Scratch that. One time, I misjudged a broken pipe angle and ended up wearing two gallons of standing water that had been collecting since Nixon was president. That shower still holds the title ofMost Refreshing.
I drive straight to the job site for what I like to call Dreaming Day. It’s what I do on Saturdays, making it my favorite day of the week. I do it alone so I can really focus and plan. Whatever site I’m at, I set up an office somewhere. For this site, once we got everything structurally sound, I set up a folding table to serve asmy desk in one of the balcony boxes. I like having it there because I can look out at the theater while I work.
I start with reviewing my scheduling and budget, which usually means figuring in the hidden costs we’ve come across over the past week that we didn’t know about until we pulled things apart. I have a general schedule, and on Saturdays, I make a very specific schedule for the coming week and a bit more vague one for the week after.
I managed to secure funding for the entire restoration from a single source—an Italian billionaire. That’s so rare. It gives me fewer people I have to keep updated, which is nice. But the budget still has to be managed. As much as my crew would love the overtime, I can’t afford to pay it often. And there are definitely parts along the way that have to be accomplished more quickly, so I need to save it up for then.
I go over paperwork, make sure that invoices are paid, building materials for the coming weeks are ordered, deliveries are scheduled, and take care of all the other project management details I can. That way, during the week, I can spend the bulk of my time working with my crew.
Then comes my favorite part: dreaming. I walk the space slowly, letting the past rise up around me. I imagine the velvet curtains drawn back, theseats full, the lights warm and golden across the stage. I picture gleaming chandeliers, crown molding that’s crisp and whole again, and the wood under my feet polished to a mirror shine. I think through every step it’ll take to get there—the materials, the order, the hidden work behind the visible beauty.
I realized early on that I can see what things are trying to be. Not just buildings, but the stories they used to hold. Most people see what’s crumbling and broken. I see what’s waiting. And when I can describe it well enough for other people to glimpse it too, that’s when magic starts to happen. It’s how I got funding for this place. And every time I finish one of these restorations, I take it as proof that something broken has the potential to become something breathtaking.
And usually, I can do all of it without constantly thinking about a spunky brunette living next door. Not today.
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on Charlie and her friends last night, but with the missing wall, it was hard not to. Plus, they weren’t exactly being quiet, and after a physically taxing day at work, I was starving. Because of the state of my kitchen, I couldn’t cook a meal, but I could make a hearty sandwich. My kitchen was about the only place I could make it, and it was so close to Charlie’s living room, where they were all hanging out.
It wasn’t like I hung around all night, listening. Itwas just during the times when I had to be in my kitchen. I purposely tried to stay away the rest of the time. Even still, sometimes they were loud enough that I heard them no matter where I was.
But, on the plus side, I unintentionally learned a lot. The effects of “growly voice” on a woman, for one. A lot about Charlie, for two. And copious amounts about wedding seating politics, who fell for a guy just because of his voice, and what bakeries make the best éclairs. I also learned the tone and volume of laughter that only happens when people feel safe and comfortable together.
And I learned that I really love the sound of Charlie’s laugh.
Some of the guys from my crew—Grady, Luis, and Trent—invited me to play disc golf with them, so when I finish my admin and planning work for the day, I head toward the park.
I like that they asked me. I’ve only played disc golf a few times, and I’m bad at it, but when you move into a place where you know no one, it’s good to make friends. I don’t mind leaving friends behind when I move on to a new place, because then, if I’m ever traveling in an area where I’ve lived fora job, I have friends there. I have friends sprinkled all over the Mid-Atlantic.
Relationships are a different story, though. Those you don’t just sprinkle around and come back to if you’re ever in the area. I try to never forget that I’m only here for the short term, nothing permanent.
Not like Charlie. She obviously has roots. I don’t. No matter how attractive she is and how pulled I am toward her, I’m not going to be in Cipher Springs long enough to make deeper connections.
When I meet up with the guys at the disc golf course just past the edge of town, the four of us step onto the first tee. It’s still warm and bright, and the breeze is just enough to make us second-guess every throw, which makes it even more fun, because then chaos can win over skill. We each pull a driver disc from our bags.
“Let’s make this interesting,” Trent says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Loser buys chicken wings. Winner gets to gloat with zero consequences.”
“You say that like you’re not the reigning king of double bogeys,” Grady says, already digging into his backpack for a disc that looks suspiciously too lightweight to go far.
“All part of my strategy,” Trent says. “I lure you in with mediocrity, then unleash the perfect flick on hole six.”
Luis takes the first throw. He winds up with anexaggerated hop-step like he’s about to launch a javelin. The disc hooks left immediately and clatters into a cluster of saplings. “That was just a warm-up. And a warning to the trees.”
Grady’s up next. He does a slow, theatrical wind-up with a pirouette flourish at the end, releasing the disc with the elegance of a man who thinks he’s starring in a deodorant commercial. His disc sails a solid distance and lands with a satisfying skip just a few feet short of the basket. He smirks and bows like he’s been waiting all week for this one moment.
I step up to the tee, eye the slight right curve of the fairway, and let my disc fly. It glides with a surprising precision that makes it look like I might actually know what I’m doing before it catches a breeze and veers off course, landing behind a boulder.
Trent’s throw goes high and wide, his whole body spinning dramatically with the force of the toss. He stumbles on the follow-through, windmilling his arms before catching himself. The disc lands somewhere between a patch of tall grass and what might be a shallow drainage ditch.
“That’s a bold strategy,” Luis says as they start walking down the fairway. “Going for aquatic terrain so early in the game.”
As we walk toward my disc, since it’s the furthest from the basket, Luis asks what my hobbies are. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m likely to playas beautifully as the first half of my disc’s flight went or the second half.
The truth is, when it comes to hobbies, I’m a history buff. Especially history in relation to architecture. That particular skill comes in handy in exactly three situations: trivia nights, when writing epic poetry, and while shooting the breeze with other historical restoration specialists.
There are zero trivia nights held around here. I checked. Ditto to nearby historical restoration specialists. So, instead, I answer Luis’s question by listing things that I enjoy that I think he might enjoy, too. Playing pool, bowling, darts, axe throwing, cornhole, whatever.
“Did you hear that, guys?” Luis says. “It looks like we’re going to have to have a cornhole competition at some point!”
I grin. “I don’t know. My bean bag game puts my disc golf game to shame.” When we reach my disc, I squint at the awkward angle I’ll have to take.
