Recipe for Disaster Read Online Free
in an eye patch.
“Great. I’ll be in my office.”
I head down the hall to my tiny windowless closet of an office, barely big enough for my desk and one chair, books and floor plans and blueprints scattered everywhere. Stacks of finish samples teeter in the corners, and empty plastic water bottles are erupting out of the wastebasket. I’m something of a slob. But messy, not dirty, I like to tell myself, as if this is better. Liam? Has an office three times this size. With a window. And a private bathroom. Apparently the previous office occupant was a three-man law firm, so there are three offices with en suite baths. It was empty when I started, but I still got the “one step up from coffin” all the way in the back near the alley where I get hot-garbage scent all summer, and Liam, who started after I did, slid right into the choice digs like shit out of a goose.
“How’d it go with the Osbornes?” Liam arranges his lanky frame in my door, dark curly hair artfully rumpled, piercing green eyes shining behind long, thick, dark lashes.
“Great. They couldn’t be happier, the place really turned out even better than expected.”
“Good to hear. You must be glad to get that one put to bed.”
“Always bittersweet. Glad to have a job finished, sad to let it go. But I’m happy that they’re happy. How are things over on Fremont?” Liam is in the middle of my most hated kind of project. A wonderful old building with clients that are keeping the façade and doing a complete gut on the inside. All the original hardwood floors, beautiful cabinets and built-ins, claw-foot tubs, mosaic tile work, even some historic hand-painted silk wall coverings, all ripped out in favor of new new new everything. The couple, young trust fund babies both, wanted to build from scratch, but couldn’t find a double lot on one of their seven preferred Lincoln Park streets on which to erect one of those horrible places that all look like banks, so they settled for mangling this beautiful turn-of-the-century brick home instead. I’m grateful for only two things. One, they didn’t decide to tear it down completely, and two, I was able to spend a long, exhausting weekend with some of my guys salvaging everything that was salvageable and moving it to my storage unit. If I don’t use it myself, I’ll be sure that it all finds future useful life.
“You know. Couldn’t be more generic. Open-concept main level, eat-in family room slash kitchen with homework station blah blah blah. It’s going to look like a Restoration Hardware catalog.” I give Liam credit for only two things. He does appreciate the old school and old world and hates to see people destroy things as much as I do. And he’s as big a perfectionist as I am in terms of quality. Joe’s first lesson to me was to focus my energy on doing everything the right way. “
You know what I call the building codes?
” he used to say. “
A start
.” I’ve spent the better part of my career convincing people to spend more money than they want to on infrastructure, and micromanaging subcontractors who insist that something is just fine “at code.”
“At least you won’t have budget issues,” I say to Liam, wishing he would put his arm down so that I can stop staring at the swath of exposed six-pack where his thermal shirt is hiked up, stop wondering about how he might have gotten the thin white vertical scar below his rib cage. I’d love to tell him to go away, but it’s become clear that Murph fully intends to hand him the management when he retires, which he threatens to do more and more, and while I’m far more qualified for the job and should be considered, I know it won’t happen. I’m not enough of a suck-up. I like to think of my style as honest and straightforward, but apparently, according to my annual reviews, I’m “abrasive” and “disrespectful.” At least once every few months Murph calls me in for a dressing-down because I’ve pissed somebody off. I
“Great. I’ll be in my office.”
I head down the hall to my tiny windowless closet of an office, barely big enough for my desk and one chair, books and floor plans and blueprints scattered everywhere. Stacks of finish samples teeter in the corners, and empty plastic water bottles are erupting out of the wastebasket. I’m something of a slob. But messy, not dirty, I like to tell myself, as if this is better. Liam? Has an office three times this size. With a window. And a private bathroom. Apparently the previous office occupant was a three-man law firm, so there are three offices with en suite baths. It was empty when I started, but I still got the “one step up from coffin” all the way in the back near the alley where I get hot-garbage scent all summer, and Liam, who started after I did, slid right into the choice digs like shit out of a goose.
“How’d it go with the Osbornes?” Liam arranges his lanky frame in my door, dark curly hair artfully rumpled, piercing green eyes shining behind long, thick, dark lashes.
“Great. They couldn’t be happier, the place really turned out even better than expected.”
“Good to hear. You must be glad to get that one put to bed.”
“Always bittersweet. Glad to have a job finished, sad to let it go. But I’m happy that they’re happy. How are things over on Fremont?” Liam is in the middle of my most hated kind of project. A wonderful old building with clients that are keeping the façade and doing a complete gut on the inside. All the original hardwood floors, beautiful cabinets and built-ins, claw-foot tubs, mosaic tile work, even some historic hand-painted silk wall coverings, all ripped out in favor of new new new everything. The couple, young trust fund babies both, wanted to build from scratch, but couldn’t find a double lot on one of their seven preferred Lincoln Park streets on which to erect one of those horrible places that all look like banks, so they settled for mangling this beautiful turn-of-the-century brick home instead. I’m grateful for only two things. One, they didn’t decide to tear it down completely, and two, I was able to spend a long, exhausting weekend with some of my guys salvaging everything that was salvageable and moving it to my storage unit. If I don’t use it myself, I’ll be sure that it all finds future useful life.
“You know. Couldn’t be more generic. Open-concept main level, eat-in family room slash kitchen with homework station blah blah blah. It’s going to look like a Restoration Hardware catalog.” I give Liam credit for only two things. He does appreciate the old school and old world and hates to see people destroy things as much as I do. And he’s as big a perfectionist as I am in terms of quality. Joe’s first lesson to me was to focus my energy on doing everything the right way. “
You know what I call the building codes?
” he used to say. “
A start
.” I’ve spent the better part of my career convincing people to spend more money than they want to on infrastructure, and micromanaging subcontractors who insist that something is just fine “at code.”
“At least you won’t have budget issues,” I say to Liam, wishing he would put his arm down so that I can stop staring at the swath of exposed six-pack where his thermal shirt is hiked up, stop wondering about how he might have gotten the thin white vertical scar below his rib cage. I’d love to tell him to go away, but it’s become clear that Murph fully intends to hand him the management when he retires, which he threatens to do more and more, and while I’m far more qualified for the job and should be considered, I know it won’t happen. I’m not enough of a suck-up. I like to think of my style as honest and straightforward, but apparently, according to my annual reviews, I’m “abrasive” and “disrespectful.” At least once every few months Murph calls me in for a dressing-down because I’ve pissed somebody off. I
Readers choose
PJ Chase
Jaclyn Weist
Shelly Bell
Katherine Howell
Elke Becker
Anonymous
Mary Balogh