“Darn right I do. If we don’t honor our history, we’re nothing but a bunch of heathens running around not understanding consequences.”
Consequenceless heathens. That was a new one.
“If I promise to honor the history of the Campbell house, will you be willing to share some of the stories about the house and the Campbell family?” she asked wearily.
His glare was shrewd. “Maybe. Dunno. I’ll think about it.”
She tore off a corner of a piece of drafting paper, wrote down a number, and handed it to him. “This is my partner Dean’s number. If you decide you’re willing to help out, give him a call.”
Take that, Chicken Dean.
“Probably won’t,” Wallace huffed, heaving himself out of his chair. His gaze roamed the room. “But I might.”
Maggie stood, too.
“I’m takin’ this with me,” he said, grabbing his lemonade and motoring toward the front door.
“Thanks for dropping by,” she called after him.
Windows95Luvr: Okay. Apparently Idris Elba is married. Who is single and worthy of our Maggie?
ShakespeareWuzHere: Just found out that my 55-year-old dad has seen every episode of Building Dreams! We’re planning a binge rewatch when I come home from college for the summer! #FamilyForMaggie
10
“Who’s a good boy?” Maggie crooned to the chubby dog wagging his entire back end at her. “This is Kevin,” she said for the benefit of the camera she was shooting with. “He’s with the landscaping crew, and we didn’t want him to feel left out, so we got him a little present.”
She held up the green, squeaky hammer toy she’d picked up at Tanner’s General Store.
“Sit. Good boy. Here you go.” She handed over the toy, and he took it with a gentle mouth, his whole body quivering. “Now, go fix something,” she said.
With a series of gleeful hammer squeaks, Kevin romped out of her office and barreled down the hall.
Maggie turned off the camera and eyed the giant whiteboard she’d set up in her makeshift office, mentally juggling timelines. Outside, the roofers were making progress. She didn’t envy them clambering over steep pitches three stories up. Silas’s crew had built a mountain of brush in the front yard and were in the process of laying out new and improved planting beds around the house.
Inside there was more chaos. Usually it was tricky having the electrical work and plumbing done at the same time, with people climbing all over each other in kitchens and bathrooms, but given the scope of the work and the good-natured relationship between both crews, the trades were juggling things nicely.
While Jim and company opened and closed walls and ceilings, the electricians started their rewiring, and Albert, the plumber, and his apprentice, Judy—his daughter and another of the plant closing’s victims—roughed in the plumbing for the new powder room in the former fishing magazine room and the full bath behind the kitchen.
She needed to make tile decisions for the kitchen and downstairs bathrooms by end of day to get the materials ordered. The fixtures upstairs could wait a bit, which was good, since she was still trying to figure out the best place for a freestanding tub in the master bathroom.
Making a note to revisit the idea of stealing space from the bedroom behind the master, she moved on to the production schedule. She would film some stuff on the fly today, maybe creepy basement footage. As much as her subscribers loved a kitchen reveal, they also seemed to enjoy freaking out over dank, eerie spaces. The episode when Dean walked backward into a cobweb in a garage and started throwing punches at nothing was one of their most popular. It entertained her to no end and pissed Dean off.
She added lighting? to the whiteboard, grabbed her fat stack of tile samples, and headed into the kitchen.
White subway was a classic for a reason, but this room, this house, called for something with a little extra personality. She lined up the tiles on the folding table that was acting as a makeshift countertop and studied them.
Too simple.
Too busy.
Too green.
“Maggie, what have you drilled into my head from day one?” Dean stormed into the room and tossed his iPad case down onto the end of the table.
She sighed and turned her back on the samples. He was going to be dramatic about it. “That it’s not my house,” she said.
“Would navy cabinets be spectacular in this kitchen? Yes. No doubt. Would anything less be a travesty? Probably. Is it in the budget to upgrade from a nice, reasonable stain to paint? No, it is not.” Dean, the ever-responsible dream killer, marched down the list.