Finding Home (9 page)

Stacey
had always been an organized person.

Organization was the key to how she had managed to juggle a full-time job along with motherhood and being Brad's wife. At times, the latter was a job in its own right.

When she had first taken on the job of office manager at the medical practice where she worked, everything she put her hand to seemed to be in utter chaos. From the patients' files, to the billing system, even to the actual accessibility of the case histories, everything was in such a jumbled mess that it made finding information a feat only to rival the creation of Stonehenge.

Rather than run back to the shelter of home and hearth, Stacey dug in. She had always had more than her share of stubbornness. And so, with patience and perseverance, she managed to bring order to where chaos had reigned. She streamlined procedures, ordered new computers and implemented software that cross-referenced medical data. The physical files that some of the doctors insisted on retaining she color-coded, allowing anyone to know at a glance if the patient was current or if the file had become inactive.

Everything was backed up in case of a power surge. Data was inputted and kept current. In addition to modernizing
their systems, she also managed to save the practice a great deal of money, something that caught the attention of all the doctors who worked there. Rather than farm out medical insurance forms to an outside third party, she kept everything in the office. All it took was a new software program and a little more patience. Soon, claims were being filed quickly and more efficiently, patients were happy, doctors received their money faster, making them happy. Everyone was happy except for the third party who no longer processed their claims and held everything up.

Armed with the kind of background that refused to be daunted, Stacey approached this new challenge in her life, the remodeling of her house, in the same fashion.

The first thing she needed was input.

She needed to obtain reliable references before she even began the process of interviewing potential contractors. Who was good? Who was reasonably priced? Who was dependable and showed up? Was there anyone who was all of the above?

“I sincerely doubt it,” Dr. Steven Foxworthy, one of the seven doctors she worked for, told her when she put these questions to him the following Monday morning. After working for the medical group for more than fifteen years, the separation between doctors and staff no longer existed. She had seen to that. The fact that she was also a surgeon's wife didn't exactly hurt the situation, either.

Foxworthy, she recalled, had had some major work done on his house a little more than a year ago. She began with him.

“But I do have the name of a pretty decent contractor for you,” he told her. “Or at least Margie does.” He smiled ruefully. “She handles all that kind of stuff when it comes to
the house and the kids.” He shrugged dismissively, but he was young enough to be a little embarrassed by this delegation of traditional roles just the same. “You know how it is.”

“Yes,” she nodded, “I do.”
All too keenly.
But she wasn't here to try to redefine roles. She needed information or this project of hers would never get off the ground. She needed to get started before Brad tried to hijack the money into some treasury bond fund. “But you were satisfied, right?” she pressed.

“Well, yeah,” he told her with enthusiasm. “The house looks great.”

It was all she needed to continue to the next step. Which was talking to Margie Foxworthy.

“It was touch-and-go for a while,” Margie Foxworthy told her over the telephone when she called during her lunch break. Margie was a vivacious redhead who talked as much with her hands as she did with her mouth. Stacey could just see the woman gesturing with her free hand as she spoke. “It got so bad at one point that Steven and I didn't talk for a week. We almost separated.”

Stacey shut her eyes.
Great. That's all I need, to have Brad go off the deep end.
From everything she knew about Steven, he was easygoing and mild-mannered. If he and his wife had stopped communicating because of remodeling, then she was probably walking onto a minefield.

“We were at each other's throats almost every day,” Margie continued, apparently unaware that Stacey hadn't said anything. Or maybe because of it. “But then it got better.” Margie's voice grew brighter. “And now, when I look around—” Stacey heard the other woman sigh with absolute contentment “—I feel that it was all worth it.” Margie
laughed, a private joke tickling her. And then she shared. “That which doesn't kill you, makes you strong, right?”

Or very, very gun-shy, Stacey thought. But she had vowed not to back away from this project. Over the years, she'd given in too much to Brad. Besides, she reminded herself, the money was only hers if she did with it what she wanted to. Ian now knew what that was, since he'd called her just the other day to inquire how things were going and if she'd decided what to do with the inheritance. He sounded pleased when she told him her plans. She had no doubt that somewhere in the not-too-distant future, she would be getting a call from the lanky lawyer, wanting to know the progress being made.

“Right,” she echoed belatedly. “Well, thanks for the input.”

“Sure thing.” And then, just before Stacey hung up, she heard Margie call out. “Hey!”

Bringing the receiver back to her ear, Stacey said, “Yes?”

“You might want to talk to Wanda Brown. Dr. Taylor Brown's wife,” Margie added, in case Stacey drew a blank with the name. “They just doubled the size of their house. Couldn't be happier,” she vowed. “Let me find her number.”

Stacey listened for a minute to the sound of paper being shuffled and searched through. And then, Margie was back on the line, rattling off the heart specialist's home number.

The more the merrier,
Stacey thought with a smile as she laid down her pen. “Thanks.”

“Invite me over when it's done,” Margie told her.

“Sure.”
Either to that or the divorce hearing, whichever comes first.

But she was committed and she intended to go through with her plan. She knew if she didn't, Brad would always
bring it up whenever they had an argument—or discussion. He'd have it filed under Stacey's Folly.

It wasn't going to happen this time.

 

“It took a year,” Wanda Brown told her later that afternoon when she finally had a chance to call the woman. Wanda had been reluctant to comment until Stacey had brought up Margie Foxworthy's name—and the fact that she was married to Brad. Then the floodgates opened and Wanda talked and talked, eating up the minutes of her afternoon break. “It got to the point that I thought it was never going to end,” Wanda confided. “Like my labor with Donald.”

Only vaguely acquainted with the woman—she'd seen an article on the doctor and his family in the hospital newsletter—Stacey had no idea which of the woman's five boys was Donald, or what the names of the other boys even were, but she knew enough to make the appropriate sympathetic noises.

“But eventually, it did end. The workers packed up their tools and left, and suddenly I was in love. With the house,” Wanda clarified. “The boys each have their own rooms now, so there's no more fighting about who did what to whom. At the first sign of any trouble, I just send them up to their rooms.” She paused for a second, getting her second wind. “Do you have kids, Tracey?”

“Stacey,” she corrected the woman. “And yes, but they're not fighting anymore.” They got a long rather decently these days, but when they were growing up, there were times she was certain one was going to kill the other. Julie had never been one to meekly stand by and take it.

“Lucky you.”

A few minutes later, most devoted to the trials and tribulations of raising five overactive boys with a workaholic husband, Stacey was finally able to coax the name and address of the contractor who had overseen the remodeling of the Brown house.

 

The process of gathering the names of contractors who had completed better-than-average renovations went on for several days. After work, since she had no one to hurry home to now with Jim moved out and Brad still sulking and working, Stacey would drive around, looking at houses. It amazed her just how many houses had had some kind of work done. Additions, new windows, different masonry in the front. All this while her own house had stayed the same, frozen in the era that it had been built.

At first, she'd tackled her own development, then she began to drive through the neighboring ones. Each time she saw a house that had obviously had work done, she would get out of her car and knock on the door. Once whoever answered was assured that she was not attempting to sell them something, she was usually welcomed and taken for an impromptu tour. Most of the time, the woman of the house conducted the tour. There was always an apology about the condition of the house attached.

But Stacey didn't see the newspapers scattered about, the shoes that hadn't been put away or the dishes sitting on every available flat space. She was too busy evaluating the merits of the rooms, measuring their future aesthetic value against the immediate discomfort she and Brad would be experiencing by having the house in a complete uproar.

Her list of contractors, along with their strong points and detractions, grew. As did her enthusiasm. Rather than feeling overwhelmed with all the data, she felt empowered. And enthusiastic.

The houses she was allowed to view fueled her imagination and gave her ideas as to what she wanted done to her own house. She began compiling copious notes and armed herself with dozens of magazines, everything from
Architectural Digest
to magazines that dealt strictly with do-it-your-self projects ranging from flirty window treatments to dressing up the toilet bowl cleaner.

Her lists continued growing. Both the one that cataloged the contractors she wanted to interview for the job and the one that dealt with the different ideas she had for the house.

Stacey decided that she wasn't going to add on. They didn't need more rooms, they just needed bigger ones. Her plan was to remodel, replace and refresh. There were a few areas she wanted to expand. Ever since she could remember, she had always wanted a window seat in their bedroom. And after living with a long, shallow closet all these years, she wanted one she could walk into. One that would allow her to have all her shoes arranged side by side and clothes hanging neatly instead of squashed together like people in a subway car during rush hour.

And, she thought, pulling her vehicle over to the curb so that she could make another notation, if they expanded the bonus room to extend over the third garage, that would give them more space to house an exercise cycle for Brad.

Even as she had the thought, she could hear his voice in her head: I don't need an exercise cycle. If I want to exercise,
I can always go to the gym. But he didn't go to the gym, which was the whole point.

Stacey jotted down exercise cycle on a third list. She was smiling as she did it.

The
surgery had been touch-and-go.

And endless.

The tumors rivaling grains of sand in size were tangled along a three-inch region of his patient's spinal column. It hadn't helped matters that the forty-six-year-old salesman was close to fifty pounds overweight.

Brad had finally gotten them all, but it was too soon to tell if there would be any nerve damage as a result of the procedure. Of course, if he hadn't performed the surgery, paralysis would have been the eventual outcome. Not to mention that one or more of the tumors could have turned malignant.

They still might now. The hospital's pathology lab closed by the time he had the tissues ready to send out.

A car cut him off just as he came to his exit on the freeway. Brad cursed roundly as he veered to avoid getting into an accident.

It took a second to collect himself.

Brad was never in a good mood when the patient's full recovery was not a foregone conclusion. It was no secret that he absolutely
hated
not being able to fix whatever problem found its way to his operating table, to leave his patient faced with a future that was better than his or her immediate past.

“You're not God, you know. I think you lose sight of that sometimes,” Alex Lopez, the surgeon who had assisted him in the six-hour procedure, had said after they had finally finished and retreated from the operating room.

Brad didn't remember what he'd said in response. Only that he knew he had no supreme powers that guaranteed success each and every time he picked up a scalpel.

But all the same, he felt a responsibility, a commitment to the patients who put their faith in him. Faith, he thought as he turned down the long, winding street that eventually fed into his development. Faith came from God, so he expected some sort of tie-in on that level. Logically, he certainly didn't expect to place his hand on a patient, cry “Heal!” at the top of his lungs and have whatever was wrong become right.

Turning into his development, he drove toward his house on automatic pilot.

But still, he argued silently, with all his expertise, all his experience and inherent skill, you'd think…

His mind trailed off. Right now, it was far to much of an effort to think. All he knew was that he was bone weary. And hungry.

And in no mood to deal with strangers.

Brad frowned. There was a dusty, oversize white truck parked at his curb. On the side, the letters proclaimed J.D. Construction.

J.D. For no apparent reason, the words
juvenile delinquent
popped into his head.

Damn it, why tonight? She'd had all late afternoon, early evening to do this, why now, just when he was getting home? God knew he got home late enough for her to finish at work
and see whoever it was she wanted to see before he walked through the door.

He needed to lay down the law.

That wasn't going very well these days, was it?

Maybe, if he was lucky, the truck belonged to someone visiting the guy across the street. The man owned six cars and they were parked all over his driveway and along his curb. Visitors were left to scout around for parking spaces, taking them where they could find them.

Muttering under his breath about inconveniences, Brad shoved his key in the lock. He didn't have to turn it. The front door was already unlocked.

Damn it, what had he told her about leaving the front door open?

As he walked in, incensed, he forgot that he still wasn't really speaking to her. “Stacey!”

“In here, Brad.”

The voice floated in from the family room. It didn't quite sound like her. Oh, it was Stacey, all right, but it was the voice she used with strangers. Which meant that she was either on the phone with someone, or actually
with
someone. The owner of the dusty truck. J.D. Or his representative.

He groaned inwardly, debating just ignoring everything and heading straight for the refrigerator. But even there he was foiled. The kitchen was completely exposed to the family room. He was doomed no matter what course he took.

Stacey was sitting in the family room, perched on one end of the eight-foot sofa. There was a man in tan jeans and a light green T-shirt sitting on the opposite end.

He looked rather slight for a contractor, if that was what
he was, Brad thought. He would have thought contractors had to be big guys with large biceps.

He was feeling punchy.

Twisting around to get a better look at him, he saw Stacey smiling warmly at him. He wasn't sure if he responded. His face muscles felt too tired to be pressed into use.

“Honey, this is J.D. Conrad.” She turned back toward the other man. “Mr. Conrad, this is my husband, Dr. Bradley Sommers.”

The man was on his feet instantly, shaking Brad's hand. “Nice to meet you,” Conrad said with enthusiasm.

The guy was young, Brad thought. Too young. Too enthusiastic-sounding. Dear God, had he ever been that young? That enthusiastic? It felt like a million years ago and he couldn't remember.

Stacey was saying something, he realized, and tried to concentrate. “Mr. Conrad is giving me some estimates,” she told him.

Estimates. You only gave estimates when you had input. He looked at Stacey. So, it had gotten that far, had it? She knew what she wanted and had written everything up so that this guy in the tight jeans and faded T-shirt could give her estimates on how much he intended on robbing her.

Though he was still annoyed with her, Brad had to grudgingly admit that he was also in awe of his wife. It hadn't even been a month and she was already starting to get the project off the ground. Whenever Stacey wanted something, she went after it, the personification of confidence. He supposed that was how she'd kept everything running all these years, freeing him up to devote himself to his profession.

“Why don't you sit in on this, honey?” she urged. Taking the hand that was closest to her, she laced her fingers with his and tugged, indicating the space beside her.

She was roping him in, and being none too subtle about it. Why? he wondered. Stacey certainly didn't need his input. She was doing fine on her own steam.

About to beg off, Brad looked down at her face. A look in her eyes silently entreated him not to leave. He'd always had trouble refusing that look. Now was no exception. With a stifled sigh, Brad deposited his weary torso on the sofa beside her.

As he sank into the cushions, it occurred to him that, aside from the short drive home he couldn't even remember, this was the first time he'd been off his feet since before he'd entered the OR.

Days like this made him wish he'd gotten a desk job, pushing papers around. At least you didn't run the risk of having someone's death or paralysis on your conscience. And you got to sit all day. He shook himself free of his thoughts and realized that the man his wife had invited into their home was asking him something.

It turned out to be a polite inquiry about his field of expertise. He answered, then glanced to see that Stacey had a pad on her lap. On it was a list of neatly printed questions he assumed she intended to ask each contractor.

He had to admit, he was impressed with her thoroughness. Impressed that she actually wanted this much information. Until he'd witnessed this, he would have said these questions were too well thought out to have come from his wife. The Stacey he knew usually flew by the seat of her pants. And, at times, came in for some very bumpy landings.

But then, to be fair, that was only a casual observation on his part. Admittedly, he wasn't usually around to watch her do her balancing act between home and work. There seemed to be more to his wife than he would have initially thought. It caught him off guard to learn that after all these years, she could still surprise him.

The session, mercifully, continued for only a few more minutes. Approximately ten minutes from the time that Brad had come in to join them, Stacey rose to her feet. Crossing to him, she extended her hand to the man sitting on the end of their sofa.

“Thank you, J.D., I think we have everything we need.” The man rose, obviously not very happy that he hadn't gotten a commitment from them. As if to placate him, Stacey asked, “How quickly can you get started from the time we call you?”

The question evoked a smile. J.D. took out a rather beaten-up-looking PDA from his back pocket. Turning it on, he waited for the light to come on and then tapped with his stylus a couple of things on the tiny LCD screen. Images shifted.

He looked up, addressing only her. “Two weeks.” It seemed like a good answer.

Stacey nodded in response, all the while leading the man to the front door.

“That sounds good to me.” She opened the door and stepped back, giving him clear access to the outside world. “We'll be in touch. Thank you very much for stopping by. We appreciate it.”

Stacey closed the door, securing the lock, and then turned around with a sigh. The first interview was over. She'd know better what to do and say the next time around.

“So, when's he starting?” Brad asked moodily once it was just the two of them again.

Stacey looked surprised at her husband's question. “On our house?”

“Well, yes.”

She laughed softly and said, more to herself than to him, “Hopefully never.”