The House On High St.

Finally, I'm heading home. The need for rest is clawing at my heels and my feet grow heavier with every step. After three days of overtime I will finally have a day off, my first in weeks. I wish I could afford to hire someone, but with the business being so new I just can’t swing it right now. Not to mention how hard it is to find good help. ‘Especially when you’re so picky,’ I think to myself as I step onto the deserted bus.

Not many commuters at one in the morning. The usual crowd: Jo-Anne, a bartender at the local watering hole, and a few of her regulars. In the far back corner seat, my seat, I notice a man in his sixties. He is lost in thought when I sit down close by. After a minute he looks up and smiles at me, the light of it touches his eyes. I find myself involuntarily returning the smile and wondering if he can tell from behind my mask.

"How old are you?" He asks. I may have found it an odd first question, if it hadn't been asked in the manner it was, or perhaps I was just too exhausted to fight conversation.

"Twenty-nine," I answer, though I’m not yet. I've just aged myself three months; the clock to thirty ticking loudly at the back of my mind.

"What do you do for a living Miss…?" He asks.

"Emmeline,” I say, “and you are?” If I’m going to answer this man's questions for the rest of my thirty-two minute ride, I may as well learn his name.

"Joseph Donaldson,” he smiles, “pleased to meet you! So, what is it you do for a living miss Emmeline?"

"Simply put, I restore old buildings. Hence the ... mess?" I say motioning to my general appearance. I have yet to look in the mirror. The last few days I’ve been working around the clock and haven’t had a spare minute for vanity.

"That must be very rewarding work, though what could need restoring at one in the morning?"

"The Grand Hotel. They are hoping to open in two weeks. We’ve been restoring every bit we can to its original glory," I reply.

"How many men do you have working for you?"

"None actually, it’s just me. By ‘we’, I meant myself and the hotel owners. Though they’ve been little help save providing me a few pictures for reference. Thanks to the pandemic ‘we’ can only have one person on site at a time. It’s tricky completing a job on time with only one person working regular hours. So it’s overtime for me, and lots of it.”

“You work alone?” He asks, “You must love what you do!”

“I really do. This project has been a huge undertaking, but it’s an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

“It certainly is a beautiful building. Do you have a business card? I may have some work for you, if you’re interested."

I hand him my card on his way off the bus, and with a nod, he disappears into the night.

Another job would be great- assuming it’s a real one. I'm sick of restoring old furniture. Buildings are my real passion; landing The Grand Hotel was pure luck, really. I wonder what sort of work he has in mind. I've handed out cards a hundred times before, but most people never call. I don’t know where the feeling comes from, but I’m certain I’ll be hearing from Mr. Donaldson.

***

Am I so deprived of human interaction that I’ll tell this man every detail of my life? In the last twenty minutes Joseph Donaldson has learned more about me than some of my closest friends.

Walking out of the home, I turn around and look back, the exterior has been immaculately restored. Joe took up restoring the stone mansion after inheriting it from his parents five years ago. Joe lost his wife nearly thirty years ago now. It had taken him so long to recover that he’d never remarried, so it was just him and a few staff to keep the house.It seems an awfully big house to be alone in. I suppose I’m not the only one handing out autobiographies. There’s been a fair exchange of personal information. I feel like I've known Joe much longer than just two short conversations.

Most days I would never consider taking a job where the homeowner wants to work alongside me, even with a “teaching bonus" of $20,000 But THIS? This is my dream job, and an extra twenty grand would provide the much needed cushion I’ve been operating without!

I've watched this home over the years, losing myself in it’s potential. Now, starting Monday, I get to be a part of that potential. Meaning I actually have a whole weekend to myself before the fun begins.

***

“I cannot believe the progress we’ve made in two and a half months,” Joe smiles, stepping back to look at the now finished top floor. He turns toward me, still beaming, “shall we start the first floor next week?”

I can’t believe it either. Joe and I make an efficient team. I nod in agreement, looking around at all we have accomplished. The top floor was the easy part though, not much more than a large loft.

The real work starts next week, and I can’t wait! We’ve spent hours up here, talking and working. In that time I’ve grown quite fond of Joe, and learned a lot about him. How incredibly devoted he was to his late wife Myra. They married young and wanted a big family, but sadly life had other plans for them. I often imagine how difficult and lonely it must have been for him. After three miscarriages he and his wife finally had a little girl, but Myra didn’t make it through childbirth. Joe was overwhelmed with grief and wanted the best for his daughter, and he didn’t feel he could give her that on his own. He decided to give custody to good friends who weren’t able to have children of their own. When his daughter left his arms he was instantly consumed by a wave of despair. At the time he welcomed the darkness and locked himself away for months, mostly sleeping and barely eating. He lost 50 pounds he couldn’t afford. He was skin and bones when the adoptive parents of his daughter stopped by for a visit. That’s when he admitted himself to the psychiatric ward, which he called ‘the nail in his coffin.’ He’d already convinced himself he wasn’t a suitable father, and this certainly proved it.

After he was discharged, he couldn’t bring himself to be near the family. He was certain that if he got to know his daughter, he would want her back. He regretted giving her up, but knew she would have a whole and happy family.

“Well, that’s the last of it!” Joe sighs, his voice pulling me back to reality, “I have something for you, Happy Birthday,” he places a little box on the table beside me.

“Oh, thank you,” I blush, “but my birthday isn’t for a few days yet.”

“I know, but I’m headed out of town this weekend for a small operation. Open it," he says this with no particular care, as if the word ‘operation’ wouldn’t catch my attention.

My brow furrows and I look at him pointedly, but something in his expression tells me not to press.

I turn my attention to the package. It’s wrapped in a piece of the stubborn wallpaper that we scraped off the walls in the hallway. I laugh “forgive me, but I’ll be burning this paper.”

I lift the lid and pull out a little notebook bound in black leather. “It’s just like yours! The one with all the details for the house. Thank you Joe, I love it.”

“So you can make your own plans. I haven’t got the kitchen or the den figured out. I thought you might like to do the honours.”

I was speechless. I was up to the challenge, I just hoped I could do it justice.

***

I walk into the house and hoping Joe doesn’t have any demolition planned for today, turns out my thirty year old body doesn’t tolerate alcohol abuse any better than my twenty-nine year old one did. My head was pounding.

I set our drinks down on the plywood top of our makeshift desk when I notice an envelope with my name on it. I’m suddenly aware of Joe's tardiness. Suspiciously, I pick up the envelope, and I recognize the writing. I know it well, I’ve stared at it on our plans in a little black book. I feel a chill run down my spine and I can’t open the envelope fast enough.

Dearest Emmeline,

I don’t know how to start this letter, I don’t know that you will ever read it, but if you are reading it, it means that I am with your birth mother, Myra.

You see, our meeting was no accident. I met you on the bus the same day I received my terminal diagnosis. I couldn’t leave this earth not knowing you. You are so much like me. You don’t make it easy to know you. You are like my Myra too. I see her in the fierce passion you put behind everything you believe in. Never change that. It is a rare thing in this world.

These few months have been the best of my life. Please forgive me for not finding you sooner, it is my deepest regret. It gives me great comfort to know that you had a wonderful childhood and your real parents loved and raised you better than I ever could have. Do not fault them for not telling you. They were merely honouring the wishes of a foolish man.

My affairs are all in order so there is nothing left to do but say goodbye, take care of yourself, and finish the house for me?

Love always,

Joe

P.s. try taking a closer look at the notebook I gave you

It takes me a minute to tear my eyes from the page, suddenly I’m aware that I am crying. I sit down hard on the upturned bucket behind me. He can’t be gone… my father? I’d always had an inkling that I was adopted. Whether it was my curly red hair, my almost black eyes, or how I towered over both of my blue eyed, blonde haired parents. It made no difference to me if my mom and dad shared my DNA, they were still the best parents I could have wished for. About that, Joe was right. What was this about my notebook? I pick it up off the table and flip through. I’d spent the better part of my weekend planning. I flipped through every page, nothing. I put the book down on the table.Perhaps it was a prompt to make me review my drafts. I could hear him in my head ‘it’s all in the details,’ a shallow sob breaks through my chest. I open to the first page again, let’s look at those details then. That’s when I see it, a small bulge in the liner. I grab a knife from the table and score the thick paper just enough to pull out the sheet hiding in the seams. It's a will. Plain and simple, he’s left everything to me. The house and more money than I could make in two lifetimes. How long had I struggled to get my business off the ground? To not live paycheque to paycheque?

Now I've been gifted more money than I could ever want, and I would trade every penny to bring back a man I met only three months ago.