Cottage for Sale, Must Be Moved (22 page)

“When do you need to know?”

“Next week,” he told me. That was early this week, and in the past few days, I have observed rooftops as I have never done before. Well, I did stare at rooftops quite a bit when I was thinking how the cottage might be attached to the house, but then I was looking at form, structure. Now I am obsessed with color, contrast. My unscientific survey has revealed that many houses on Cape Cod have pale gray roofing, pretty similar to the shingles Tony is peeling off the cottage side. Some bigger homes have mixed-color shingles, grays and blue-grays, to look like slate. You need a big roof to make that work, I decide. Same with the odd-shaped asphalt designed to look like wood, or wood itself, which is rare in these parts. I notice a lot of newer rooftops sporting light brown-tan shingles, including one just down the street that John sends me to see. I don’t mind the color, but I imagine it blending in with the red cedar shakes. If I wanted the roof to disappear, that would be the color to choose. I’m thinking I want the roof to show, to be a feature in the landscape of the house. I see a number of black roofs. Hot, I think, like having a road on top of your head, and don’t give those another thought.

In my travels, I don’t see another red roof, not one.

Through the years, the original red roof on my house has darkened with age. It is closer now to a burgundy color, and in some places it could pass for almost gray-black flecked with red rather than the reverse. The new roof will be conspicuously red by comparison, close to brick red. The roof slopes down in the front of the house, and is very visible as you approach the front door. When I return from my roof-browsing, I climb the steps and stare at the house, imagining that expanse of red. I come to one certain conclusion: It will look awful with the yellow shutters. If I make the roof red, I may need to restore the shutters to their original deep green, the color they were when Barbara’s father painted them. The color of the front door. Will it look too much like Christmas? I think of going with a deep, warm red for the shutters and the door, but then I remember the lifetime exterior finish on the Marvin doors I found at the Bargain Box: hunter green. Back to the Christmas problem. I think of the cardinals at the dark green feeder. Certainly there will be additional greeting card photo ops. But the cedar, the white trim, they will tone down the feeling of red and green. I’ve come pretty close to deciding that the roof will be red, the shutters green when Tony hands me the shingle from the cottage. That clinches it. The new roof, the roof that marries house and cottage, will be red. Mine will be John’s first red roof.*

*
IT’S A HOT DAY
for early September, and it is hot work. It is also very messy. I sweep and sweep again, gathering the piles of shingles, wood and asphalt, dumping them into the empty barrels that John left for us. Tony gets another coat onto the walls and begins some gentle demo in the cottage. We need to lose the kitchen counter, under-cabinet, stove, the hot water heater, the kitchen sink, and several panels of wainscoting. There is also a very rough built-in that looks like it might have housed a stereo that needs to be removed. When the light gets low, we quit for the day and eat cake before we go to the beach. Harry and Tony celebrated their birthdays earlier this week; they were born just two days apart. They are tickled by the cake, chocolate with butter-cream frosting and green lettering:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOG BOYS!
I snap a photo as they lean in, side-by-side, cheeks puffed out, poised to make two wishes.

THE DAYS TAKE ON
a new rhythm as the summer becomes fall. We rise early, earlier than my hour of coherence. It’s hard for me, this early rising, as I have trouble adapting my bedtime to reflect the morning requirements. The man whom I loved on the basis of his voice—did I mention he was a musician?—once said to me, “The best part of being a grown-up is you get to stay up late.” When he heard the near-dawn rumble of city garbage trucks, he told me, he knew it was past his bedtime.

Except for that brief period during which I kept something closer to his hours than mine, most nights I am in bed by midnight. Now I am aiming closer to 11:00, even 10:30, and I set the alarm for 6:30. Still I am not ready to face John by 7:00. For exactly one and a half hours after rising, I am a zombie with flyaway hair, sleep in my eyes, and the creases of my pillow imprinted on my left cheek. I relinquish my vanity and my reputation for natural intelligence, and I settle for being awake when John knocks at the front door. He needs my car keys some mornings, and every morning he needs to plug into the outlet underneath one of the living-room windows. I open the door, hand him the keys, leave the door ajar so he can return to get his electricity set up for the day. He laughs at my early morning self and at the fact that it is clearly, truly difficult for me to be up, alert, when he arrives. Sometimes, but not often, John has a question for me, and I must make a decision in my pj’s. Generally, though, he learns to wait an hour, until I have showered, shampooed, and made every effort to be in the world again. When Peter arrives at eight, I arrive with him.

Today, Ed shows up a few minutes after Peter. He is ruddy and relaxed and full of stories of his cross-country drive. With him is an older man, Howard. Tall, with strong features, Howard smiles his hello, shakes my hand, but doesn’t say much. He’s new on the crew. Sometime this summer, Ed spotted Howard mowing a neighbor’s lawn. Ed introduced himself, they got to talking, and by the time Howard finished his lawn mowing, he had himself another job.

“You planning to do any work today, Dad?” John is smiling as he approaches.

“Thought we’d work first on freeing up those doors.”

“Be good to get to them today while we have four guys.”

They are talking about the double doors that will lead to the deck. Doors with a story. After many trips to the Bargain Box in search of the perfect set of French doors, I had come up empty. I decided to go to the full-priced version of the Mid-Cape Home Center to see what they had to offer. I cruised through a variety of doors and windows, mostly Andersen products, not seeing anything I liked enough to pay full price. Then, at the very rear of the department, I found a set of doors that had been pushed apart from the other models—hunter green on the outside and a beautiful natural maple finish on the inside. Elegant brass handles indoors and out, triple-paned glass; the doors opened easily and sealed tightly, quietly. Marvin is an expensive name. These probably cost a fortune, I thought. But they were exactly what I had in mind. Maybe I’ll splurge on the doors. It can’t hurt to get the price, I reasoned. I walked over to the desk for contractors. Ed had told me to ask for Del.

“Can I help you?” asked the man who told me Del doesn’t work on Saturdays.

“Maybe. I’m working with Ed.” When I mentioned Ed’s name, he nodded in recognition. “I’m wondering about those Marvin doors, the ones at the wayback—green exterior? Do you know anything about them?”

“Well, I know they’re a great product, but unfortunately I can’t sell them to you. As of today, we are no longer a Marvin dealer.”

“You’re kidding.” Now that I have found my dream doors, I can’t buy them? After a moment of disappointment, it occurred to me: “What are you going to do with the display doors? Will you send them to the Bargain Box?”

“Could. Or we might return them.”

“Why would you return them if you aren’t a Marvin dealer anymore? What would you do with the credit?” My retail training coming through.

“I don’t know.” He spoke thoughtfully, as though I might have made a good point.

“Well, instead of going to the trouble of shipping them to the manufacturer, or even to the Bargain Box, can you sell them to me—” I paused, smiled, “cheap?”

“Well, it isn’t my decision,” he said, “but give me your name and number.” My heart skipped. “I’ll ask my boss on Monday.”

I called Ed on my cell phone as soon as I walked out of the store.

“Listen,” he said. I’ve noticed Ed says that a lot. He has a soft speaking voice, and his imperative is more invitation than command. When Ed says, “Listen,” it is his prelude to a plan. As he spoke to me, I felt like a happy co-conspirator. “I’ll call Del first thing Monday and tell him we’re interested in those doors. I’ll see what kind of price he’ll give us and I’ll let you know.”

Two days later, Ed left a message on my machine. “Kate, the retail on those doors is $2,800. We can have them for $850, in the display case. I’m assuming you’ll want them, so I told Del to set them aside for me. It’s a really good deal,” he said, as if he needed to convince me of something.

That was right after the cottage landed. The doors have been propped up against the trunks of two old pine trees in my driveway ever since—covered with tarps to protect the indoor portion of the doors from the elements. More than once, I have peeked under the tarps, allowing myself a moment of satisfaction at my good shopping, admiring the doors, stroking the smooth wood before I replace the tarp, tucking it in carefully, protecting my investment.*

*
IT TAKES THE BETTER PART
of the morning to liberate the doors from their laminate display housing. Ed and Howard work carefully, so as not to hurt the doors. When the doors are finally free, Ed rounds up John and Peter, who are building the steps down to the basement. Together, the four men lift the doors off the sawhorses and carry them to the side of the house where they will be installed. I stand back with my camera, take some shots: a man on each corner, the doors parallel to the ground. They are very heavy and it is not an easy trip up the hill. On their faces, I can read the strain, the determination. When they reach their destination, they lean the unit against Vito’s foundation wall and plan their strategy. After a few minutes, all four men lift the unit up and into the opening. I shoot this picture: the backs and butts of four men wearing tool belts, arms up, as if under arrest, holding the doors in place.

Some adjustments are needed in the opening. They lift the doors down and hold them parallel to the ground once more. In a little dance, John gives up his corner while Ed, Howard, and Peter regroup into a triangular arrangement. Then John scrambles up the wall and into the hallway, positions a ladder inside, climbs up. He goes at the offending edge of the opening with his Sawzall. In my limited experience with this tool so far on this job, it has lived up to its name. I’m thinking I’d like to own one of those Sawzalls. It seems to be the best way out of all sorts of jams. In this case, it takes two trips up the ladder with the Sawzall before the doors fit flush in the opening. John works to secure them while the men hang on. At last, the doors are in place. At last they can let go. They step back, and I step forward; the doors look funny in their unfinished surroundings, especially since they go nowhere until we build the deck. Still, we admire them, all of us feeling satisfied with our roles in the triumph of the best bargain yet.*

*
IT IS A DAY OF DOORS.
Once the French doors are permanently in place, John and Peter install the basement door while Ed and Howard begin the process of moving my kitchen door to the end of the hallway. It’s an odd-sized, extra-wide door, another door with a story. Years ago, when I decided to replace the big window in the kitchen with a door leading to the just-built patio, I mentioned my plan to Barbara.

“I may have a door,” she said. “Let me check the cellar.”

The next day she called me up. “Katie,” she said, “Why don’t you come up and have a look at that door? I can’t remember where it came from, but I don’t have any need for it. See if you can use it.”

I was a little worried when I climbed the hill, afraid to insult Barbara if I didn’t like the door. We made our way down her basement stairs and she turned on a light right over the door. It was more window than door, nine large panes over a single bottom panel, and painted green, just like my front door. It was a great old door, and I told Barbara so.

“Well, it is all yours, Katie,” she said. “Come and get it when you have some help.” Then she shut off the light overhead, and heaved a sigh before we climbed back up the stairs.

A couple of months later, Harry enlisted the assistance of another carpenter friend, and the new kitchen door was installed. The exterior stayed green, and the inside turned a deep wine-red, to match the kitchen. I have a special fondness for this door, partly for its history, partly for its design, and I was hoping to save it. After much measuring and discussion about the arc of such a large door, the challenge of trimming it on the outside, the aesthetic from the inside, Ed and John and I decided just this morning the old door could be relocated to the end of the hall.*

*
IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON,
I slip out for an appointment, and when I return, I don’t even go inside the house. I drop my stuff on the Adirondack bench and walk toward the basement. The cellar door is hung, and the windows are in. As I round the corner, John is attaching trim pieces.

“Wow! I say, you guys are really cooking!” I have to say I am loving having all these men focused on one job today—my job.

“Just do me a favor,” John says, smiling, “and go see how far my father and Howard have gotten with their door. Let them know we’ve got the door
and
two windows all done already.”

He knows the older men have the more difficult task. John and Peter installed a brand-new prehung door to the basement. Ed and Howard have to build a frame and install a threshold before they can hang the oversize door in its new location.

“Your son asked me to check up on you,” I say to Ed.

“Oh did he now?”

“Yes, he says to tell you they have a door and two windows in already. I think he might be giving you a hard time.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ed says.

“Is this door a real killer?” I ask him.

Ed doesn’t answer right away. Howard nods in the direction of the nine-paned top of the door. “We’ll have to replace that pane.” I notice that one of the lower windowpanes is missing. I don’t ask how it happened, but the missing pane answers my question. The door is a killer, but I also know they’ll get it right.