If you need to catch up, click here for the explainer and the earlier chapters.

Owen’s phone rang in his pocket, and he dug through his jacket, pulling it out to check who it was before hitting the reject button sending it to voicemail. Not taking that. He put the phone away. She would get the message eventually. That night was a mistake. Huge. She was hot, no doubt about it, but he was not interested in whatever else she wanted from him. He had thought she got it. Clearly, she did not.

He didn’t want to be the guy hiding behind his voicemail, but he didn’t want to deal with her either. There was enough drama to deal with right now. Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore were taking turns screaming at Dave, his general contractor, in the front yard of their soon to be 3000 square-foot dream home. Owen had just walked up to the site having parked on the street. Even at this distance he could hear the recriminations – ‘not what we asked for,’ ‘not going to pay to fix it, that’s for damn sure!’

He hurried to join them, trying to both stand next to and in front of Dave. Mr. Whitmore took a step back, but Mrs. turned and stuck her finger in his face. “You made promises. You said this wouldn’t happen. You said you were different…” Where had he heard that before?

            “Mrs. Whitmore, Debra, I completely understand why this would look like an error on our part and why you would be upset.”

She sputtered a little and her voice went up an octave. “It is an error on your part.” Debra Whitmore was five feet if she was an inch and skinny as a rail. She was either a gym rat or just didn’t eat. In the time they’d been working with the couple, Debra had been the one to insist on upgrades, the finest of finishes. Her whole aura screamed new money, not that it mattered. Money was money, but old money was easier to work for. They had less to prove.

Owen sighed inwardly knowing that there would probably be no way of convincing her and tried to concentrate on getting through to her husband. Mr. Whitmore was a financial analyst who was watching every dime of this project. He didn’t care what it looked like; he only cared what it cost him.

Owen addressed him in a careful, even tone. “The plans provided by your architect were executed correctly. I’ve checked them myself. In fact…” He drew the plans out from under his arm. “I brought them out here so that we can take another look at the kitchen to see where the discrepancy lies between what was requested and what you’ve toured today.”

“Fine, let’s have a look.” Mr. Whitmore began, but Debra huffed, turned immediately on her heel and headed for the driveway. There was a BMW X7 parked at the end, and she hopped in. Mr. Whitmore looked to the SUV where she sat with her arms folded across her chest and then back to Owen. “Show me the plans, let’s get this sorted out.”

Owen felt a quick flash of triumph but didn’t let it show on his face. He followed Whitmore and Dave into the house.

The problem was a simple one. Debra had read the plans wrong, imagined the room wrong, had already decorated the place in her head before she’d even seen it framed. She now had the world’s largest kitchen island in process at a custom cabinet shop in Vermont. It was never going to fit. She should have stuck with the cabinet maker that was doing the rest of the space, but ‘everyone’ swore by these Vermont guys, so she had to have an island from them.

Owen explained it to Whitmore, they walked out the distances, took every measurement possible and finally the man nodded his head. “We’ll talk to the craftsman working on the island and resolve this. Thanks for taking the time.” No apology, but at least it was an admission of error…of sorts. He turned and shook Owen’s hand, completely ignored Dave, and walked out of the house.

            “Thanks for the save boss, that guy was an–”

Owen held up his hand. “Wait till he gets in the car at least.” The two men laughed quietly and looked around the framed and sheet-rocked space.

            “This one is going to be the death of me” Dave grumbled. “If it’s not her, it’s him every day with more changes, more complaints.”

“They’re all like this.  You just got spoiled on the Cottages.”

“That’s cause there was no one to answer to but the old man.”

Owen’s dad had overseen that project almost entirely on his own. A project of that size, multiple apartment buildings, required an insane amount of effort and skill, something Owen wasn’t sure he had in him. A wave of unease swept through him, settling in his gut.

Dave changed the subject. “I’m going to see what George and his crew is up to. He’s behind by two days at this point. I’ll see you later.” And he headed for the back of the house where the electricians were working. Owen could hear him start to tell them off about something.  It all flows down Owen thought. Debra gave her husband crap, Whitmore gave it to Dave, Dave gave it to the crew…  

He was lucky that he had Dave. He was the most experienced general contractor on the North Shore and a master of details. He could spec out a project within minutes of landing his work boots on the ground. Owen was more the grease, more the money man, more the suit. He didn’t love it, but it was what he was good at, and a problem solved, a client won, a permit wrestled out of the town, was a victory for him; another challenge won.

His phone rang again.  It was Ben, his realtor; probably calling about Cliff Top again. Ignoring the guilty feeling it gave him he sent it to voicemail.  Owen knew enough psychology to understand that all his dodging was avoidance, and it wasn’t going to get better on its own. But he also knew he wasn’t taking those calls any time soon. Or listening to those messages. No point in stressing himself out even further.

When he had reached his car, he could see through the brush and trees at the edge of the lot across the street to the ocean beyond. The Whitmores may not have been able to build right on the oceanside, but they were going to have killer views from their second story. He stood for a few minutes appreciating the color and movement of the water. With the sun at high noon overhead, the light glinted off every ripple, every wave.

It would be the perfect day to blow everything off and head to the beach. But he couldn’t. He had two more fires to put out before he even got back to the office. With one last longing look at the water he climbed into his car, plugged his phone in and pulled away. The phone rang again and distracted, he automatically answered it.

“Caldwell.”

“Well there you are.” A familiar feminine voice drawled.

Crap.  “Here I am.”

“You are seriously hard to get a hold of.” Renee probably meant it to sound playful, but there was a distinct edge to her words. “A girl could get the idea that you weren’t interested.”

Her transparent plea for affirmation irked him. He wasn’t particularly amused by her dogged pursuit either. It was time to cut her off.  “I guess a girl could.”

There was a brief silence and then she answered, her tone flat. “So, this was a brush off.”

Struggling, he didn’t immediately answer. He wasn’t about to lie to her and say he’d been busy or he’d been meaning to call, and he didn’t want to hurt her. What was the nice way of saying he had been in a weak moment when he went home with her and he didn’t want a repeat, or a relationship with anyone right now. ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’ But no good answer came to him either.

“Okay, well I would have thought that a guy like you would come right out and say it, but apparently you like the game.”

            “I don’t play games, Renee.”

“You tell yourself whatever you like.” And the line went dead.

He knew it was cowardly and that a woman as driven as Renee was bound to exact some sort of revenge, but as ugly as it was, at least it was over. It was one problem solved on his long list of them. Wincing at his own thought, he tried to re-frame it and not think of a person as a problem. But he didn’t get Renee. He never gave her the idea for one minute that he was interested in any more than she had already offered, and he’d taken.

Renee was the perfect example of why he had a reputation. He didn’t want a girlfriend, which he was pretty sure he had said before they even got back to her place. And it wasn’t like she was that into him anyway. There wasn’t any real feeling there that he could see. She was looking for a man to play with for the summer. Probably wanted to parade him around to a bunch of social engagements. He was not that guy. And she should have known it!

Flickers of guilt crept up on him. Letting someone down, even if they should have known better, disappointing someone, it never felt good. Even when he knew he wasn’t wrong, his stomach was still in knots. He opened his sunroof to let the wind and light in. It usually lifted his mood, but not today. The truth was, he didn’t understand women at all. They always seemed to be saying one thing and meaning another. They said they were okay with casual and then freaked out when they didn’t get a call. When he said anything, he meant it. No lies, no games.

It was like how his mom had been with his dad, saying one thing, wanting something else. The last year of his parents’ marriage she’d made his dad miserable. The whole house was miserable. He couldn’t do anything right and she picked fights with his dad over the tiniest things. When he got angry, she’d cry and then he’d be the bad guy. It got to the point Owen avoiding going home after school. He walked on eggshells every day, his mom normal one minute, screaming or crying the next. It sucked, but it was a relief when she left. That thought sparked another flame of guilt. What kind of son is glad when his mom leaves? A damaged one.

In his mind, he imagined a wall between him and his dark thoughts. It was a seawall, ten feet high, keeping the flood back, keeping him sane. It was the only way to function. It had gotten harder when his dad died. Grief was a whole ocean and waves of it tried to take him down on a regular basis. They came in unexpected moments so he had to be on guard all the time. Outwardly he was fine, but inside, he was a mess. It was not good and he knew it. Eventually he’d do therapy or something. Unpack his baggage. But that time was not now. Not when so much was up in the air with the company. He needed his wits about him.

As he drove along the shore, the ocean peaked out between the houses, enticing him. The thought registered that what he really needed was a quick swim to get back on track. He argued against it until the urge was too strong to ignore. He pulled off the road at a dirt lot beside a path into the woods he knew well. Checking his schedule, he estimated how bad the damage would be if he took an hour out of his day. It wasn’t advisable, but it wasn’t impossible either. He chucked his phone into the glove box, locking it. Getting out, he opened his trunk and found his gear. He walked down the path until the trees closed around him and he wasn’t in danger of flashing anybody. Once in his trunks and a rash guard, he stowed his clothes in the back seat, locked the car and hid his keys on top of the front tire.

The path in the woods led down to a small, rocky beach. It was not the best swimming, but it was a short walk, and usually private. June also wasn’t the best for swimming in Massachusetts, but the day was warm enough that he wouldn’t freeze when he got out of the water. Carefully, he picked his way over the rocks and down the shore. Once he was knee-deep, the rocks smoothed out and the sand took over.

The first dive under was fierce; every nerve screamed out at being suddenly plunged into 60-degree water. After a few minutes of hard swimming, it felt fine. He let the current carry him out of the small cove. For a half hour, he swam through the choppy waves before heading back in. It was work getting out without being dragged over the rocks, but he managed it with only a few scrapes. Climbing up a large boulder, he took off his rash guard and sat down in the sun. His muscles still hummed from the effort and his thoughts were quiet. Closing his eyes, he soaked in the light and the sense of peace being physically exhausted always gave him.

With the turmoil stilled, at least for now, he made a list for himself of everything that he needed to accomplish that day. There were permits to be filed in Gloucester, a call back owed to Mrs. Hughes, he needed to touch base with Tolman for the status of the Revere bid. He reminded himself of what he could control (work) and what he couldn’t (women) and he listed his next steps, imagining them as a checklist. He did this whenever he was stressed. If he broke it all down into tasks he could get a handle on it.

When he had it all sorted out, he got up and hiked back to the car. Check. Got dressed. Check. Turned his phone back on and reviewed his messages. Check. He hoped that by the time he was on his run tonight he didn’t still need to keep his brain on lock-down, but it might end up being one of those nights he’d need a Scotch (or three) to shut it up.

Check back in a week or so for the next chapter. If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read, please feel free to contribute to my Ko-Fi here.

Image credit: Me. This is from a walk on the shore in Rockport, MA in 2020 during the initial lockdown of the pandemic. Our family was driving around to find places to walk in the outdoors away from other humans. It’s one of my favorite memories from that time. We were all getting into the car and my middle-child came out of the house with a plague mask on with her glasses over it. Which is just so her. I’ve included a picture below since you really have to see it. We lost her in 2021 due to a rare cerebral vein abnormality so having this moment to remember is bittersweet.