Julian
Something miraculous happens on Thursday. A contractor actually calls me back.
“Hi, this is Simon Johnson,” the man says. “You left a message for me a while ago looking for somebody to renovate your house?”
“Yes,” I blurt out. To be perfectly honest, I don't remember leaving a message for Johnson, but that first weekend, I called over twenty contractors. “Thank you for returning my call.”
“Sorry it's taken me a few days,” he replies, sounding sheepish. “Are you still looking for somebody?”
“Yes.”
“I can come by this afternoon to look at the house, and you can tell me what you want done. A little after lunch? Between one-thirty and two, if that works.”
True to his word, Simon Johnson shows up exactly at one-thirty. He’s younger than I expected, in his late twenties. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark wavy hair and warm brown skin, he doesn’t look like a contractor. He looks like a male model.
He sticks his hand out. “Hey, I'm Simon.”
I shake it. “Julian. Come on in. Let me show you the greenhouse.”
He looks around with interest as I lead the way to the back. “I’ve seen this place dozens of times from the road,” he says. “I’ve always wondered what it looks like on the inside.”
“As you can see, it's something of a disaster.”
I expect him to tell me to level it and start over, but he doesn’t. “Good bones, though,” he says. “It would take some work to get it up to date, but it would be worth it. The world is filled with cookie-cutter suburban houses. Homes like this are special.” We walk through the kitchen, and he shudders in horror when he takes in the circa mid-seventies sea foam green cabinetry. “This is dated.”
“Hey, the stove works, and so does the refrigerator. It might not be the prettiest room in the house, but it's the most functional.”
Simon chuckles. “There is that,” he agrees. He flicks on the ceiling light. “Better lighting will go a long way.”
Huh. He’s right.
We arrive at the greenhouse. “This is it,” I announce, bracing myself for his reaction. I’d vetted the contractors I called for obvious red flags, but right now, even if half of Simon’s reviews are one-star, I’d hire him. I’m desperate. I sent Francisco Flores ten pages of my first draft, and he returned it to me with a terse note saying it wasn’t working. No details on what wasn’t right or how to fix it. Just a pointed suggestion to start over. I’m trying to stay optimistic about the collaboration, but just less than a week into the process, and it’s shaping up to be hell.
The greenhouse renovations have taken a back seat to the Revenant screenplay all week. I’m woefully behind schedule. Damien has been helping where he can, but he’s got troubles of his own at work.
Hiring a contractor would be such a relief.
Simon doesn't look horrified. He looks like he sees a challenge. “Sophia said it would take some work,” he says. “She's not wrong.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know Sophia?”
He must hear the note of jealousy in my voice. He looks up, amused. “Yeah, she's my sister.”
And now I feel very stupid. “She is?”
“Is it the skin color that's throwing you? We’re both adopted.”
“That’s partly why, but you also have different last names.”
He grins. “Ah, that. Yeah, people always get confused about why that’s the case. My fathers didn’t care if we kept our last names from birth, but we all wanted to change them. Since Sophia and Ben were already Thorsens, Andre and I decided we wanted Hank’s last name. My sister Aurora picked both. She’s Aurora Thorsen-Johnson Vallejo. Quite a mouthful.”
Simon’s far chattier than his sister. I’m not above pumping him for information about Sophia. “She’s biologically related to your father, though, she said.”
“Yeah. Dad is technically Ben and Sophia’s uncle.”
“It didn’t make a difference?” Neither Hannah nor I were adopted, but my parents still treated us differently.
“To Dad?” He shakes his head. “Nah, man. It never seemed to matter. There was always enough love to go around.”