The Homewreckers(98)

Hattie felt herself grinding her back molars.

Trae flicked a finger against the front doorknob. “And while we’re on the subject, we also need to replace this hardware. It reminds me of cheap builder brass from the eighties.”

“This doorknob is original to the door, which is original to the house,” Hattie said. “I took it off and stripped all the brass myself. It’ll age fast in the salt air though.”

“It might be original, but it doesn’t look substantial,” Trae repeated. “We need a chunky, oversized statement piece.” He picked up his iPad and scrolled through some images until he found the one he was seeking.

“Like this,” he said, showing a photo of a heavy-looking brass doorknob that was hand-engraved with an elaborate design of eagles and anchors. “I can call my supplier in California and get it overnighted.”

“Eight hundred dollars? For a doorknob? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Hattie screeched. “We don’t have that kind of money in the budget.” She fixed Trae with a withering stare. “This doorknob stays. We are not buying bigger lanterns. And the only way these lanterns are getting moved is if you figure out a way to hide the holes in the walls where you told the electricians to drill.”

“Have it your way,” Trae retorted. The designer and the contractor stood with their faces inches apart, glaring at each other.

“Cut!” Leetha called. “That was great, kids. I could really feel the tension. So thick you could cut it with a knife.”

“Me too,” Hattie said. “I know we just staged that argument for the cameras, but Trae, you really can’t move those lanterns now.”

“I’ve got it all figured out,” he said. “I’ll have the finish carpenters cut me out some oversized shield-shaped backplates with fancy beveled edges from finish-grade spruce to cover up the first set of holes. We’ll paint them out the same color as the siding, and it’ll look like we planned it that way.”

“You couldn’t have told me that while we were filming?” Hattie asked.

“Nah. Like Leetha said, high drama makes for high ratings.”

He flung an arm around Hattie’s shoulder and turned to Leetha. “It’s after six. Are we ready to call it a day yet? I’d like to take this lovely lady out to dinner.”

Leetha shrugged. “I think we’re done filming, but I don’t know what all y’all need to get done in the house to stay on schedule.”

“There’s too much to do, and we’re too far behind,” Hattie said. “I rented a floor sander, and I was planning on knocking out the dining room and living room floors tonight.”

“Tonight?” Trae shook his head. “No way. You’ve already been here for twelve hours. Let it go until tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” Hattie said. “I want to get the floors sanded and covered up, so that, hopefully next week, the painters can come in and stain and seal them. I like to do at least four or five coats of poly on these floors, with a day between each coat, because I know they’ll take a beating from all the sand people track in from the beach.”

“That’s nuts,” Trae said. “Two coats are fine. This house is a flip, remember? The next buyer can worry about sandy floors. Your job is to make it look pretty. And that’s it.”

“No. My job is to do it right. All of it. Even the stuff that doesn’t show on television. It’s my name on the line. And Tug’s.”

“Okay, okay,” Trae relented. “Guess I know where I’ll be tonight.”





52

The Floor Show




“You’re really going to sand these floors yourself?” Trae kicked the bulky drum sander with the toe of his sneaker.

“Nope. We are going to sand these floors,” Hattie said. “As in you and me.”

She pointed at the rented power sanders. “Have you ever used one of these before?”

“Never. In California my people have people who do this kind of thing,” Trae said.

“News flash. You’re not in California. You’re on Tybee, and out here, real men sand floors. And tile bathrooms. And anything else that needs doing.”

Hattie retrieved the tool caddy she’d placed on the bottom stair landing. “Okay, since you’re a newbie, I’ll be the sander, and you’ll be the detail man.”

She handed him a putty knife and a claw hammer. “I need you to go around and remove all the shoe molding. Then, make sure we don’t have any exposed nail heads anywhere that can rip up my sander.”

Hattie produced a dusty boombox that a member of the framing crew had left behind. She punched a button and loud mariachi music flooded the high-ceilinged room. After a moment of fiddling with the tuning dial she found a radio station playing ’90s oldies.

“Watch and learn,” she said. She donned a set of goggles with an attached breathing apparatus and switched on the sander. She turned up the volume on the radio, flipped the sander’s long power cord over her shoulder, then, lowering the drum until it touched the floor, she began making a slow, methodical, diagonal sweep across the scarred heart pine surface. When she neared the corner of the living room, she stopped and switched off the sander. “See?”