The boss also wanted ceramic tile—navy and white—though she agreed to look at product samples before making the final decision.

She was just as decisive in the kitchen, but there he stopped her.

“Look, are you actually going to cook in here, or just heat up takeout?”

“Cook. I do know how.”

“Then you want solid work space there, instead of breaking it up.” Brody gestured. “You want efficient traffic flow, so you work from the window. You want your sink under the window instead of on that wall. You move the refrigerator there, the stove there. See, then you’ve got flow instead of zigzagging back and forth. Wasted effort, wasted space.”

“Yes, but there—”

“That’s for your pantry,” he interrupted, the room clear in his mind. “It gives you a nice line of counter. You angle it out here…” He pulled out his measuring tape. “Yeah, angle it out and you’ve got room for a couple of stools, so you get work space and seating space instead of dead space.”

“I was thinking of putting a table—”

“Then you’ll always be walking around it, and crowding yourself in.”

“Maybe.” She thought of the kitchen table where she’d sat with her father only that morning. And had sat with her family on countless mornings. Sentimental, she decided. And in this case probably impractical.

“Let me get the measurements, and I’ll draw it up for you in the next few days. You can think about it.”

“All right. Plenty of time. The main level’s my priority.”

“It’ll take me some time to work it up and get you a bid. But I can tell you now, you’re cruising toward six figures and a good four months work for the complete rehab.”

She’d come to that conclusion herself, but hearing it was still a jolt. “Work it up, draw it up, whatever it is you do. If I decide to hire you for the job, when would you be able to start?”

“I can get the permits pretty quick. And put in a materials and supply order right off. Probably start work first of the year.”

“Those are magic words. If I go with you, I want to get started right away. Get me a bid, Mr. O’Connell, and we’ll see if we can do business.”

She left him to measure and calculate, and went down to stand on her little front porch.

She could hear the light traffic from the main street, only a half block over. And smell the smoke from someone’s fireplace or woodstove. Her bumpy little front lawn was a disgrace of dead and dying weeds and a sad and ugly stump of what had once been a regal maple.

Across the narrow side street was another brick building that had been converted into apartments. It was old, tidy and utterly quiet at this midday hour.

Another hundred thousand, she thought. Well, it could be done. Fortunately she hadn’t lived extravagantly over the past few years. And she did, indeed, have her mother’s head for business. Her savings had been carefully invested—and the trust fund was there as a cushion.