renovations of the brownstone. She started talking the moment I got out of the car.
“Sometimes properties are . . .” Yolanda paused and searched her mind for the right word. “Cursed,” she finally said and lifted her index finger.
“Cursed? Isn’t that a bit over the top?” I narrowed my eyes in disbelief and gently straightened Mia’s head, as not to wake her. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten to strap her in.
“No, ‘cursed’
is
the right word. The contractor ran out of money, the subcontractors quit, workers stole materials from the jobsite, and no one got the appropriate permits. You name it, it went wrong with 517. I’ve never had a property that had so many problems. The contractors have been ordered to fulfill the contracts but they have to be supervised. No one is very happy at this moment, especially your husband.”
I tried to look enthusiastic about the gossip she was so willingly sharing with me and nodded in agreement.
“The property should have sold or rented months ago and everybody is getting impatient. Brilliant idea to have someone on site at all times to make sure everything goes smoothly. David Lieberman’s quite proficient and he keeps the workers in line. Lieberman reports to me, I report to your husband.”
Suddenly a sound startled me. It started off as a murmur, then turned into a loud crash, making me flinch. A cloud of dust emerged from a huge green metal container connected to a bright yellow construction chute in front of 517. Within seconds we were covered in a cloud of construction dust.
“Is there a provisional date of completion?” That’s what Jack had called it. A provisional date of completion, meaning the moment when renters wouldn’t be bothered by the noise. I wondered how Jack thought my living there in the meantime would be a good idea, even remotely.
“We’re playing it by ear. Contractors are never on time.”
“My husband told me it was a matter of a couple of months.”
Yolanda Drake shifted her considerable weight from one foot to the other and raised her eyebrows. “Anything is possible, I guess,” she said and handed me the key. “It’s all yours,” she added and wiped her hand on her pencil skirt.
My eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner. The key to 517 felt warm to the touch. I glanced back at the car. Mia was peacefully asleep in the car seat, calmed by the humming engine from the ride over here.
I switched on the baby monitors and left one on the passenger seat and tucked the second one safely away in my purse. I cracked all windows half an inch and turned off the engine. The temperature was a comfortable sixty degrees, the sky overcast. The tinted windows hardly allowed any visibility into the car’s interior.
Apartment A1 was located on the first floor. I calculated I could get to the car in less than thirty seconds if Mia started to cry. I was reluctant to wake her, knowing it would result in another crying fit, making me think how hard it must be on her to respond to life with such violent protest. Every nap was hope on my part, hope that she’d wake up and be calmer, more content.
I walked up the steps to the front door. It opened before I could fully insert the key. In front of me stood a man in steel-toed boots covered in wood shavings like coconut flakes on a cake. He stood on the threshold, the rim of the yellow hard hat shielding his eyes. He lifted his head and his eyes skimmed over me. He continued down the steps and turned to the left. I watched him as he walked away, down the sidewalk and up the block. His stride was wide, his torso upright.
I entered the building. I stood still just long enough to take in the scent of fresh paint and a faint odor of disinfectant. A1 in cursive gold letters on the door straight ahead. To the left was a large opening taped shut with heavy-duty tarp to keep the dust and debris out.
A hair-raising shriek made me reach for the baby monitor. The green
“Sometimes properties are . . .” Yolanda paused and searched her mind for the right word. “Cursed,” she finally said and lifted her index finger.
“Cursed? Isn’t that a bit over the top?” I narrowed my eyes in disbelief and gently straightened Mia’s head, as not to wake her. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten to strap her in.
“No, ‘cursed’
is
the right word. The contractor ran out of money, the subcontractors quit, workers stole materials from the jobsite, and no one got the appropriate permits. You name it, it went wrong with 517. I’ve never had a property that had so many problems. The contractors have been ordered to fulfill the contracts but they have to be supervised. No one is very happy at this moment, especially your husband.”
I tried to look enthusiastic about the gossip she was so willingly sharing with me and nodded in agreement.
“The property should have sold or rented months ago and everybody is getting impatient. Brilliant idea to have someone on site at all times to make sure everything goes smoothly. David Lieberman’s quite proficient and he keeps the workers in line. Lieberman reports to me, I report to your husband.”
Suddenly a sound startled me. It started off as a murmur, then turned into a loud crash, making me flinch. A cloud of dust emerged from a huge green metal container connected to a bright yellow construction chute in front of 517. Within seconds we were covered in a cloud of construction dust.
“Is there a provisional date of completion?” That’s what Jack had called it. A provisional date of completion, meaning the moment when renters wouldn’t be bothered by the noise. I wondered how Jack thought my living there in the meantime would be a good idea, even remotely.
“We’re playing it by ear. Contractors are never on time.”
“My husband told me it was a matter of a couple of months.”
Yolanda Drake shifted her considerable weight from one foot to the other and raised her eyebrows. “Anything is possible, I guess,” she said and handed me the key. “It’s all yours,” she added and wiped her hand on her pencil skirt.
My eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner. The key to 517 felt warm to the touch. I glanced back at the car. Mia was peacefully asleep in the car seat, calmed by the humming engine from the ride over here.
I switched on the baby monitors and left one on the passenger seat and tucked the second one safely away in my purse. I cracked all windows half an inch and turned off the engine. The temperature was a comfortable sixty degrees, the sky overcast. The tinted windows hardly allowed any visibility into the car’s interior.
Apartment A1 was located on the first floor. I calculated I could get to the car in less than thirty seconds if Mia started to cry. I was reluctant to wake her, knowing it would result in another crying fit, making me think how hard it must be on her to respond to life with such violent protest. Every nap was hope on my part, hope that she’d wake up and be calmer, more content.
I walked up the steps to the front door. It opened before I could fully insert the key. In front of me stood a man in steel-toed boots covered in wood shavings like coconut flakes on a cake. He stood on the threshold, the rim of the yellow hard hat shielding his eyes. He lifted his head and his eyes skimmed over me. He continued down the steps and turned to the left. I watched him as he walked away, down the sidewalk and up the block. His stride was wide, his torso upright.
I entered the building. I stood still just long enough to take in the scent of fresh paint and a faint odor of disinfectant. A1 in cursive gold letters on the door straight ahead. To the left was a large opening taped shut with heavy-duty tarp to keep the dust and debris out.
A hair-raising shriek made me reach for the baby monitor. The green
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