The Homewreckers(13)

“I had a blowout,” she admitted.

She wasn’t just attractive, Mo thought. She was, well, lovely. Maybe what made her so lovely was the fact that unlike most of the beautiful women he’d ever met, this one was completely unaware, or even indifferent to how she looked.

She’d ditched the baggy Carhartts, faded T-shirt, and work boots. Today she wore jeans that showed off her slender body, some kind of flowery cotton peasant top with a drawstring that revealed just a hint of cleavage, and newish, white Chuck Ts.

“Okay, let’s get going,” he said, reluctantly dragging his thoughts back to business. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to get.”

He’d clipped his iPhone to a tripod with a remote trigger and placed the tripod behind the chair he was sitting in, because he thought she might feel less self-conscious if he wasn’t pointing a phone at her as they talked.

“I’ll count to three, and nod. And we’ll go.”

She nodded and he could feel the tension from where he sat. She was sitting ramrod straight, her spine pressed to the back of the sofa, her mouth stretched in an unflattering death rictus of a smile.

“Try to relax,” he said. “This isn’t the parole board. It’s just you and me. Talking about fixing up old houses. Right?”

“I guess.”

Mo threw his hands up, exasperated. “Look. Do you want to do this or not?”

“I said I’d do it.” Hattie stared down at her hands. For the first time he noticed the slender gold wedding band on her left hand.

“Why the change of heart? I mean, you’ll make money, yeah, but you won’t get rich off this show, so if you’re only agreeing to do the show for the money…”

“It’s not just about the money. I mean, okay, yeah, some of it’s about the money.”

“Then why did you agree to do this show? Seriously, Hattie. I need to know.”

She jumped up from the sofa, pacing the room, gesturing wildly with her hands. Mo clicked the remote to start recording, but Hattie didn’t seem to notice.

“Maybe I need to prove something to myself. That I’m good at what I do.” She glared at him. “I’m really good at what I do. I know you probably don’t think so, because of how I screwed up Tattnall Street. But I am. I’m a woman on a job site. I’m the boss, but nobody wants to believe that. Do you know what that’s like? Every time a new sub comes on the job, every time an inspector shows up, they look right past me and ask to see the boss. Every. Freakin’. Time. They see me, and it’s like, whoa, who’s the cute chick in the hard hat? They hit on me, but they never believe in me. When we have a client, like for a kitchen or bath or deck addition? It’s Tug who goes out to meet with the client and give them an estimate, because they don’t actually believe a mere girl knows what she’s talking about. So it’s not enough for me to be as good as a man. I gotta be better than them. And I gotta prove it. Every. Damned. Day. So maybe that’s why I’m doing your damned show.”

He ignored her glare. “See? That’s what I’m looking for from you. The camera needs to see it. Give me some of that ‘fuck off’ attitude.”

She blinked. “Did you just film that?”

“You bet your sweet ass I did.” Mo grinned. “I’d say you’re warmed up. Now sit down and answer my questions.”



* * *



“My name is Harriet Kavanaugh, but everyone calls me Hattie. I live in Savannah, Georgia. I’ve lived here all my life. I fix up old houses. Sometimes I buy ’em, fix ’em, and sell ’em, but in this current real estate market we mostly just fix them up for our clients. Our company is called Kavanaugh and Son. My father-in-law’s father, Thomas Senior, started the company, and then Tug—that’s my father-in-law, it’s a nickname for Thomas Junior—took over, and my husband, that is, my late husband, Hank, he came into the company and so did I.”

Mo interrupted. “How long have you been renovating old houses?”

“Most of my life, I guess. I started working for Tug when I was in high school, cleaning up around job sites. Eventually, I started bugging the guys to show me how to do stuff. And that’s how I learned all the trades. I can do framing, finish carpentry, electrical, and basic plumbing, in a pinch.”

“Did you tell me you went to college and majored in construction management?”

“I took classes for a year or so, but it was expensive. I figured I could learn more on the job than I could sitting in a classroom. Later on, I took the exam for my professional contractor’s license. I passed on the first try.” Hattie beamed at the memory.

Mo nodded his approval. “What’s your favorite part of what you do?”

“Honestly, what I love best about my job is walking through an old house. Touching it, wondering about its past, listening to it, then figuring out how to bring it back to life again for a new family.”

Mo nodded and gave her a thumbs-up. “What’s it feel like, when you’ve finished restoring an old house?”

Her face lit up with enthusiasm. “It’s just the best. Sometimes we work months and months on a house, slogging through the nasty stuff, replacing old pipes, ripping out knotty pine paneling from the sixties and gross bathrooms, and it feels like you’ll never get it all done. Then, one day, the plaster’s patched and painted, and we switch on a crystal chandelier I found in a junk shop, and bam! It feels like I’ve won the lottery. And I forget about all the sweat and tears and rat poop. Maybe it’s like childbirth? Like, once you see the baby you fall in love and you don’t even care about what it took to bring that kid into the world.”