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Previous Chapter: No More Nonsense
Isla didn’t sleep well. Of course, who does on a night like the one she’d just had? She’d come into the house quietly so she wouldn’t have to talk about it. Sure, she was an adult, but parents of single 37-year-olds could be over-eager in the relationship department. This secret could be just hers for a while.
She’d changed for bed and inspected herself in the mirror. Her heart was buoyant like a balloon, and she’d always been nervous about balloons, with their tendency to float irretrievably into the sky. Whenever she felt a girlish thrill go through her, she snatched herself back to earth. She was a grown-up. There was one wriggle when she jumped into bed that she felt very ashamed of. She told herself this was all too new to be so excited about. But she kept smiling to herself. Danny texted her once, <<goodnight>>, which reminded her to save his number to her phone. She smiled at all the messages she imagined were to come. Then she reminded herself to be serious.
Morning came with all its prosaic routine. She greeted her parents, wolfed down her breakfast, rushed to work. There was one sparkling moment when she texted Danny <<Good morning.>> She sat a little straighter at her desk, accepted assignments a little less grumpily, and forgot all about the date she’d had with Bill the night before and the meeting that she had with him and the rest of the planning board today . . . until he knocked on her door.
“Hey Isla,” he said, “See you at 11?” He smiled and nodded, a shade less enthusiastically than usual. Isla only subconsciously noticed, but groaned inwardly. She’d been going to meet Danny for lunch. Things going wrong already? She hoped the meeting wouldn’t go late, but she sent him a heads-up just in case.
He responded promptly. Was he, too, watching his phone? <<No worries. Just let me know.>>
Bill was shuffling papers at the front of the room when she came in, just a little late. The small chit chat stilled as Bill called the meeting to order.
“So, you know we’re here to talk about the housing situation. The Main Street Project calls for cleaning up the housing units on or just off of Main Street, and let’s face it, housing throughout the city needs a facelift. I see so much potential here.” He tacked on his habitual positive spin but maybe lacked some of his usual conviction. “Now, I’m going off script here for a minute,” he said, while pointing at the meeting agenda, “because I think there’s an issue we need to address and I’m just not sure what we can do about it. I’m hoping some groupthink will help us here.” Isla shook her head at his misuse of the term and sighed slightly. “What we have is kind of a continuum of landlords from the out-of-state speculators on one end,” he went on, drawing a bowtie on the white board, or Isla assumed that’s what it was, and then a line, “and local people who own maybe one, two houses at the other end.” He drew what Isla thought might be a baseball cap at the other end. “Now we have different problems at either end of this continuum. At the one end we have someone like Penelope Andrews, who owns several properties and certainly has the capital to spruce them up but never really comes to town to check on them, relying on local managers.” Isla noted the repeated use of “local.” “Then at this end, we have someone like . . . say, Danny Fisher.” Isla’s heart suddenly beat faster. She looked around to see if anyone was watching her, but of course they weren’t. Bill was going on. “A local Joe of average income who has an investment property that is maybe a bit beyond his means. Or who, you know, doesn’t feel like a minimum standard of upkeep is really necessary. Someone comfortable with peeling paint and maybe a bit of dry rot. Because that’s what they’re used to.”
Isla raised her pen, asking to interject. “Isla! I knew you’d have some great ideas.” He sent a scorching beam in her direction.
“You’re painting local owners and managers with a pretty broad brush, aren’t you?”
“There are a lot of buildings in town that need help, agreed?” Isla reluctantly nodded and he went on, “Well, they belong to someone.”
“I’m sure there are a lot of reasons those buildings are like that, from negligence to lack of resources and points in between, but that doesn’t mean that the average caretaker is lazy or low class,” Isla challenged.
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Bill chuckled amiably. “Not to worry, of course, I don’t mean to cast aspersions on anyone who is actually contributing to this town. It’s only the deadbeats I’m concerned about.” Bill proceeded to lead them into a lengthy discussion of ordinance reform that he proposed would help the problem. At the end of it, Isla wearily returned to her office. Her cell rang: Uncle Mike.
“Hey, Aunt Dot’s tarps blew off last night. There’s a lot of rain coming and I thought I’d better put some new ones on. These are pretty ragged from winter. Think you could pick some up on the way home?”
“Damn it, Mike. We need to get that roof fixed.”
“We all want that, but you got the money?” Isla’s silence answered, so he went on, “Someday. I just hope Dottie’s still alive for it.”
“I’ll get them,” Isla assured him.
“Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
She texted Danny <<Meeting went long, think I’m going to have to take a rain check. So sorry.>>
<<Hey, no worries. Tonight?>>
Isla hesitated, then acted decisively. <<Ok. White Linen?>>
<<Ooh, going all out, are we? Sure. I’ll have to get out my good jeans.>>
Isla smiled a small, rueful smile, hoping to feel better by the end of the day but not truly optimistic.
She opened the property records. Well, look at that . . . Danny did own property, on the corner of Main and School Street. She tried to remember what was there but drew a blank. She’d have to look on her way by.
That evening she deposited an armful of tarps at Uncle Mike’s for them to install at their leisure and went home and stared at her closet.
He’s wearing his good jeans , she thought. What level of outfit went with that? Were good jeans the top of his wardrobe ladder? Or the middle? If her ladder was higher than his, she shouldn’t take off the top even if good jeans were the top of his . . . oh, for heaven’s sake. He had only been making a joke, and she knew that.
The little black dress was out, for sure. Probably any dress. If he was wearing jeans, maybe she should wear jeans. She pulled on her favorites and shuddered. No. She looked like a sack of beans tied at the middle. Nope, nope, nope.
Her work clothes were more or less calibrated to the white-collar nature of her job. That wouldn’t set him at ease. She didn’t want to stink of snobbery. Didn’t want him to think she was too good to be dating a mechanic. She realized with horror that her casual wear—which she seldom wore outside her home—included far more unisex t-shirts and cheap leggings than she remembered. Who even was she?
When she finally walked into the restaurant, she was wearing black Ponte pants, her Docs, and a black shark bite tunic. Her big earrings were in her pocket. She preferred them, but didn’t want to be trying too hard, and wasn’t sure they were classy. She wasn’t even sure what Danny was attracted to in her—did he think he was leveling up or down? Damn it, Isla . . . the dude’s not writing a sociology paper on you. He probably likes your boobs.
She was late because there was a thing with the seatbelt—it had stuck in the door, then it wouldn’t catch in the buckle, then it was wet from dragging in the mud on the way home from work, then she tried to clean it up with napkins that then stuck to her shirt. Why was her hand shaking? She demanded of her hand that it not shake. She must be in control of this situation from the start.
She—quite literally—ran into Danny in the hallway just inside the mill’s sleek new glass doors. She was still brushing napkin bits off of her shirt—imaginary bits at this point—and was looking for him in the restaurant just to make sure she saw him before he saw her. She brushed past a man leaning casually against a wall, the sole of his dirty boot flat against it for stability. She knocked the phone he was looking at right out of his hand and they knocked heads as they bent to pick it up. Just then her own phone vibrated and she glanced at the message—<<Ready when you are>> from Danny—while absently muttering an apology to the leaning man before looking up into Danny’s anxious face.
“Well,” she said, “here we are.”
He smiled and laughed slightly. “Yep. Shall we?” He held the door open for her and she liked it in spite of herself.
They sat in the corner that had windows on both sides, overlooking the mill stream. “Been here before?” he asked her, distractedly trying to keep his dusty boots clear of the white tablecloth. There was already a footprint on one corner where he’d failed. He laid his baseball cap on the table, then looked at the silverware and water goblets and moved it to his knee, then his head, then his knee again.
“Yes,” she said, “I like the alf . . . the Caesar salad.” She hastily laid aside her menu.
He studied his for a long time and she looked at him, still trying to figure out if “good jeans” was a joke. His straight-legged jeans and slightly baggy sweatshirt seemed to be very similar to what he’d worn every time she’d seen him so far. But cleaner. Yes. No holes. His shop clothes were more worn. Yes. That was it.
“Do you mind if I have a burger?” He looked at her earnestly.
“Of course not, why would I . . . have whatever you want,” she said, confused, trying to smile.
“Thanks.”
“So, uh . . . how was work?” Isla asked as soon as the waiter left, unable to let a silence hang between them for more than a few seconds.
“Good. You?” One-word answers weren’t going to carry this date, Isla knew.
“Pretty good. Actually, your name came up.” Was he blushing? “Yeah, uh, at the planning board meeting. You own another house?” she said as the waiter offered water refills. She didn’t tell Danny about her low-key stalking of the public records.
He sat up a bit straighter. “Yes! An investment property! Bet you never imagined I was a landlord. That’s one of the long-term projects I mentioned before.” He smiled now. “Snapped it up cheap, but what a mess. I’ve been cleaning her up a little at a time when I have the time and the cash. So it’s slow going. But she’s coming along; she’s coming.” He beamed, there was no other word for it. She could swear that light was actually coming out of him. “When I bought that house, the windows were broken, and one of the tenants was sitting right there in this house full of trash and rats and who knows what else. Can you believe that? I know I can be a better landlord than that.”
Isla smiled with admiration. “That’s what this town needs more of. When do you think you’ll finish?”
“Well, she’s looking pretty good now, but I have some work to do inside. I need to get a new furnace in, and that’s money right there. Some other stuff, too. Make it safe for the insurance man and the kiddies. Might not have the funds until . . . I don’t know. Next fall maybe. But I can be patient. It will be worth it in the end.”
Isla loved the obvious pride in his voice, even though in the back of her mind she was amazed that two people—Bill and Danny—could see the same property so differently, one shaming it and one boasting about it. You see what you want to see, there’s no way around it.
“That’s so cool. What’s it like on the inside?”
Awkwardness dispersed as Danny fished a pen from his pocket and drew her a floor plan on a receipt from his wallet, talking as he drew. “It’s the kind of house I grew up with . . . She’s got this front door with sidelights around it and then you open it up into a hall with a stairway, doors off on both sides. Of course, the wallpaper was pretty rough. Terrible paneling in here in the living room,” he said, tapping his pen on a rectangle. “You know that stuff that was everywhere in the 70s?”
“I don’t remember the 70s.” She smirked and he looked embarrassed.
“No, I mean . . . no, of course not. But it’s leftover everywhere.”
“Yes. I know the stuff.”
“Well, if you didn’t . . . you could see some over there.” He laughed slightly. “Anyway . . . over here, there’s a dining room and behind it in the back is the kitchen. It’s got lots of rooms, big upstairs, big attics. It was multi-family at one time, I think. You know these apartments hacked out of houses.”
She nodded. “Dave’s got one.”
“Oh yeah, right . . . anyway, I don’t know if I should go back to that, but I’d like to keep it intact. So I’ve replaced the roof and torn off a lot of the rotten siding. I’ve replaced a lot of the windows and boarded up the rest. I try to do a little bit every week. Sucks to have it there eating money and not making any, but it’ll get there.”
Isla smiled slightly. Poor sap has no idea that he’s in Bill’s sights. She was genuinely worried about where this was leading but decided she needed to think it through a bit more before she said anything. She’d come to him with a full plan; that would be a better way to save the situation.
“Hey,” he was saying, “want to go see it? It’s not too far.”
“Sure.” She took several bills from her wallet and started to put them on the small tray the waiter had brought with the bill.
“Absolutely not,” Danny looked genuinely shocked. Hmm. He was old school. Would it hurt his feelings if she insisted? She thought it might, so she put the money back and quietly thanked him.
“Walking or driving?” she asked as they went out into the fresh spring night.
Danny put on his baseball hat and lit a cigarette before answering. “Let’s drive,” he said finally, “the neighborhood is a little rough. One reason I don’t want to put too much into the outsides right now. Don’t want too tempting a fresh canvas while it’s sitting there vacant. My truck’s right here.” He unlocked the door and hopped into the driver’s seat. Ok, not TOO old-fashioned, she thought as she let herself into the passenger side while he hastily cleared off half-empty Gatorade bottles and sunflower shells. She coughed slightly and he held out his cigarette, “Do you mind?”
She thought about lying, but, assuming her encouragement would help him kick the habit, said, “Yes, actually.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “It will just take a minute.”
Five minutes later—or less—Danny stopped the car in front of an old house with a sagging front porch. The lawn was neat, she observed with satisfaction. A contrast to the neighbor’s, which had many large plastic toys among other debris. It was spring, so it wasn’t overgrown yet, but the weeds clinging to the toys suggested that last autumn, it had been. Danny evidently kept his small yard mowed.
The driveway had been paved at some point, although many winters had heaved the pavement into mini mountain ranges at intervals. The roof was nice, at least the main roof, not counting the porch. The siding was off and the house was wrapped in off-brand Tyvek. Danny jingled his large key collection around, trying to find the proper one, then opened the door with it.
Isla wondered, secretly, if Danny really believed he had done a lot with the house or not. He’d spent a lot—that was clear from the cans of paint, drop cloths, pieces of molding, rolls of wallpaper, piles of Sheetrock and other paraphernalia of construction. But from Isla’s vantage point just inside the entry, the view was all peeling paper, worn and cracked stair treads, and missing switch plates.
Danny’s rose-colored glasses seemed to slip off for a moment. “It does still look a bit rough in spots,” he said, shaking a loose baluster. “Lots of spots. But this isn’t the best place for a first impression. There’s a lot of promise in this old girl. Come on . . .” He took her hand, the novelty of physical contact lost on him in his single-minded enthusiasm, though Isla noted it distinctly.
“How about that?” He hit a light switch and opened the door on a long, bright kitchen. “Look around!” So she did. A large white enameled sink with a molded in run-off drainboard was centered below a large window. The backyard was soft gray and sage green in the twilight, not large, but appealing. The cupboards were vintage, made of wood, not modern ones of particle board, with plain fronts rather than fussy molding. Perhaps they had even been homemade. A decorative piece above the sink was hand-painted with dainty wild strawberries. A large black wood stove stood at the far end between two doors, one of frosted glass set into a panel of glossy black wood. Isla ran her hand along its smooth surface as she passed through it.
The inside was a jewel box of a butler’s pantry, all of the same seamlessly joined dark wood. It gleamed and sparkled with mirrors behind the shelves and cut glass in the cupboards. She opened drawers that slid out noiselessly and were lined with green felt. The cupboard doors were cushioned so they could never slam.
“Oh!” she said when she opened one of them. “Did this come with the house?” The shelves held a silver tea set.
Danny laughed, delighted. “No, I found that at a yard sale. Twenty-five bucks! Not bad.”
“I mean, I don’t know when you’d use it, but it’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, well . . . I thought it was nice.” He was instantly sheepish.
“Oh yeah, it looks great in here,” she said hastily. “This room is amazing.”
“Isn’t it crazy? The rest of the house is held together with Scotch Tape and then here’s this . . . someone put their heart into this. They must have really loved it.”
“Or loved someone who loved it.”
After a last look, Isla followed Danny back around the stove. “I mean, compare, not five feet away,” he gestured to the other door. Isla could feel cold seeping through it from where she stood. The bottom of it was splintered and held together with a strip of packing tape and staples. He opened the door to an uninsulated woodshed, then closed it quickly, but not before she had seen a dead rat in a trap. “That reminds me.” He opened the nearest cupboard and took out a can of tuna, which he opened with a tiny key opener on his keychain and put in a grimy bowl on the back step. She looked at him questioningly. “Trying to attract a cat.”
“Ah.”
He turned back to the kitchen. “I’m going to get a big wooden farmhouse table to put in here,” he indicated with a sweep of his hand.
“Nice.” She smiled.
“Yeah. Well . . . I have big dreams.”
She nodded. “Maybe I could come . . . come put on a coat of paint or something. Or do some demolition.” Her eyes lit up and he laughed.
“Ah, now the true Isla comes out.”
She shrugged. “Where’s the sledgehammer?”
Next chapter June 27
Copyright 2025 Jennie Robertson
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