“I wanted to renovate the house,” he went on. “I made the fortuitous choice of contacting a local contractor, Bruce Mayhand.”
I smiled. “Paula’s husband.”
Van nodded.
“Wait, you renovated a house and then demolished it?”
His firm lips quirked. “Bigger, better.”
“That’s right.”
He removed the last domed container. Through the steam-covered plastic, I made out spaghetti covered in marinara and two giant meatballs. I lifted the lid.
“Oh, that looks delicious.”
Van went into the kitchen and returned with two plates, silverware, and napkins. As we both dished portions onto our plates, Van continued his story, telling me how Paula’s husband agreed to do the work Van wanted. Over time, Van mentioned to Mr. Mayhand his desire to purchase neighboring lots.
“Always more,” I said with a grin.
“Always more.”
We carried our plates and settings to the living room, setting them on the table between the sofa and fireplace.
Van didn’t sit, first turning on the fire, and second, going back for water bottles and wine glasses. I retrieved one of the wine bottles he’d had delivered, one that we began the night before.
Soon, I was sitting on one end of the sofa, comfortable in my leggings and loose shirt, my legs crisscrossed while listening to Van as the fire illuminated the living room.
We both ate as he continued telling me about his beginning in Ashland.
“The Mayhands owned one of the neighboring lots. While they didn’t want to sell, they were having problems, financial problems, brought on by unexpected medical bills.”
I knew from my research that this was at the same time the Sherman Brothers deal was reaching its crescendo.
Van shrugged. “I saw an opportunity to get what I wanted and made him an offer, too good to pass up. I told Bruce to find a new house or find land if he wanted to build. I offered to pay for their new land and home, as well as pay additionally for the land he would sell to me.”
“That was generous.”
“It was the first time I had money, real money.” He scoffed. “In hindsight, it wasn’t much, but from where I started and for a man in his mid-to-late-twenties, I thought I’d made it big. It could be said that I was impulsive, and as my grandparents would say, too big for my britches.”
I stifled a laugh at Van using such an old saying. “Obviously, the Mayhands took the deal.”
Van nodded. “And in the process, I met my first friends in the area. You’ve met Mrs. Mayhand. I suppose that she and Bruce were technically old enough to be my parents. Somewhere along the line, they assumed a similar role. I would have complained if they’d been more obtrusive, but they weren’t. They were just there for me.
“I’d made them a lucrative deal, and yet it was as if they didn’t want the extra money. Instead of being put off, they embraced me in a way. I think Mrs. Mayhand saw me for the lost and erratic soul I tried to hide. At first, she would bring me meals, two or three a week.” He grinned. “Each week, she’d stop by the office in Ashland with this huge picnic basket.”
“You weren’t paying her?”
“She wouldn’t accept it, saying I’d overpaid for their land.”
I pictured the older woman doting over me those few Friday mornings. “She has a kind heart.”
Flames from the fireplace danced in Van’s eyes. “Just like you.”
“That still doesn’t explain not using her first name.”
“The first time Bruce introduced us to one another, he referred to her as Mrs. Mayhand. I remember thinking it was formal and wondered if it was a dig that I was younger, and once I got the chip off my shoulder, I saw it for what it was.”
His various self-deprecating remarks had my attention. It wasn’t like Van was saying he was less; he was admitting that he had room for growth. “What was it?”