She drove down and over the six blocks, saw Maggie’s decrepit Volvo station wagon parked poorly in the drive, and sighed. Why can’t you park more thoughtfully, Mags? She thought to herself. Now I have to street park and move the car later, when you could have just been a little more considerate. She immediately felt guilty for such thoughts when she saw Maggie’s bright red hair bobbing up and down, face in hands, and knew she was sobbing.

Once Maggie was inside, glass of wine poured, and settled on the sofa, she was able to relay the details of her latest fiasco.

“Oh mama, it’s horrible,” she began. “I had a show lined up at the Blue Horse Gallery, and now it’s all off. They won’t show my work there. It was mortifying.”

“Back up, Maggie. The Blue Horse is Adrienne’s dad’s place, right?” Lou had a sinking feeling that Maggie had once more used her incredibly attractive, yet recklessly impulsive personality to walk into and out of an opportunity all at once. Be kind, she thought. She flicked on her mother-mode and suspended judgement. Maggie took a sip of wine and tipped her head back. Even with a little age, a little weight, and hair a mess, Louise couldn’t help but notice the natural beauty of her only redheaded child. A wild card from the start, Magdelaine Chapman could never wait for the world to catch up to her.

“Mom, I totally screwed up. I got the gallery display and show because of Adrienne, and her dad was all excited about my work, and we ended up having dinner, which was then drinks, which then led to lots of really terrible decisions. Adrienne found out and she’s furious and weirded out and hates me and hates her dad and now I can’t do the show. It’s so embarrassing.”

Lou sat in the information for a moment, and decided to advocate for her daughter, even if her daughter didn’t feel worth it. Lou tipped her daughter’s freckled chin up to meet her eyes, and said with as much conviction as a mother defending her daughter would. “Magdelaine,” she said softly, “You are an idiot.”

Maggie burst out laughing, tears welling in her eyes, as Lou continued. “But you are my idiot. You are 28 years old, an accomplished and talented artist, and you fall in love like a toddler falls over uneven ground. Call Adrienne. Tell her what you told me. Insist she is worth more to you than a show, a fling, or an awkward moment. Don’t ask for the gallery display back--but ask for her friendship. That’s worth saving.”

Maggie hugged her mother tightly, and inhaled the sweet smell of floral soap and clean linen. She would always know her mother’s smell--it was a delicate feminine touch that she was so adept at constructing. Maggie’s younger sister Rachel always said mom’s style was functional and modern with her pressed high-waisted slacks, tucked-in tops and trendy cardigans; Ellen, as the eldest, would refuse to comment because it was rude to do so. Maggie, ever the middle child, ever the artist--she’d just breathe in her mother’s scent and think her the most beautiful, safe person in the entire world.

CHAPTER THREE

As Louise waved goodbye to Maggie, one and a half bottles of wine later, she ventured down the drive to re-park her car. She chastised herself that at 49 years old she should know not to follow hairbrained ideas, but the wine had loosened her steele-like grasp on reality and function. She drove the brief distance to the purple mansion on Maple, and parked audaciously in the drive. It was barely seven in the evening, but the summer months elongated the feeling of afternoon and she was determined to ride out her idea, at least for a little longer.

She peeked in the windows on the first floor. The yard was unkempt, the porch stable but in disrepair. The door was, of course, locked, but the large windows gave such an indication of the interior that Louise was shocked at how much she adored the woodwork, the floors, the high ceilings, and the incredible space. Her own tiny house was cozy, warm, and suitable for two. Or one, now that Rachel was away at college. Those floors are just ridiculously beautiful. I wonder if they redid some of them? Look at that fireplace!

She walked around back, taking in as much as she could before her fear that she’d be labeled a trespasser overtook her and drove her back to her house. She flicked open her laptop, found the house, and without a second thought hit “send” on the standard, I’m interested in 1219 Maple St.

Her phone rang moments later. “Hello?” Lou answered.

“Hi, Mrs. Chapman, this is Gary Bridge, Bridge Realty. I’m calling this evening because you’d indicated you’re interested in 1219 Maple, there in Cascadia?”

Lou couldn’t hide her surprise, but recovered quickly. “Yes--I, well, that was certainly instant, wasn’t it?”

The man chuckled, professionally wry and kindly enough. “Yes, well, I sit here in the evenings and look at all the interest in my listings. I’m local and want to make sure I’m doing all I can here in my small service area. Are you from outside Cascadia, ma’am?”

Ma’am. That’s never pleasant. Just err with “miss”--it doesn’t make enemies, ever.

“Yes, just down the road. I was really just looking--”

“That’s excellent! I’m right there as well! I know it’s near eight but I’m so happy to show you the place. Gorgeous, really gorgeous. I can be there by 8:15pm, does that work for you?”

Lou could barely take the thought to heart when she heard herself reply, “well, that’s lovely, thank you, see you then.”

As she pressed the red button to end the call, she laughed and shook her head. What a day. Rachel to college, Maggie’s drama diverted, and now a tour of a mansion. Why not? She thought. She poured herself one more glass of wine, sent a text to Marcy to meet her right away, and opted to just do something silly for once in a long while.

“What the hell’s this about?” Marcy said, her voice reaching Lou before her presence.

“Hi, Marcy, I’m going to look inside the purple mansion and I don’t want to meet some guy real estate agent at 8pm without some backup. You in?” Lou could feel the warmth in her face, the spice in her words, and Marcy burst out laughing before nodding.

“Oh, you betcha.” Not a person alive would label Marcy a woman of few words, but Lou found her rapid-fire, unapologetic perspective on life appealing and endearing. Marcy was twelve years older that Lou--but it could have been one or a million, and they would still have been fast and fierce friends. Marcy struggled initially after moving to Cascadia, primarily because she had just retired, lost her partner of seventeen years, and felt like she may be the only lesbian for fifty miles or so. Louise got to know her through their volunteer work at the local food bank, and couldn’t get enough of Marcy’s dry wit and East-coast abrasiveness. Eventually, Marcy found a group of other LGBTQ+ people, healed from her loss, put down roots, and became Lou’s closest confidant.

As they walked toward Maple, Marcy asked what Lou had been wondering herself. “Just for fun or being a little insane?”

Lou considered the question, and rolled her response over her tongue before letting out, “Not sure. Find out soon enough, I guess.”

Marcy grinned. “Ok, I’m game. Let’s get weird. Only old once.” She rubbed her hands together, clapped them enthusiastically, and quickened her pace down the sidewalk. Lou was reminded how fabulous her friend was.

When they reached the house, at 8:10pm, Gary the realtor was already there, on the porch, fiddling with the lock. He waved at them, giant grin, and motioned for them to follow him inside. His sweatpants, Seahawks football sweatshirt, and running shoes gave both women a little chuckle about professionalism in Cascadia. He was very hands off, for the most part, and Marcy graciously kept him talking as Lou explored the house.

The staircase railing stood firm under Lou’s hand; she slid her palm and fingers up the bannister as she took each step, higher and higher until the bottom floor seemed miles away. The second floor boasted six of eight bedrooms, each with its own outdoor view and character built into each corner, shelving, and window frame. She ventured past the bedrooms to the second staircase, atop which sat a striking open space of hardwood floor and light-filled oversized windows. The “attic” seemed fitting for a gallery, a dance studio, a small school, or even a studio apartment. Lou found herself in awe, hand clasped over her mouth, eyes wide. She was falling deeply, deeply in love.

And I haven’t even seen the rest of the place…

CHAPTER FOUR

Louise felt the light of day touch her eyes as she stretched out the next morning. She felt a tinge of wonder at how she woke so refreshed and eager for the day, despite the quantity of wine she’d consumed, first with Maggie, then with Marcy. She grinned as she thought about the purple mansion; and realized that in her head it had gone from being “the purple mansion” to my Purple Mansion.

Marcy had been utterly encouraging. “Screw it. You got the money, if you sell your place. You know how to fix everything, and if you don’t, you learn how to. It’s friggin’ gorgeous, it’s you, I love it.” Marcy had later confided to eating an edible two hours before Lou had sent her the text; Lou didn’t care. Marcy was Marcy and Marcy was right.

It took Gary the Realtor four days to put Lou’s little house on the market; it took fourteen days for the offer to come back on the mansion. Within the summer, Lou had an offer on her house for $220,000. She countered with $260,000, and was met with an enthusiastic agreement from a young couple with likely more money than Lou would have dreamed at that age. Lou offered $280,000 for the mansion, expecting a laugh from the broker via Gary, but was dumbfounded at the acceptance.

Lou called Marcy. “Marcy,” she nearly yelled with excitement, “they accepted my offer. $280,000 for the mansion. I can...I can just, I can’t believe it. Marcy, I own that mansion!”

There was a long, pregnant pause on the phone. Marcy replied with a low affect, “Sorry, Lou, what mansion?”

Lou stared at her phone and set her jaw with resigned humor. “I’ll kill you, Marcy. I will.”

Laughter burst through on the other end. “Holy crap, Lou, friggin WHAT you own that! You’re amazing! It’s amazing! You have to have a party!”

Lou looked around her house, finished packing her boxes, and imagined the delight on her daughters’ faces as she broke the news to them over bubbly in the foyer of her new, Purple Mansion on Maple.

“Mother. Is this a joke? I mean, is this a joke? Like, or, a crisis? What level of concern do I need to have now?” Ellen patted her pristine bun, high atop her head, dark blonde and without pomp or circumstance. Lou thought it tugged on her fine features too severely, but would never tell her. Ellen would simply counter with, “Mom, I have children, I have work, it’s functional.” Lou was too thrilled with the incredible expanse of house around herself to roll her eyes at her eldest daughter.

“There are eight bedrooms. Six on the second floor, two on the main, and this incredible attic space that would essentially be another flat unto itself. What do you think, Ellen?”

Ellen walked around, and as usual, Lou found her daughter’s inscrutable expression frustrating and engaging; she longed for Ellen’s approval but had doubts it was forthcoming.

Ellen turned her sharp grey eyes to her mother. Nearly fifty, Ellen felt her mother’s small house down the road was perfect. No stairs, for the elderly years. Small yard, for fickle joints. Nextdoor to the excitable but ultimately wonderful Marcy, whom Ellen trusted, albeit from a distance. Though, to be fair, Ellen kept almost everyone at a distance.

“It’s got equity, that’s for sure, just given the location, square footage, and historic appeal. But it’s a monster. It’s over 6,000 square feet, mom, it’s ridiculous for someone your age.”

Lou nearly spit daggers at Ellen. “MY AGE? Sorry, what? I had thought myself to be in my forties, am I some ancient great-grandmother to be pitied, corralled, and kept indoors?” Her own grey eyes flamed with indignation, tainted with a touch of fear that she had bitten off much more than she could chew.

Ellen gracefully eschewed further comments of her mother being elderly. “Mama, what I mean is, you are nearly fifty. You’re partially retired. Do you want a massive amount of repair, upkeep, and time devoted to where you live? Your other place was simpler.” Ellen smiled kindly at her mother, but Lou rebelled in the vein of Rachel against the injustice and with Maggie’s impunity.

“Ellen Chapman, tuck your politely acid tongue back behind your teeth,” Lou all but hissed, “because it has escaped your grasp once more. I am in the midst of my life, and despite all you think you know, this is no stopping point for me. I love this place, I can handle this place, and you don’t ever get to question your mother. I raised you better to avoid harsh judgements and assumptions, did I not?” Louise’s steely gaze met Ellen’s with clarity and power, and Ellen went only moments before averting her eyes to the house in resignation.

“You also raised me, mother,” she sighed, “to be honest.”

Lou had to agree, but did so silently. She was beginning to see the state of the house, and as the first night darkened and Ellen departed, Lou realized she hadn’t even assembled her bed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lou woke with an aching back and a sense of doom. Gone was the comfort of her little house, her cottage, her tiny space in which she felt safe and protected. The great expanse of the master bedroom in the Purple Mansion gave her discomfort, and she felt revulsion at her inability to confront her fears with logic. What in the world have I done? She asked herself.

She stood, she dressed in her work jeans and her I love tacos t-shirt from Maggie. She walked around her new, enormous home with the authority of a woman confronted with a tantilizating challenge. Notebook in hand, she began to list the many repairs needed, visible to the naked eye.

Refinish floors.

Check if fireplaces are useable or decorative.

Determine heat source.

Replace 19/32 windows.

She tested faucets, and determined those on the second floor to be acceptable. Those on the ground floor appeared to struggle, so she dutifully added to her list.

4. Check plumbing in main floor bathrooms.

Lou tested each light switch, each breaker, and each outlet. Many were functional. Many were not. It was at the moment when she determined she had eleven outlets on the main floor alone that needed attention when Lou sat down and thought long and hard as to whether or not 10am was too early to open a bottle of white. Maybe just a Moscato.

The rain came at 11:30, and revealed the myriad leaks in the roof before Lou said, “Screw the wine” aloud and made a screwdriver with both irony and hopeless laughter.

Marcy was over by the middle of her first drink. “Oh, Lou, it’s all right. You can just dip into savings, right? Just repair it slowly?”

Louise rolled her eyes and leaned back on her tiny couch, comically small in the enormous great room. “I have almost zero savings, Marcy. I don’t want to touch anything else, it’ll put me at a huge risk. I can only sink about $20,000 more in this place before I am utterly screwed.”

Marcy thought for a moment. “What will just the plumbing and roof run you? Or, I suppose you do need the electric for the lights...and outlets. Gas heat? And gas in the kitchen?”

Lou nodded. “Yep, gas in the kitchen and I think gas heat. Thankfully--this morning I plugged in my phone charger and now the wall has varicose veins like me.” Lou gestured toward the wall across the room, where a spidery black shadow had shot up to mirror the ancient wiring.

“Oh, shit,” said Marcy. She was beginning to look doubtful herself, and Lou wondered if she’d saved all her wisdom from her life just to flush it--unsuccessfully, she might add, given the plumbing situation--down the proverbial toilet. “Well...anyone you know that’s an electrician?”

Lou sighed. “I took a whack at it. It’s pretty complex from that breaker box, and while I was able to replace some things...I don’t want to die a horrible, fried-lady death. I can call an electrician tomorrow, I guess. But then...it’s gonna cost so much. The quote on the roof is $10,000 alone--it’s nuts. The seller said they had recently replaced the roof but I’m starting to thing that was absolute crap.”

Marcy was thinking. Lou could see her brilliant mind whirring behind her blue eyes and almost felt the current of her thoughts shooting out from Marcy’s short grey hair. “What are you thinking, Marcy?” Lou asked quietly.

“You have a lot of space. A lot.”

“Yes…” replied Lou.

“What if you traded, like, room and board for construction? Rent is crazy right now. Get the emergent stuff done with the money you have, then rent out a room in exchange for work. There are tons of construction workers that work locally but maybe don’t live local--they’d totally do it for, I don’t know, like ten hours a week?” Marcy was following her own idea excitedly, and Lou was trailing right along.

“I don’t want to live with a stranger.”

“You would never see them. You’d see them as much as you’d see a worker, anyway. It’s a huge house, Lou!” Marcy was in “convince Lou mode”. It wasn’t a bad spot for a stuck Lou, either.

“But...how do I do that? What, like Craigslist? Isn’t that super weird?” Lou was already opening her laptop. Marcy grinned.

“Weirder than buying a mansion impulsively?”

Louise rolled her eyes. “Ok, fine, fair point.” She stretched her fingers over her keyboard, ready to transcribe the strangest ad she’d ever placed.

Wanted: Exchange of room and board for manual labor; construction, remodeling. Live on site. Ten hours per week of work, excluding assessment of construction needs. Owner lives on site. Please, serious inquiries only. Cascadia, old town area. Beautiful, unique home.

Lou verified the brief ad with Marcy before clicking “publish”. By the evening, Lou’s inbox had four replies. By morning, it had fourteen. Ok, here we go, Lou thought.

Chapter Six

“Candidate one, Joseph, is twenty. He’d like to live away from his parents and is a carpenter’s apprentice. He’ll be here at nine, because eight was ‘crazy early’.” Lou rattled off her first appointment in her schedule of interviews.

“I already don’t like him, mom,” said Rachel. Up for the weekend, Rachel reserved her comments about the house; rather, she continued in her own youthful self-absorption talking about Ansel, the continuation of Icarus, minus the man-bun. He had, Rachel said, a serious appearance, probably because he is deeply connected to the issues facing his people. When asked about who his people were, Rachel sighed. With a longing look, she replied, “his father is second-generation Polynesian. His grandparents moved to the mainland just before his father was born.”

Louise furrowed her brow. “Wasn’t...wasn’t he born in LA? His mother was an assistant professor at UCLA, right?”

Rachel scowled. “Yes. So?”

Lou carefully avoided follow-up, but Maggie produced a loud, “HA!” from the floor up above.

Rachel lasered in on her. “What, Maggie? Something funny?”

Maggie leaned over the banister, her fiery hair surrounding her face as she grinned at her little sister. “So he’s a Cali boy with a dad that had grandparents who still keep a condo on Oahu? Is this an accurate statement?” She ducked before the work gloves Rachel launched could hit their mark, and Rachel whipped around to verify their mother wasn’t laughing along with Maggie.

Lucky for everyone, Lou’s back was turned and Rachel couldn’t see her purse her lips in silent laughter. Mags isn’t the only dramatic daughter I have, she thought.

A knock interrupted the women, quickly followed by “Hello? Hey, I’m Joe, I got an interview?”

Joe entered the room, and immediately the women saw his “twenty” was likely a “seventeen” or so. His knowledge of carpentry was at best basic, and when he electrocuted himself with a yelp and string of curses whilst examining an exposed wire, it was a general conclusion that it wouldn’t be an ideal fit. He left in his hissing, rumbling Toyota pickup within the hour.

The next four hours saw four more candidates, each different and less than thrilling than the last. One portly, unshaven Bobby clearly misinterpreted the ad, offering more than manual labor; Manuel was polite but terrified of the women and left mid-interview without reason; Calvin was adept at carpentry and understood plumbing, but licked his lips at Maggie so often that she threatened to call the police. Finally, as the ladies all but threw in the towel for the day, they heard a soft knock.

“Come in,” they all chorused, giggling with exhaustion at cleaning and repairing throughout the day and meeting their share of the town’s weirdos.

The door opened slowly, and a tall, greying man in his forties or early fifties entered the foyer. He carried with him a toolbelt, a notebook, and a pencil placed above his ear. His dark brown eyes were noticeable across the open space, and Lou stood immediately, aware of her own slouched posture in light of his straight and strong standing. His hand ran reflexively down his well-kept, dark, grey-streaked beard.

“Hello, I’m Louise Chapman, the owner of the house,” Lou said plainly, confidently, and without preamble. She strode to meet him across the room. “You must be...Mykhail?”

He shook her extended hand after only a moment’s pause, and held her gaze completely. “Yes. I am Mykhail.”

His eastern European accent was thick. Lou’s daughters stood, suddenly sober in affect, and busied themselves with work about the room. “Mykhail, may I call you Mike?” Lou asked cheerfully.

“No, thank you, Mykhail is best,” he replied, examining the room and walking toward the fireplace with long strides and heavy boots. Lou smiled tightly at the correction, but brushed it aside as a cultural difference. She stood behind him as he immediately placed himself within the chimney, soot falling around him as his muffled voice carried to her ears. “Fireplace is functional, is needing cleaned. Is primary source of heat?”

Lou thought back to her tour of the house, the inspection report (sparse as it was), and recalled the primary source of heat to be gas. She told him as much.

“No, you are wrong,” he replied, ducking out of the fireplace and striding into the kitchen.

“Excuse me?” Lou replied. Cultural or not, this is a little rude. Maggie and Rachel trailed after her as they prepared to witness any event in which their unruffleable mother was, potentially, ruffled.

“I said, no, you are wrong in the gas heating idea. Is true, there is gas for kitchen, but vent system is not for gas. Heat is fireplace only,” he replied, continuing to walk at such a pace through the kitchen, living area, back through the foyer, and downstairs to the basement that the women were forced to trot after him. This annoyed all three.

As he took the stairs down to the basement two at a time, Rachel called out, “where are you from?” into the darkness. Mykhail flicked on the lights from the base of the stairs and examined the water heater and breakers for the entire house with a penlight that emerged from his breast pocket of his button-up tan work shirt.

With a pause, he replied, “I am from Canada, born in Ukraine. Where are you from?”

Lou smiled a tight smile; she was torn between defending her nosy daughter and enjoying a question thrown back at her. Rachel cocked her head and replied confidently, “English-Irish, touch of German. From here.”

“Good for you, little girl. Can you please to turn on switch behind you?” Rachel, in her surprise at his unaffected tone, flipped the switch. Light illuminated the dark basement, causing each person to blink. Maggie whistled. “Crazy how big this basement is. You could fit like a huge studio down here. Or whatever.” Lou rolled her eyes. She knew her girls would find use in the place, despite their protestations that it was too big to be a logical purchase.

He continued his inspection of each fuse, wire, outlet, and switch. When he finally paused, nearly fifteen minutes later, he turned to face Lou with the seriousness of a physician confronting loved ones of a patient. “This will take long time, will not be easy, will need some help. Is not impossible, is good house, good bones, wiring is not all bad.”

Lou felt a well of hope spring up. Good bones, she thought. That’s me. I may not have it all together, but the core of me is still intact. She met his eyes with her own and felt a powerful connection to this strange man in her home, occupying a mansion with his sheer presence. She knew he was right for the job, needed him to know it, too, but also felt she was being interviewed as much as he was was. As though the house, and by proxy, herself--needed to pass some litmus test of quality and restorative potential. “Well, Mykhail, if you could take this evening--” He interrupted as he opened the front door, breaking their gaze with a sharp nod.

“Yes, is fine. I arrive tomorrow, will take the job. You are welcome.”

Lou, Maggie, and Rachel stood dumbfounded as he exited, slamming the door behind his lanky frame, leaving a scent of cedar, linen, and an indescribable other that Lou determined was idiosyncratically his own.