Dancing in the Dark by Sandra Marton

the first time I saw it,” he said, deadpan. “The view’s fantastic.”
    “The well’s good, too. Don’t leave that out.” Rod grinned. “Every little bit counts, right?”
    “Uh-huh. Just as long as you don’t mind spending the rest of your life redoing the interior.”
    “Myself, you mean?” The doctor sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I said the last time we talked, right? Well, that was just an idea. A crazy one.”
    “Not so crazy. If you really like working with wood, hammering, sawing, that whole thing can be—”
    “Relaxing. Rewarding.” Rod walked over to a sofa upholstered in orange corduroy, winced at the sight of it and dropped down on the end cushion. “The truth is, I don’t have the skill, even if you were to provide the design and the know-how and half the muscle.”
    “You’re going to bring somebody in.”
    “I am, yeah. Someone who has the talent to do the work and the ability to act as a general contractor, oversee dealing with the new plumbing, the burner that I suspect is dying....
    Seth nodded. They’d talked about a sort of do-it-yourself project, with Seth providing help, but he wasn’t really surprised by the doctor’s decision. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. He’d figured Pommier would realize that his wistful talk of working with his hands was just that. The guy was here, taking time off from the real world, but the real world was where he belonged. And it would take long hours to do this job right—refinishing the handsome wood floor buried beneath the rug, restructuring the rooms, making cabinets and built-in furniture.
    He and Rod had talked long enough for Seth to understand what the other man wanted—a quiet, peaceful place where he could recharge his energies—and then Seth had made some suggestions, done a few quick sketches, and Pommier had responded with enthusiasm. A day later, he’d phoned and asked, cautiously, how Seth would feel about Rod doing some of the work himself. He had a buddy in New York, another doctor, who was into woodworking as a hobby and kept telling him how relaxing it was. Seth had listened, said bluntly that as long as Pommier agreed to leave the finer stuff—the furniture—to him, he saw no problem doing it that way.
    Then he’d done some daydreaming about the project even though he’d known, deep down, that it wouldn’t happen.
    Pommier had come to his senses. He’d obviously realized he wouldn’t have the time. And he was a big-city guy with money. It was only natural he’d want to bring in somebody from New York or Boston.
    “Well,” Seth said, smiling, “thanks for letting me know.” He came toward Rod, hand outstretched. The doctor got to his feet. “And good luck.”
    “Yeah. You, too—and believe me, you’re gonna need it more than I will.” He grinned and clasped Seth’s hand. “Heck, I’ll just write the checks. You’re the one who’ll deal with the headaches.”
    “Headaches?” Seth said, frowning.
    “You’re guaranteed to have quite a few, turning this sow’s ear into a silk purse.”
    Seth stared at Pommier. “Are you saying you’re hiring me as your general contractor?”
    “Who else? And before you ask, I checked around. In fact, I talked with Clint Cooper again just last night. No question, you’re the man to do the job. Is it a deal?”
    “You bet it is.”
    The men smiled, shook hands, then stepped apart. “Well,” the doctor said, “that’s done.” He strolled across the room, rolled his eyes at the avocado refrigerator and pulled the door open. “Ugly,” he said, “but at least it works.” He reached inside, held up two bottles of ale. “I figured we’d want to celebrate. Okay with you?”
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    “Great. I’d offer you a glass, but the thought of drinking ale out of something the color of a lime—”
    “Say no more.” Seth took the bottle Pommier held out.
    “Success,” Rod said.
    The bottles clinked lightly as the two men touched them