“Right, right. You used to write when we were kids, too, right?”
“Shall we get this tour started?” she asks tightly, ignoring me fully.
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint. Let’s go.”
I lead Lacy through the rooms one by one, flagging the various quirks I’ve noticed in Rose Manor since I arrived.
The kitchen: “So only two of the four burners on the stove work…”
The dining room: “There’s this broken floorboard, careful don’t trip…”
The stairs going to the second floor: “The banister is kind of shaky, I think the wood might be rotted through? Hopefully not termites…”
The primary bedroom: “I’ve heard some weird scratching sounds in the walls at night. Maybe a squirrel family set up camp?”
My old kids’ bedroom: “The window is broken but I’ve stuffed it with newspaper for now.”
Lacy’s old bedroom: “There’s a little wet spot on the ceiling here, so maybe another broken pipe.”
As I go, Lacy is scribbling furiously in her notebook, making a record of every issue I highlight. She also stops frequently to point out a detail I’ve missed, like the sagging beam in one of the guest bedrooms.
By the time we’ve made the rounds of the house, Lacy’s face is ashen and she’s biting her lip, looking anxious as hell. I get that the house isn’t in great shape, but she’s taking this worse than I’d expected.
“This is a mess,” she practically wails as we reenter the front hall. “The place needs way more work than I thought.”
“Sure, it’ll take some time,” I say reassuringly, “but it’s not a lost cause.”
“I don’t have time,” she says testily. “I need to get this done, fast. I slotted two weeks for this project.”
“What’s the rush?” I eye her curiously. She’s fidgeting nervously.
“Just a work thing I have coming up. I need to finish this first.”
“Work thing?”
“Never mind. Just forget it,” she huffs.
She shakes her long dark hair down from its ponytail and then immediately makes a fresh ponytail. I grin, watching her. I recognize the familiar move. It’s a nervous habit she did when we were teens too.
“Look, you can get it done pretty fast. You’ll just have to bring in some outside expertise. Like the plumber for the pipes. He’s already on the books for tomorrow!”
I hoped that my words would cheer her up, but I’m met with a withering stare.
“You wouldn’t get it,” she says in irritation. “Some of us have to work like regular people. We can’t all be rock stars like you.” Her voice is cool and cutting.
Ouch.Her sharp tone is like a knife. But her words get under my skin.
“You think I don’twork?” I ask in annoyance. “What do you think I’m doinghere?”
“It looks like all you’re doing here is fucking this house up even more.”
“Follow me,” I say in irritation, “I’ve got something to show you.”
“What, more damage?”
But she walks after me as I lead her to the one part of the house we haven’t seen yet, the basement. It was unfinished when we lived here as teens and just used for storage. I’ve changed that.
“See, I’ve made some improvements too,” I say proudly, opening the door at the bottom step and ushering Lacy into my pride and joy. A state-of-the-art recording studio, where I’m recording—or rather, trying to record—my next album. The writer’s block isn’t making it easy.