“That one in box two is definitely a Harold,” Grady says as he removes an armrest.
As I finish up with a seat, I stand to give my back a stretch and give my old knee injury a break. I look atthis theater that’s been around for more than 112 years, at the high, arched ceiling with its medallions, the hand-carved posts piled against the wall, waiting to be stripped and refinished. The ghosts of chandeliers long gone. The way the afternoon light hits the curved back wall, the delicate relief work just waiting to be uncovered after a century of aging.
It all makes me feel the familiar flicker that I love. This place is going to be beautiful again—I can see it already. Even if no one else can.
I don’t notice Luis coming up behind me until he says, “It’s starting to come alive again.”
I nod. “She’s waking up.”
“You really do love this part, don’t you?”
There’s so much potential in broken things. It’s hard not to love it. I shrug and say, “Everyone deserves a comeback. Even buildings.”
From where he’s working to free a bolt connecting one of the seats to the floor, Trent says, “Does your opinion on putting down roots deserve a comeback, too? Because I think Cipher Springs would grow on you if you gave it a chance.”
I chuckle and give him a practiced smile. Then I reach out and run my hand gently along the edge of a plaster medallion on the front of the stage, feeling the bumps of its ornate design beneath my fingertips.
Don’t get too comfortable.
That’s my rule. My very firm rule.I’ll be here, restoring The Shadowridge for maybe eight months. Then it’s packing tape, a new zip code, and a new project for me. That’s what the job is. That’s what my agreement with myself is. Well, with myself and with the contract I signed to restore a historic train station in Philadelphia as soon as I’m done here.
I look up again at the faded velvet of the balcony boxes and the light filtering through the upper windows. I might not stick around to enjoy it, but this place is going to be beautiful again.
I pull into my driveway, and the moment I get out of my car, I look at the townhome connected to mine on the left, just as one of my neighbors, Reese, waves, says hi, and pushes her roommate, Charlie, out the front door. They’re both looking at me, Reese with a pleased expression and Charlie with a shocked one.
“Hi,” I say as I start walking up our common sidewalk before it splits off to our separate stairs. “I’m not used to having a welcoming committee.”
Charlie laughs nervously, and I smile. I like Charlie. Ever since the first time I met her, I’ve found myself smiling whenever she’s around.
“We, uh, have a water leak,” she says. “I know you’re just getting home from spending all day doingthings like this,”—she shoots Reese a look—“but do you mind checking it out?”
Do I mind assisting someone who needs my help? Especially if that help is something I’m skilled at and gives me a chance to be impressive in front of a woman I’m attracted to? No, no, I do not mind. “Lead the way. I’ve been battling legions of dust all day, so a water mystery will be a nice change.”
We walk into their townhome, and I can immediately see that the layout is an exact mirror image of mine. I’ve only been living in mine for a little over six weeks, and I don’t plan to stay long-term, so the walls are as plain as the day I moved in. This place, though, is instantly warm and welcoming. Plus, it smells good. And here I am, bringing the scent of old wood, a whole lot of dust, a hundred years of stories, and my best attempt to do them justice with me. But it’s not like I can say, “Hang on. Let me go shower and get smelling nice first.”
We head past what I know are the laundry room and a bathroom on the right and the backside of a flight of stairs on the left on our way to the kitchen. I’m guessing Charlie and Reese came home and discovered the leak not long before I pulled up, because it looks like they are in the middle of cleaning up the water. A few soaking wet bath towels are spread on the floor, and a couple of smaller towels are draped overthe divider between both sinks. The doors to the cabinet beneath the sink are open, and it looks like everything normally stored there has been moved to the countertop.
“Sorry about the mess,” Charlie says as she moves the towels to the sink and grabs an unused one from the counter to dry the floor in front of the cabinet.
“It’s okay,” I say as I kneel down in front of the sink. “This is what a water leak looks like.” There isn’t an obvious leak from the water lines or the drainage pipe, so I grab another towel from the stack and dry the water lines leading from the hot and cold shut-off valves to the faucet. I give it a moment, and then I test the lines—they’re completely dry. I check, and they hadn’t already turned off the valves here, so if it was from these lines, they’d still be leaking.
I pull my head out from under the sink to see that water is slowly seeping from under the cabinet onto the floor where Charlie had just dried. I look up at the two women. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Bad,” Charlie says, biting her lip. “No, good.”
I stand. “Well, those flexible, braided stainless steel supply lines are in good shape. So are your drain pipes. The shut-off valves look good, too.”
Both Charlie and Reese nod warily, just waiting for the “but.” And it’s a big one that’s hitting me at least as hard as it’s going to be hitting them in about two seconds.
“But that means that the leak is either in the wall or coming from my side.” My kitchen sink and theirs are back-to-back, connected to the same wall that separates our townhomes.
Reese’s eyes go wide, and Charlie gasps, a hand flying to her mouth. As they both stand there, stunned, I ask, “Can I go into your laundry room to shut off the water?”
“Yes, of course,” Charlie says as she hurries back toward the front door, I’m assuming to open the door to their washroom. Instead, she races inside first. I come in just as I see she’s flinging a few items of clothing into a laundry basket that’s sitting on top of her washer.
I smile, just thinking of the first time we met. Her washer had been broken, so she’d gone to the Laundromat and washed her laundry there, then brought the wet clothes back home in a couple of garbage bags to dry them in her dryer. One of the bags caught on a rose bush by our sidewalk, and as I pulled into the driveway, she was leaving a trail of clothes, all Hansel-and-Gretel-breadcrumb-like behind her, including a few unmentionables.
I can tell by the blush on Charlie’s cheeks that she’s thinking of the same thing. If nothing else, the incident had given me a chance to introduce myself to my ridiculously cute neighbor.
