Her house was a two-hour drive from Oklahoma City. Despite the peeling paint and curious sloping floors, Olivia fell in love with it the moment she laid eyes on it. In its glory days, it was an elegant early-19th century farmhouse. Now, after years of neglect and weather, it was reduced to a shell of its former self.
But Olivia, as she always did, saw through the façade. She still saw its understated elegance. It struck the perfect balance between the decorative twists and curls of the woodwork and the strong linear utilitarianism of its structure. It was truly a rare beauty in a world of McMansions.
As she drove up to the front entrance, Olivia felt as if she was reuniting with her love after a long separation. She was eager to be back in its embrace. And with its long, slow restoration, every reunion revealed new surprises.
Last fall, Olivia had painstakingly hired a builder. After endless consultations and tours, she had finally chosen Mark, much to her ex-husband’s dismay. Always a pragmatist, Shane disapproved of hiring someone whom he considered a novice. Although Mark had previously worked under more established builders, his own business was new. But his passion for Olivia’s home and his ability to share her vision won her trust. She had not regretted her decision.
As she stepped out of her car, she was filled with the smell of the country air. Even in the late afternoon, its crispness was in sharp contrast to the heavy city air that she breathed for weeks at a time. But here, in the openness of her seventeen acres of fields, she felt cleansed and whole.
Olivia unlocked the front door with the old-fashioned keys that still kept the house secure. She had not yet chosen new hardware for the doors with Mark, so the security of the house was as it always had been. That is to say, not very. But here, Olivia felt safe and locking the door was a rarity.
Inside, the house was cool. She felt the dampness that always filled the house when it was empty for a time. Before leaving, she always set the antiquated heatingsystem to 55 degrees, which for April was right where the daytime temperatures outside often lingered. Putting her overnight bag down, Olivia went to the thermostat in the kitchen, now in mid-renovation. Next to the thermostat, a note was pinned. Call before turning on.
Mark hadn’t mentioned anything the last time they spoke, but that had been several weeks ago. It was just past five in the evening—not too late. Olivia rang him. As she looked around the kitchen waiting for Mark to pick up, she supposed she should have called Shane to let him know that she had arrived safely. Truth-be-told, though, she would choose chatting with Mark over talking with her ex-husband most of the time, these days. Shane could wait.
As Olivia listened to the distant ring of Mark’s phone, she thought about her conversations with Mark. Together, they had made a plan for her home, walking through the rooms and envisioning the rebirth of each space. Lately, when she thought of the house, Mark was always there. And while that should have instilled a certain amount of guilt, it didn’t.
Finally, Mark’s voicemail answered, and Olivia left her message. It was just a few quick words: Just got in for the week; the kitchen looks great; saw the note you left about the heat. She hoped that he would call soon, or even better, stop by. It was chilly in the house, and she had a deadline looming. Warm fingers would be a perk.
As she waited, she wandered through the house. Most of it was empty, except for a few lonely things. Olivia found little reason to furnish the spaces until all the rooms had been renovated and restored. The lack of furniture gave the home a rustic Scandinavian minimalism that she found cleansing. The wood of the rooms, bathed in the golden afternoon light, made the spaces warm and inviting, even in their bare states. She loved it this way.
The one exception was the master bedroom. Olivia had found an antique shaker-style bed that she had fallen in love with shortly after buying the house. She built the room around the lean-lines of the four-poster bed, letting nothing else overshadow its elegance. The simplicity of it all wrapped her in a peaceful serenity that was elusive in the city. Here, she easily fell asleep to the quiet sounds of the old house, often dreaming of her next project with Mark.
Mark. Over the past several months, Olivia had begun to realize that when she was in the house, it was Mark she thought about. Here, he was the one who made her happy. His intense brown eyes understood her. He bore the mark of someone who had worked in manual labor his entire life: his fingers blunted and calloused from years of using tools, his back strong from lifting and hauling. Mark had a careless sexiness that Olivia loved. On more than one occasion, she had grazed his body just to feel him against her. And that feeling was feeding a growing fantasy that she returned to again and again.
“Hello?”
Olivia’s thoughts retreated to the corners of her mind at the echo of his voice in her house.
“Hey,” she called. As she descended the grand center staircase, her stocking feet slid over the smoothed indentations of the pine plank flooring. Mark was revealed to her from his worn leather work boots up to his old oiled-canvas jacket. Seeing him, a smile spilled across her face that she knew must have told more than just, please turn on the heat. Just having him in the house spread a warmth through her body that canceled her previous need for heating.
“Sorry,” Mark beamed at the sight of her, too. “I knocked, but you didn’t hear. I guess we need to get on that new hardware thing soon. Locks, a door knocker, small necessities,” he joked.
Meeting him at the bottom of the stairs, she gave him a hug. Bathed in the evening light that passed through the sidelight panels of the old cherry door, Mark was an alluring combination of grit and refinement. Her lingering thoughts of him, now mixed with their embrace, made her wonder if she was crossing a boundary.
As she let go of him, she said, “No problem. I’m happy you are here.” The words tumbled out of her, as though they were trying to hide what truths lay beneath. “I made up a garden salad for dinner. Will you stay?” she asked.
“Sure,” Mark said, as he followed her to the kitchen. “My supplies for my other job are delayed until next week, so I have some extra time for you,” he teased.
My God, he knows, Olivia thought. She blushed as she turned to unpack the fresh greens. “The heat?” she asked, changing the subject.
“It’s complicated,” he said. “With the new lines for the kitchen, we need to rework the connections that lead to the upstairs part of the system, so for the next week or so, no heat up there. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming this week.” He was truly apologetic, maybe fearing the wrath of any unhappy clients. “But, you are OK with heat downstairs, and you have the fireplace in your bedroom, so you should be set. I know it’s not ideal, but…”
“No problem. I’ll be fine,” she said. “I guess I have always wanted to try the bedroom fireplace. Now, I have a reason to.” Again, without meaning to, Olivia realized the suggestiveness of her words. Or maybe, they weren’t. Right now, everything was innuendo to her. She was flustered.
If Mark read anything into her comments, he gave no indication.
Olivia brought the salads to the dining room. “We’re eating in your favorite room,” Mark said, following her with the paper plates and utensils. The muraled walls, illuminated by the antique chandelier, were one of her most adored parts of the house. The walls, depicting scenes from 19th-century life prarie life, never ceased to reveal new secrets with each look.
As Mark made himself comfortable, Olivia thought about the fact that he had spent more time in her house than she had. “I know. I find it hard to work in here. The murals still distract me,” she said, walking back into the kitchen. “They’re amazing, or maybe it is just my ADHD.” She laughed. “Wine or beer?” she asked, opening the refrigerator.
“Whatever you are having,” Mark called, as he began making plates for both of them.
But Olivia, as she always did, saw through the façade. She still saw its understated elegance. It struck the perfect balance between the decorative twists and curls of the woodwork and the strong linear utilitarianism of its structure. It was truly a rare beauty in a world of McMansions.
As she drove up to the front entrance, Olivia felt as if she was reuniting with her love after a long separation. She was eager to be back in its embrace. And with its long, slow restoration, every reunion revealed new surprises.
Last fall, Olivia had painstakingly hired a builder. After endless consultations and tours, she had finally chosen Mark, much to her ex-husband’s dismay. Always a pragmatist, Shane disapproved of hiring someone whom he considered a novice. Although Mark had previously worked under more established builders, his own business was new. But his passion for Olivia’s home and his ability to share her vision won her trust. She had not regretted her decision.
As she stepped out of her car, she was filled with the smell of the country air. Even in the late afternoon, its crispness was in sharp contrast to the heavy city air that she breathed for weeks at a time. But here, in the openness of her seventeen acres of fields, she felt cleansed and whole.
Olivia unlocked the front door with the old-fashioned keys that still kept the house secure. She had not yet chosen new hardware for the doors with Mark, so the security of the house was as it always had been. That is to say, not very. But here, Olivia felt safe and locking the door was a rarity.
Inside, the house was cool. She felt the dampness that always filled the house when it was empty for a time. Before leaving, she always set the antiquated heatingsystem to 55 degrees, which for April was right where the daytime temperatures outside often lingered. Putting her overnight bag down, Olivia went to the thermostat in the kitchen, now in mid-renovation. Next to the thermostat, a note was pinned. Call before turning on.
Mark hadn’t mentioned anything the last time they spoke, but that had been several weeks ago. It was just past five in the evening—not too late. Olivia rang him. As she looked around the kitchen waiting for Mark to pick up, she supposed she should have called Shane to let him know that she had arrived safely. Truth-be-told, though, she would choose chatting with Mark over talking with her ex-husband most of the time, these days. Shane could wait.
As Olivia listened to the distant ring of Mark’s phone, she thought about her conversations with Mark. Together, they had made a plan for her home, walking through the rooms and envisioning the rebirth of each space. Lately, when she thought of the house, Mark was always there. And while that should have instilled a certain amount of guilt, it didn’t.
Finally, Mark’s voicemail answered, and Olivia left her message. It was just a few quick words: Just got in for the week; the kitchen looks great; saw the note you left about the heat. She hoped that he would call soon, or even better, stop by. It was chilly in the house, and she had a deadline looming. Warm fingers would be a perk.
As she waited, she wandered through the house. Most of it was empty, except for a few lonely things. Olivia found little reason to furnish the spaces until all the rooms had been renovated and restored. The lack of furniture gave the home a rustic Scandinavian minimalism that she found cleansing. The wood of the rooms, bathed in the golden afternoon light, made the spaces warm and inviting, even in their bare states. She loved it this way.
The one exception was the master bedroom. Olivia had found an antique shaker-style bed that she had fallen in love with shortly after buying the house. She built the room around the lean-lines of the four-poster bed, letting nothing else overshadow its elegance. The simplicity of it all wrapped her in a peaceful serenity that was elusive in the city. Here, she easily fell asleep to the quiet sounds of the old house, often dreaming of her next project with Mark.
Mark. Over the past several months, Olivia had begun to realize that when she was in the house, it was Mark she thought about. Here, he was the one who made her happy. His intense brown eyes understood her. He bore the mark of someone who had worked in manual labor his entire life: his fingers blunted and calloused from years of using tools, his back strong from lifting and hauling. Mark had a careless sexiness that Olivia loved. On more than one occasion, she had grazed his body just to feel him against her. And that feeling was feeding a growing fantasy that she returned to again and again.
“Hello?”
Olivia’s thoughts retreated to the corners of her mind at the echo of his voice in her house.
“Hey,” she called. As she descended the grand center staircase, her stocking feet slid over the smoothed indentations of the pine plank flooring. Mark was revealed to her from his worn leather work boots up to his old oiled-canvas jacket. Seeing him, a smile spilled across her face that she knew must have told more than just, please turn on the heat. Just having him in the house spread a warmth through her body that canceled her previous need for heating.
“Sorry,” Mark beamed at the sight of her, too. “I knocked, but you didn’t hear. I guess we need to get on that new hardware thing soon. Locks, a door knocker, small necessities,” he joked.
Meeting him at the bottom of the stairs, she gave him a hug. Bathed in the evening light that passed through the sidelight panels of the old cherry door, Mark was an alluring combination of grit and refinement. Her lingering thoughts of him, now mixed with their embrace, made her wonder if she was crossing a boundary.
As she let go of him, she said, “No problem. I’m happy you are here.” The words tumbled out of her, as though they were trying to hide what truths lay beneath. “I made up a garden salad for dinner. Will you stay?” she asked.
“Sure,” Mark said, as he followed her to the kitchen. “My supplies for my other job are delayed until next week, so I have some extra time for you,” he teased.
My God, he knows, Olivia thought. She blushed as she turned to unpack the fresh greens. “The heat?” she asked, changing the subject.
“It’s complicated,” he said. “With the new lines for the kitchen, we need to rework the connections that lead to the upstairs part of the system, so for the next week or so, no heat up there. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming this week.” He was truly apologetic, maybe fearing the wrath of any unhappy clients. “But, you are OK with heat downstairs, and you have the fireplace in your bedroom, so you should be set. I know it’s not ideal, but…”
“No problem. I’ll be fine,” she said. “I guess I have always wanted to try the bedroom fireplace. Now, I have a reason to.” Again, without meaning to, Olivia realized the suggestiveness of her words. Or maybe, they weren’t. Right now, everything was innuendo to her. She was flustered.
If Mark read anything into her comments, he gave no indication.
Olivia brought the salads to the dining room. “We’re eating in your favorite room,” Mark said, following her with the paper plates and utensils. The muraled walls, illuminated by the antique chandelier, were one of her most adored parts of the house. The walls, depicting scenes from 19th-century life prarie life, never ceased to reveal new secrets with each look.
As Mark made himself comfortable, Olivia thought about the fact that he had spent more time in her house than she had. “I know. I find it hard to work in here. The murals still distract me,” she said, walking back into the kitchen. “They’re amazing, or maybe it is just my ADHD.” She laughed. “Wine or beer?” she asked, opening the refrigerator.
“Whatever you are having,” Mark called, as he began making plates for both of them.
