Rehabbing My Heart

Author's note: The working title when I was in draft was "The Rehab". Then I stumbled on the excellent story of that title by Literotica writer DreamCloud. If fixing things and smooching turns you on, I recommend you read that -- after you finish this of course.

Prologue

As funerals go, it was a good time. My great-uncle Phil had lived to 94, and he had been a much-loved family member, almost a second grandfather to me and my cousins. He'd outlived Aunt Betty by about ten years, and they'd never had kids after Betty had a bad miscarriage. He was kind and funny and generous to friends and family. All of us felt like his kids, four generations from seniors to babies. It was kind of a family reunion as we all got together and reminisced.

The flight back was a puddle-jumper out of Erie International, a small airport that called itself "international" because there were flights to Toronto and Montreal. Then I had a nine-hour layover in Detroit, which is the kind of scheduling you get if you have to make plans on short notice.

I was hanging around at my future departure gate in the Detroit airport, having finished a shitty $15 turkey sandwich and the paperback I'd bought. Six more hours before I could even get on the plane, and I wasn't going to be home until well after midnight.

The gate agents had seen me sitting there throughout two cycles of deplaning, then new passengers lining up and boarding. One came over to me. "You're going to Denver?"

"Yes, I'm on 833 at 9:40 tonight. But my connection from Erie flies only once a day, so I've been here since noon."

"We fly to Denver six times a day. I can put you on the standby list, no charge. You would be freeing up a space in case somebody is late, and given the weather over Atlanta there will definitely be some delays in the system."

That sounded fine to me, so I gave them my name and let them scan my boarding pass into their computers. There wasn't room on the 3:10, but a space was open on the next flight at 4:42, next gate down. I was going to get home at a reasonable hour!

I decided to surprise Todd with an early arrival and a fun evening, so I didn't tell him. Instead, I sat at the gate and fantasized about how much fun we could have in the "bonus" five hours. I'd pick up a bottle of our favorite white wine, we could sit on the couch, snuggled under an afghan, and watch a movie while our hands got busy underneath. Or we could take a long, steamy shower, probably together, and then "not bother to get dressed" after. Or we could just hop into bed directly. Three days isn't exactly long enough to feel really deprived, but I missed my fiance and was getting pretty horny for him.

The flight was uneventful and I nearly texted Todd when we landed, but remembered in time to not spoil the fun surprise I'd planned. I ransomed my car from the parking ramp and went home.

When I got back to our condo, I got a not-at-all-fun surprise. There was an empty wine bottle and two glasses in the living room. And there was a bra on the couch. It was not my bra. I could have fit both my B cups into one side of that thing. It smelled of perfume and pit-stick.

I heard an alarm sound upstairs - it was nine o'clock on the nose. Todd's voice said something, and then I heard a woman's voice. That utter bastard. I quickly shoved the bra under a seat cushion, then slammed the front door and called out "Todd! I'm back!" in as welcome-home a tone as I could muster.

"Emily! Be down in a sec!" Todd came trotting down the stairs in his pajamas and came over to welcome me home with a kiss.

I stopped him. "You asshole." He froze. "I don't want to know anything. I don't want to hear anything. I'll get my stuff out by the end of the week. Fuck you, fuck moving to Texas, and fuck getting married."

I yelled upstairs. "He's all yours now, the weasel. You can come down now. Your bra is in the couch cushions, by the way."

An attractive, buxom, and clearly braless woman was coming down the stairs, buttoning her blouse and saying, "Todd! Who the hell is Emily?"

"I'm Emily. I live here, and until a few minutes ago, I was Todd's fiancee."

I guess Todd had been lying to her, too, because her face turned white and then red. She slapped him and said, "You bastard. Don't call, don't text, don't email. We're done." She stomped into the living room and retrieved her bra.

On the way out, she had the decency to apologize to me. I couldn't hate her after that. Todd broke down crying, "I love you!"

I looked at her, she at me. "Which one of us, you cheating snake?" Couldn't have said it better myself.

It would have been awkward leaving at the same time as what's-her-face, so I stayed just long enough to take my most important possessions and make arrangements to get the rest later. I took my suitcase and went to look for a motel, to cry myself to sleep. Four years with Todd. Visions of growing old together, maybe a family, were gone.

Within a week, I'd found a new normal. I was in an efficiency apartment in a student neighborhood, not the nicest place but it was available. Most of my belongings were in a storage locker, I'd canceled all the wedding reservations for venue, caterer, etcetera. I'd gotten utilities set up in my name - fuck Todd if they wound up turning off service at the old place after I canceled. I set up mail forwarding, all those things you normally do when moving. And, thank God, I had gotten a clean STD test at Planned Parenthood. I worked mostly remotely so all I needed for an "office" was electricity and Wi-Fi, no hassles about that.

My friends and family were all terribly sympathetic, of course. Maybe more regretful than I was, even. I was shocked, angry, and heartbroken of course. But I was also relieved to have found out about Todd's unfaithfulness before the wedding. At least now we wouldn't need lawyers involved.

~~~~~~

In April, I got a phone call. "Emily Rassom?"

"Yes, who is this?" The number was a Pennsylvania area code, with the caller ID saying just 'Deere & Massey.'

"Ms. Rassom, I'm Julie Stanton with Deere & Massey. We're the law firm handling the estate of Philip Rassom, who I believe was your great-uncle?"

"Yes, Uncle Phil."

"I'm calling because we had mail returned. A registered letter can't be forwarded, and so we need your current address. There are documents you'll need to sign regarding your inheritance."

"My what?" Had Uncle Phil left me something?

"Yes, you'll need to sign this in the presence of a notary. It's the title deed for the property at... no address given - a lakefront sector off County Road 21 in Sherman Township."

"Uncle Phil left me his cabin? I thought they'd sold it years ago."

"Evidently not. It will be yours as soon as the title is transferred. At that point you may sell it yourself or fix it up. There are some details we'll go over when you get out here. The property taxes have been paid by an escrow account Mr. Rassom set up, which has grown fairly significantly.

By the middle of May, I was officially a property owner in the state of Pennsylvania. This was a little awkward, since I lived in Denver and you can't exactly drive halfway across the country for a relaxing weekend at the cabin. I'd need to go look at the place, see if the childhood memories it brought back were strong enough that I'd want to keep it, or if selling it was the better option. I made plans to go out there in June, and emailed Ms. Stanton to find out what kind of work might be needed.

A week before my arrival, Ms. Stanton went out to look the place over and send me pictures. She didn't know anything about the inside, not having brought a key. The lot was overgrown and full of branches as the surrounding forest tried to reclaim it. The house appeared structurally sound, but badly in need of paint and maintenance.

I made plans to go to Erie and rent a car at the airport. Ms. Stanton and I would meet at her office, I'd sign some more papers to make me an official Pennsylvania taxpayer, and she'd give me the key.

Monday, June 24

I had a red-eye flight to Detroit so I could catch the 8:30 puddle-jumper to Erie. On the plane, I dozed and reminisced.

When I was a little kid, Mom and Dad would take us to Uncle Phil's cabin every summer. It was a rustic, lakeside cottage with an old outhouse and a bathroom added on after the septic tank had been put in. We could canoe on the lake if an adult was along, and there was a big boathouse, the size of a two-car garage, that also held a motorboat. Uncle Phil and Aunt Betty used to have sand trucked in every few summers to replenish the beach, which was great for swimming but tended to erode back to the rocky shore that was on either side of our little cove. Many, many fond memories of going on the long drive northeast of Pittsburgh to the hilly areas of north-central Pennsylvania, down an endless two-lane road that twisted and turned enough that my little brother got carsick and once puked in the back seat. Along that road, every half-mile or so, a dirt driveway led off to vacation resorts, summer cabins like my uncle's, and a few places where, I supposed, people lived all year.

We only went a few times after Aunt Betty passed away. In part it was because we were getting old enough to have our own interests and in part because with Uncle Phil's aging, it was no longer the boisterous family time it had been. It was too remote to have many playmates in the neighborhood, and my other, older cousins were scattered all over the country, married with babies or preschoolers. The cabin became an occasional weekend retreat, usually only occupied by one family or none. Once I'd gotten my driver's license, I'd been allowed to drive there first with family and then a few times solo.

~~~

I met Ms. Stanton at her office at about 11:30. She was no more than a couple years older than me, dressed in a nice skirt-suit that could work in a courtroom or as formal office wear. Like a lawyer, in other words. Her curly blond hair was tied tightly back from her face but escaped from her hair tie to a loose poof of a ponytail.

She stuck her head into a partner's office and spoke for a moment, then came back to the reception area. "Mr. Rassom was a long-time client of the firm and was personal friends with Mr. Deere Senior, one of the founding partners. Mr. Deere Junior says bend over backwards for you. So I get to buy you lunch, on Deere & Massey's account."

That seemed like a good idea. We went to the fanciest place in town, an Italian joint called Torelli's that had a big pizza and take-out trade and a few tables with red-checked tablecloths and candles jammed into wicker-basketed wine bottles. No one else wanted to eat in on a weekday lunch, so we got good table service.

"First off, please call me Julie instead of Ms. Stanton. The boss said be nice to you, and I take that to mean we can relax the formality a little, if that's okay with you."

"Of course. And call me Emily, if you like. Had you ever met Uncle Phil?"

"Only once, when he came to Mr. Deere Senior's retirement party about ten or so years ago. I'd just started at the firm, so hadn't heard the stories and so forth."

"Stories and so forth?"

"Apparently your uncle, or I guess great-uncle, had lived in Sherman and the surrounding area most of his life except when he was in the Army, so there's decades of history and hi-jinks. He was loved and respected by everybody who knew him, and he was a common sight around town until his memory started to go."

"That would have been about when my great-aunt passed away. I could tell he was slipping even then, at the funeral. We kind of tapered off the family vacations up here after I went off to college. I don't know if anybody has been out to the cottage much since, besides your visit."

"Very possibly not. We'll take a look, and see if you decide to sell it or invest in fixing it up. There is a proviso in the will for repair and maintenance funds."

"What?"

"Property taxes for the place were paid by an escrow account that Mr. Rassom set up decades ago. It has grown substantially over the years. The terms of the will state that the money in escrow may only be used for this property -- in other words, taxes, utilities, repairs, improvements, and maintenance -- and that if the property is sold the escrow money goes to the Sherman Township Park Foundation. You, as legal title owner, may choose to sell and keep the proceeds from the sale itself. If you don't draw it down, you get your taxes paid pretty painlessly."

"I don't know if I could bring myself to sell. There are a ton of childhood memories associated with summers there. If the main cabin is livable, I'll try to work on it."

We drove out to the cabin, and as the trees went by it seemed like the years did, too. I could have been eight, building sand castles, and learning to swim out to the floating dock in water that was over my head. Or thirteen, sunning in my first "real" bikini. Or eighteen... that was a different memory.

~~~~

The long gravel driveway was full of leaves and more than a little overgrown, but the tracks Julie had made earlier this week were still visible in the crushed grass and little shrubs she'd run over. When we got to the turnaround at the end, the sight was familiar- the almost barn-like shape of the roof line, the big French doors that led to the porch overlooking the lake. But a lot had changed. The float was gone, and all the sand had washed away off the rocky shore. The yard was overgrown with ferns and brambles and full of sticks and leaves and a few fallen trees and big limbs. The place desperately needed paint and plenty of yard work and cleaning.

Inside, the cottage was in decent condition except for a lot of dust and a squirrel skeleton by the glass door. The poor thing must have gotten in somehow and not found its way out. It didn't smell of dead animal, though, so it must have died long ago. Nothing was left but bones and some fur on what used to be the tail. There was no power or propane, of course, but the county had run water lines out this road at some point, so at least we didn't have to rely on bottled water. After opening all the taps and running the water a few minutes, the rust and sediment had been purged and the water ran clear.

We made a list of the chores and repairs needed, photographing anything that might need a professional.

Back at my motel, I started organizing the list. It was a lot of jobs from small (remove squirrel skeleton) to big, but no single chore looked overwhelming. And fortunately, there wasn't any one thing really expensive, at least not yet. I also worked on a shopping list. Cleaning supplies. Kerosene for the old hurricane lamps. Rubber gloves and work gloves. A brush saw and pruning clippers. Food. A cooler to keep it fresh? I'd have to get the electricity turned back on and arrange for a propane tank delivery. Soap and shampoo. Toilet paper.

It was a million things, but it was real and tangible, not the million virtual things that piled up in my career. And it was going to cost me, instead of paying me. And it was my place, as a child and now again in reality.

But there were a lot of things I couldn't do, because they were big jobs or because they needed skills and tools I didn't have. No way would I be operating a chainsaw on the fallen trees, not by myself and not without someone teaching me.

And I could never recapture the pride I had the summer I first swam all the way out to the dock by myself. It was maybe forty feet, but to my child eyes it could have been a mile. And I could never bring back the ghost stories Uncle Phil told around the fire pit. Or the teenage summers, filled with the rebellious romance of starry nights, sharing an illicit bottle with friends and sometimes boys.

But I could make it my own, preserving the charm of the old place and updating what needed it. Like the refrigerator that had probably been made during the Nixon presidency. Other appliances? I couldn't test them without electricity.

I emailed my task list to Julie, asking her if she knew of any businesses that I could hire to help. She called back not long after. Unfortunately, most of the local firms were solidly booked at the tourist resorts keeping everything running, and others were only looking for bigger jobs. "Good luck hiring a contractor around here, especially on short notice. And none of them will let you 'help' to save money - too much liability risk. But my brother just got - just got back to town and is looking for work. He's pretty handy and of course I trust him to work hard and give good value. I'll see if he'd be interested in this kind of odd job work."

Tuesday, June 25

At 9:02 the next morning, my iPhone gave the silent buzz of a blocked unknown caller. Half a minute later, it gave the voicemail beep so I knew it wasn't spam. I listened:

"Hi, um, Emily. This is Jim Stanton. My sister said you might be looking for some help with your great-uncle's property. I'm, ahh, between jobs and could use a little income and some manual work in the fresh air. I have a pickup and some landscaping tools we can use. Call me, we'll meet at the coffee shop in her building so she can introduce us. Bye."

He hadn't left his number, but the phone had stored it. We made plans to meet at ten.

~~~~

Jimmy

~~~~

My sister called me last night. "Jimmy! I have a client who needs to hire a handyman. Interested?"

Yeah, I was interested. Julie filled me in on the client and the job. It was a woman who'd inherited one of the many lakefront cabins and wanted to hire a helper to return the property to good condition. She couldn't hire a contractor and wanted to do as much as possible herself both to save money and because it was her place and she felt the pride of ownership.

Julie assured me this lady was clever and motivated. "She made a pretty big list of tasks, mostly basic yard and house cleanup. There will probably be more things to work on as you progress, but the cabin itself seems sound and livable."

"I need a job like that to bring me out of the prison mindset. Day after day of the same routine, following orders, never doing anything tangible. Making decisions, seeing results? I miss that." Ever since I'd been released from the minimum-security prison at Cambridge Springs, I'd been looking for work. I'd been out of prison for twenty-four days, and after visiting all the restaurants I'd missed, I was feeling like I needed to build my own routines from the bottom up. And nobody was interested in hiring an MBA who wasn't legally allowed to use the skills implied by their degree.

"But wait. I'm a big guy, and can look a little scary. No sane young woman is going to hire an ex-con to go to a lonely cabin. Can you introduce me, put her at ease?"

"Of course, kid. From the outside, you don't look like my smart, funny, sensitive little brother. I see your point, no way I'd be comfortable if some stranger who looked like you approached me without my knowing who they were."

We arranged it that I'd call and talk to this woman - Emily - and if she was willing to consider hiring me we could meet near Julie's office and discuss terms. Julie emailed me the list and I promised to call her in the morning.

At nine sharp I picked up my phone and called the number in Julie's email. No answer, so I left a message. She called back almost immediately, and it sounded doable so we set up a meeting for ten. I called Julie, who told me to be there at quarter of so she could brief me more and so her client could see us interacting, which we both figured would put her at ease.

~~~~

Emily

~~~~

I got to the coffee shop a couple minutes before ten, and spotted Julie at a table with her brother. They were chatting and joshing like family, but it was the resemblance that gave them away as kin. Julie's bushy blond hair, so tightly contained for a work look, was set free on Jimmy to form a mane like a lion's, a little darker than hers. And her businesslike square jaw was well suited on a man's facial structure, where it looked more rugged. But where Julie was trim and feminine, her brother was anything but. He had a physique that said many hours of weightlifting were in his past.