Home Improvement (A Pajaro Bay Short Story) by Barbara Cool Lee Page B
Authors: Barbara Cool Lee
Tags: Romance
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famous architect back in the 1930s. It was two stories high, and its redwood siding and steep shingle roof gave it a cabin-in-the-woods vibe even though it was only a few blocks off the main drag in Pajaro Bay. The teal gingerbread trim and overgrown window boxes added a little more cuteness to the already kitschy design. The whole thing was capped off by the tiny stained glass window up high under the roof peak, its image of a bluebird singing away on a pine branch giving the cottage its name.
She got out of the car, and her sneakers crunched on the pine needles that littered the gravel drive.
She walked up the familiar windy path past the escallonia bushes and under the arch of purple bougainvillea.
The place needed a lot of work. One of the first-floor window boxes had come loose, and it sagged down to touch the ground on the left side. The roof was not only covered with windblown pine needles but there were a bunch of wooden shingles missing, and she'd been informed by the historical society that she was not allowed to replace the roof with more practical, fireproof (and affordable) synthetic shingles, but instead must hire a specialist who would match the color and thickness of the existing wood and fill in the bare spots without, as Miss Zelda Potter said, "changing in any way the distinctive character of the historical Stockdale cottage."
Bluebird Cottage may have a cute name, but it was a pain to deal with.
And of course inside was no better. She had actually stepped through a floorboard in the upstairs bathroom, and now had an unobstructed view of the downstairs fireplace while sitting on the toilet.
But it was a pretty view. The fireplace was surrounded by forget-me-knot blue tiles, with birds embossed on them in high relief. The keystone above the firebox was a hand-painted tile of (what else?) a bluebird. At least the builder had been consistent.
But still, to come across little birds everywhere she turned just reminded her of the first time she'd seen the house. She and Bryce had honeymooned at the beach in Pajaro Bay, and they'd spent several lazy afternoons strolling through the village, holding hands and just enjoying each other's company.
When they'd come across the tiny cottage on a side street, the For Sale sign planted by its rickety picket fence had seemed like an invitation. They'd known that this was the place where all their dreams for the future would come true. They would work side by side to repair and restore the worn-down former rental and turn it into their very own home, the home where Bryce would run the construction estimating business that would make him as successful as they'd planned. And one day soon their own children would play in the yard.
It was all gone now. All but the little cottage with the hole in the floor, and the wall she'd torn out, and the mile-long repair list. And the promise she'd made to Bryce when he lay dying in the emergency room: that she wouldn't give up on her dreams of small-town life.
The beep of a horn behind her made her jump.
Gage's truck came to a stop on the gravel next to her car, and the moment the door opened Freeway hit the ground and came running.
"Hey, boy. I missed you, too," she said, giving the giant shaggy dog a hug.
"It's been a while," Gage said, coming up to stand beside her. Those hazel eyes of his looked at her a bit hesitantly.
"I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," she said.
"I figured I reminded you of...."
"Yeah. Of Bryce." Gage had called a dozen times over the past six months, offering to help, but she somehow never got around to returning the calls until now. He had been Bryce's best friend, the one who'd convinced him to start his estimating business after they took CAD classes in college together. Now the sight of Gage was a reminder of everything she'd lost.
"It's not your fault," she finally said. "It's just taken me a bit of time to be ready to move on." Freeway bumped against her leg and she almost tripped, but Gage
She got out of the car, and her sneakers crunched on the pine needles that littered the gravel drive.
She walked up the familiar windy path past the escallonia bushes and under the arch of purple bougainvillea.
The place needed a lot of work. One of the first-floor window boxes had come loose, and it sagged down to touch the ground on the left side. The roof was not only covered with windblown pine needles but there were a bunch of wooden shingles missing, and she'd been informed by the historical society that she was not allowed to replace the roof with more practical, fireproof (and affordable) synthetic shingles, but instead must hire a specialist who would match the color and thickness of the existing wood and fill in the bare spots without, as Miss Zelda Potter said, "changing in any way the distinctive character of the historical Stockdale cottage."
Bluebird Cottage may have a cute name, but it was a pain to deal with.
And of course inside was no better. She had actually stepped through a floorboard in the upstairs bathroom, and now had an unobstructed view of the downstairs fireplace while sitting on the toilet.
But it was a pretty view. The fireplace was surrounded by forget-me-knot blue tiles, with birds embossed on them in high relief. The keystone above the firebox was a hand-painted tile of (what else?) a bluebird. At least the builder had been consistent.
But still, to come across little birds everywhere she turned just reminded her of the first time she'd seen the house. She and Bryce had honeymooned at the beach in Pajaro Bay, and they'd spent several lazy afternoons strolling through the village, holding hands and just enjoying each other's company.
When they'd come across the tiny cottage on a side street, the For Sale sign planted by its rickety picket fence had seemed like an invitation. They'd known that this was the place where all their dreams for the future would come true. They would work side by side to repair and restore the worn-down former rental and turn it into their very own home, the home where Bryce would run the construction estimating business that would make him as successful as they'd planned. And one day soon their own children would play in the yard.
It was all gone now. All but the little cottage with the hole in the floor, and the wall she'd torn out, and the mile-long repair list. And the promise she'd made to Bryce when he lay dying in the emergency room: that she wouldn't give up on her dreams of small-town life.
The beep of a horn behind her made her jump.
Gage's truck came to a stop on the gravel next to her car, and the moment the door opened Freeway hit the ground and came running.
"Hey, boy. I missed you, too," she said, giving the giant shaggy dog a hug.
"It's been a while," Gage said, coming up to stand beside her. Those hazel eyes of his looked at her a bit hesitantly.
"I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," she said.
"I figured I reminded you of...."
"Yeah. Of Bryce." Gage had called a dozen times over the past six months, offering to help, but she somehow never got around to returning the calls until now. He had been Bryce's best friend, the one who'd convinced him to start his estimating business after they took CAD classes in college together. Now the sight of Gage was a reminder of everything she'd lost.
"It's not your fault," she finally said. "It's just taken me a bit of time to be ready to move on." Freeway bumped against her leg and she almost tripped, but Gage
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