Ben pointed to the tin with his pencil. “That’s the stuff that’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, but if it’s not this, somethin’ else will,” Ralph replied with a grin that showed off flecks of brown against incredibly white teeth.
“I guess you’re right.”
“What about the house on Bitner? Mrs. Hunter’s place?”
“It’s a go. I’ll start looking things over today and let you know what needs to be done. She seems to know what she wants.”
“That’s Dora for ya.”
Ben rotated his neck and heard some disquieting pops. “I’ll talk to Fitzpatrick tomorrow. There’s got to be some repair work at the camp.” Ben hated to ask for work from old Thomas. Ever since seeing him with Carlie at Nadine’s wedding... The pencil he’d been holding snapped between his fingers.
“It would be nice to get a little money out of that old skinflint.” Ralph had been out of work for nearly a year since a back injury had sidelined him from his last job with a major construction company, which was owned in part by Thomas Fitzpatrick. Since the accident, the company had laid off more people than it hired and Ralph hadn’t been offered his old job because it had no longer existed: the company had gone out of business. Since then, Ralph had worked doing odd jobs—carpentry, chopping wood, even general yard work before he’d been introduced to Ben over a beer at the Silver Horseshoe. They’d struck a deal and he’d been working for Ben ever since. Ralph was grateful for the job and Ben was sure that he’d found the best foreman in the county. A burly man with muttonchop sideburns and slight paunch that hid his belt buckle, Ralph worked hard and was honest. Ben couldn’t ask for more.
Ralph grabbed a dusty Mets cap off the rack near the door, then slung his denim jacket over his shoulder. “Well, it looks like we’re gonna be busy.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You won’t hear me complainin’.” Ralph stepped out of the old trailer and jogged to his pickup.
Ben took another swallow of bitter coffee, before dumping the rest of the foul stuff down the toilet. He’d start a fresh pot in the morning.
Stretching so that his back creaked, he thought about leaving, then sat down again in the worn swivel chair behind his metal desk. He shuffled a few papers, and wondered when he’d feel confident enough to hire a secretary. Not right away. He picked up a manila folder and let the check fall into the mess that was his desk. Fifty-thousand big ones. More money than he’d ever seen in his life and he hadn’t even had to sign for it. All because he was now related to Hayden Monroe IV. Ben shouldn’t take it—just stuff the damned piece of paper into an envelope and send it back, but he was too practical not to realize the value of this—a peace offering—from his sister’s new husband.
“I just want to set things straight,” Hayden had told him when he and Nadine had returned from their week-long honeymoon in the Bahamas. “For the past.”
“That had nothing to do with me,” Ben had replied.
Hayden’s jaw had clamped tight. “This was my idea, not Nadine’s. Hell, she doesn’t even know about it.”
“Deal with my dad.”
Hayden had leveled him a gaze that could cut through solid steel. “I did, Powell. Now this is between us. Just you and me. Think of this money as an advance or a loan or a damned gift, I don’t care, but rebuild Nadine’s cabin the way she wants it. You can take your profit off the top, then pay me back when you can.” Hayden’s gaze had brooked no argument and the nostrils of his nose—a nose Ben had nearly broken just a few weeks ago—had flared with indignation.
It was a generous offer, one Ben could hardly refuse, so he’d agreed, but he’d had the proper legal papers drawn so that it was duly recorded that he was borrowing money from Monroe and the debt would be repaid within four years.
Ben had grown up believing that a person earned his way in the world, that he couldn’t expect something for nothing, and he wasn’t going to accept Hayden Monroe’s money just to ease his new brother-in-law’s conscience. This was a business matter. And a chance to rebuild his sister’s cabin, so family loyalty was involved. However, the sooner he paid back the debt, the better he’d feel.
Satisfied, he filled out the deposit slip for his new business and stuffed the paperwork into his briefcase. His father had called him a fool, referred to Hayden’s investment as “blood money.” Well, maybe George was right. It didn’t matter. For once Ben wasn’t going to kick the golden goose out of his path.
He’d been frugal, picking up this old trailer from Fitzpatrick Logging for a song, and putting it on an empty lot on the outskirts of town zoned for commercial use. He’d bought the weed-infested lot from a man who lived in Seattle and who had once planned to retire in the area. Later, because of the downturn in the California economy, the owner had changed his mind about his retirement plans and gladly sold the piece of ground to Ben. Once the lot was paid off, Ben planned to build himself an office complex, but that dream was a long way off. First he needed to line up more work than just the construction of a lakeside cabin for his sister and the renovation of the old Victorian house on Bitner Street.
Ben’s bid for the Bitner job had been lower than any of his competitors’ because he was hungrier and he wanted a real job, not a handout from his brother-in-law. Mrs. Hunter, the owner of the building, wanted it to be brought up to date: cleaned, repaired, remodeled, “whatever it takes” to get it ready to sell. She was a sly woman who had a vacancy that she hoped to fill and she’d decided Ben would make a perfect tenant for her downstairs studio. “We could do a trade. You get free rent and I get a little knocked off the bill?” She’d smiled sweetly, bobbing her head of blue-gray curls, but Ben had declined, preferring to keep a little distance between himself and the people who hired him.
However, Dora Hunter wasn’t to be outmaneuvered. “You think about it,” she’d told him during their last conversation. “It could be mighty convenient and I could come up with a deal you’d be a fool to pass up.”
Ben had decided right then and there that there was a shrewd businesswoman with a will of iron lurking behind the grandmotherly persona of apple cheeks and rimless spectacles. At seventy-eight, Mrs. Hunter was tired of the problems associated with owning and managing an apartment building and was ready to retire to Palm Springs to be closer to her daughter and good-for-nothing son-in-law. She’d confided in Ben as she’d signed their contract. “He’s a bum, but Sonja loves him, so what does it matter what I think? Besides, there’s the grandchildren...” She’d clucked her tongue. “Hard to believe that man could father such adorable boys. Ahh, well...” She’d put down the pen, looked up at Ben with a twinkle in her blue eyes and stuck out her hand. “Looks like we have a bargain, Mr. Powell.”
“Ben.” Her grip was amazingly strong.
“Only if you call me Dora.”
“It’s a deal.”
So Ben had a contract for his first “real job,” and it felt good, damned good, even if he wouldn’t make a ton of money. He had a chance to prove himself and, if Mrs. Hunter—Dora—was satisfied with the quality of his work, word would get out. In a town the size of Gold Creek word of mouth was worth more than thousands of dollars of paid advertising in the Clarion.
The Hunter apartments and Nadine’s cabin were just the beginning of his plan. He figured there were ample opportunities in Gold Creek, Coleville and the neighboring communities. He intended to specialize in remodeling rather than developing new projects. A lot of the buildings in Gold Creek were steeped in history and charm but nearly desolate in the way of modern conveniences. Most of the commercial property in the center of town had been built in the early part of the century and though attractive and quaint, needed new wiring, plumbing, insulation, heating and cooling systems or face-lifts.