The Fix (The Carolina Connections, #1)(5)
“Soooo,” Bailey began once she and I were seated at the dining table in my parents’ home, the same home we’d both grown up in just outside of Greensboro. The topic at hand? The family business. “What the hell do we do now?”
I brought my hands together on the tabletop as I took in the familiar surroundings, my mom’s small touches noticeable throughout—the Lladro statues lining the sideboard, the dried flowers arranged among the dishes in the china hutch, and a few of Bailey’s paintings hung carefully on the opposite wall. I brought my eyes back to my sister and narrowed them at her. “Not so fast, Bay. I’ve been here a week—don’t think you’re dumping this whole thing on me as if I have all the answers. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and you can’t play your little ‘Oh, I’m such a right brain person so I couldn’t possibly do anything so uncreative and logical’ game. I’ll drag you with me kicking and screaming if I have to.”
“Oh, shut up, you pompous turd!” She slapped at my arm. “Have I complained yet? I’m more than prepared to jump in. I just don’t know where to start. Dad oversees everything, and I mean everything. Nothing is outside the scope of his domain.” She sighed and propped her chin up with her hand. “It’s just a bit overwhelming.”
Bailey and I had spent the last few days running back and forth between our dad’s office and the hospital; we were anxious, overwhelmed, and pretty fucking exhausted.
So even though Bailey is usually a pain in the ass, I regretted my earlier tone and started over. “Okay, I’m sorry. I guess I thought you’d have a better idea than I would of the best course of action here. I’ve been out of the day-to-day picture for a couple years now and you’ve been working steadily with him so I guess I just assumed.” I shrugged.
“Yeah, but I’m the design person. I can put together an interior with my eyes closed, but all the administrative and construction crap is not in my wheelhouse, Nate. I’ll help where I can but …” She offered a super fake smile and lifted her hands up in the air. Classic Bailey—trying to be cute.
“Have I reminded you yet today that you were a mistake?” I asked, because I’m her brother and it’s my job.
“Nate, I could eat a bowl of alphabet soup and crap out a better insult than that.”
I laughed. “Okay, that was a good one.”
“I know—I’ve been storing them up since you’ve been away. I’ve missed you, you big asshat.” She pushed my shoulder. “And I’ll do my best to help wherever I can. Deal?”
“Deal.” I pushed her right back and she fell off her chair. “Oops.”
I knew she was right and the bulk of the responsibility would have to fall to me. I’d been working in construction in one aspect or another since I was sixteen and could legally enter a job site. Even before that, I had spent many childhood afternoons on the trailer floor of whatever site my dad was working at the time. I built some pretty stellar houses and skyscrapers and, well, superhero hideouts, using Legos or blocks or whatever else I had on hand.
My dad’s company, Built by Murphy, was founded by his father and was the family’s pride and joy. It was also a legacy my dad made no secret he wished to hand down to his two kids when the time came. Unfortunately, none of us had anticipated that time coming so soon, or so abruptly. Not that any of us were under the illusion that Riordan Murphy would quietly submit to the laid-back life of a retiree just because he had a major heart attack. But he would certainly be taking a step back—or several steps if my mom had anything to say about it. In light of that, someone had to take a step forward, and it looked like I was the only man for the job.
Construction is tough. There’s a reason most movie scenes involving construction sites occur during smoke breaks or lunch breaks. It’s hard to glamorize dirt and concrete dust, let alone try to carry on a conversation through the deafening buzzes and whirs of heavy equipment and power tools. Hard hats and hard work make you sweat and they exhaust you by the end of the day. But then you wipe your filthy face with your even filthier shirt and stand back to take in your work. And that’s when the magic happens, at least for me. The bones of a future house, or the foundation of a parking structure, or even a whole damn building stand before you. And you know that you built that. You helped lay that floor, you smoothed that concrete, you hung that drywall. Your accomplishment is tangible. And, sure, most days you forget to stand back—you’re exhausted and ready to hit the shower or grab a beer, or you have some crappy errand to run. But on the days that you remember, there’s no feeling like it.
I wasn’t reluctant to adopt the actual construction aspect of the company—never had been—but as I’d seen with my dad, the guy who runs the show doesn’t wield a hammer. He spends half his time in meetings and the other half putting out fires. This holds little interest for me and is the main reason I left town a few years back. I didn’t want to get sucked into the business of doing construction. I wanted to do my job, do it well, and at the end of the day just leave it there and get on with whatever the rest of the evening held for me. Taking his work home with him and strategizing to grow a company is what landed my dad in open heart surgery at the age of sixty. No thanks. But what choice did I have?
It all came down to one thing—family. And worse yet, fucking Irish family.