“Jenna, sweetie,” she says, forcing a smile, “these are the contractors that’ll be working on the guesthouse. This is Mr. George Reed and his son, Bryson.” She extends her arm gracefully toward the two men sitting across from her.
They turn in their chairs to greet me. The older man, George Reed, looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. The younger one, Bryson, appears to be roughly around my age, maybe a bit older. They both politely nod as I walk in and stand before them.
I respond with the same gesture, but after my mother’s disapproving, narrow glare, I reach my hand out to each of them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” George Reed shakes my hand sternly.
“Same here,” Bryson says with a smile.
“Should we get started, Mrs. McDaniel?” George directs to my mother.
With a delicate wave of her hand, she lets out a giggle. “Please, George, call me Laura. And yes, we can begin now that Jenna is here.”
I’m caught off guard. “Oh, I wasn’t aware I was allowed to be involved in this little project of yours.” My words blurt out rapidly in a harsh tone, but it’s too late to take them back now.
Mother bites her tongue and a tiny, firm grin forms on her face. “Of course I want you involved with this project. Please have a seat, darling.” Darling? Ha! We stare at each other for an awkward, short moment.
I try to find sincerity through her act. And would you look at that? I come up empty. Since I don’t want to make a show in front of our guests, I swiftly sit in an empty chair beside Bryson and nod for them to go on.
George clears his throat and then spreads the blueprints on top of the desk. My mother squeals with delight. She scoots to the edge of the executive chair and leans in to have a better look. Bryson sets a laptop beside the prints, revealing a 3-D mock-up image of what the guesthouse will look like upon completion. “As you requested, Mrs.—Laura,” he corrects himself and goes on, “we designed the exterior of the property to be the exact replica of your home.”
Mother brings a hand to her chest and inhales an awed gasp. “I love it.” As much as I hate to agree with her on almost anything, I have to admit, it looks really good. They’ve managed to take our eight-thousand-square-foot home and transform it into a two-thousand-square-foot replica.
Bryson nods and continues, “I’m glad you do. Now for the interior, we’ve designed a two-story home as you requested. The architect was able to add in all of your wants and needs without complications. If you decide there’s anything else you’d like to add, we’d need approval from the architect before moving forward.”
“No, everything here is exactly how I had imagined it would be. I’m sure it’ll be beautiful. Mrs. Cunningham mentioned how amazing your work is, so I know I’m in good hands.” The Cunninghams are great friends of my parents. Mr. Cunningham, formerly known as Senator Frederick Cunningham, graduated grad school with my father. They’re now frequently seen together at the local golf course.
George strokes his dark grey goatee. “Laura, we understand that you want this to be a two-month project, but we usually ask our clients to give us an extra month. This gives us some leeway with ordering materials, weather conditions, and any delays or restrictions with the building permits. Again, this is just in preparation for any unforeseen circumstances that may arise.”
“Yes, of course. So you’re looking at a deadline of mid-September?”
“Roughly around that time. We’re pretty quick workers, so I’m sure we can have it finished by the end of August, providing there are no setbacks. We can start as early as Monday morning.”
“Terrific. Jenna, is this time frame agreeable to you?”
Both George and Bryson turn their gazes in my direction, waiting patiently for my approval. Why did my input matter so much to her? This entire thing was her idea. One day she woke up and said, “I want a guesthouse!” And bam, she made a few phone calls and now we’re here. Instead of making a fuss in front of our visitors, I simply nod.
“Will it be just the two of you?” I’m not sure why I ask exactly; it just seems like a big project for two men to take on alone.
George chuckles. “Oh no. There’ll be several of us. My nephew, a few other hard workers of mine, and some subcontractors like plumbers and electricians when the time comes.”
“Oh. Okay, then,” is all I say.
Bryson shuts off the laptop and rolls up the site plans. “Awesome. We’ll fax over the contract and see you on Monday.”
My mother stands and shows our guests out. Before she returns to ignite an argument about my ill-mannered behavior or disappointing ensemble, I scurry out the back of the house, past the side of the colonial-style structure, and into the three-car garage.
“Where the hell are they?” I mumble beneath my breath. “This is ridiculous.” I huff out as I continue to rummage through the neat pile of plastic containers. It’s been over an hour since my searching escapade began.
A red container labeled Christmas.
An orange container labeled Halloween.
A blue container labeled Fourth of July.
There’s even a pink container that reads Easter with bunny ears drawn beside it. Every damn holiday is labeled on a color-coordinated container. Who needs Martha Stewart when there’s the OCD Laura McDaniel around? My mother makes certain that things are never left undone or unfinished, that everything is always in its rightful place. But for some reason, my two boxes are gone. I distinctly remember placing them in here almost seven months ago. I search every corner of the garage, every shelf, every cabinet. Nothing.
“What are you looking for?” my mother’s breathy tone pokes from behind me.
I take in a lungful of air before turning around and facing her. “Where are my boxes?”
She leans against the entryway of the garage door. “Why on earth are you looking for them?”
“Last I knew they were my things.”
Mom tugs a hand through her perfect hair and her shoulders deflate as she sighs loudly. “Dr. Rosario—”
“Dr. Rosario said I could start again.”
A stunned expression lines her soft features. “Oh. Well, then. I placed them in the shed.” I nod and move swiftly past her, but before I can exit she reaches out and grabs my arm. Her touch is warm and soft. I shut my eyes at the contact. It’s abnormal for her, for me. “Jenna,” she says softly, “I’m trying to make things better between us. I know our relationship isn’t ideal, but I am still your mother. I do care for you.”