The Perfect Hope Part 4

She did a good job, no question about that. The fact that she was a.n.a.l, obsessively organized, and a chewer of details didn't bother him especially. He'd lived and worked with that type all his life, in the form of his brother Owen.

Just something about her got under his skin, and tended to burn there from time to time since they'd locked lips on New Year's Eve.

It had been an accident, he told himself. An impulse. An accidental impulse. He didn't intend to repeat it.

But he could wish she was a plump, homely, middle-aged woman with a couple of grandkids and a knitting hobby.

"One day she could be," he muttered to D.A., who obligingly thumped his tail.

With a shrug, he walked down, crossed over, and opened the door of the future MacT's Restaurant and Tap House for the crew.

He liked the s.p.a.ce, liked it particularly now that they'd rejoined the two buildings, opening the wall between with a wide doorway so the restaurant and bar patrons, and the staff, could move from one side to the other.

Avery knew what she wanted, and how to make it happen, so he knew MacT's would be a good place to eat and drink, to socialize if socializing was your thing. Good dining for grown-ups she called it, as opposed to the casual family style of Vesta.

He had a soft spot for Vesta-and a softer one for their Warrior's Pizza, but as Avery had been trying out recipes on them for months, he figured he'd be able to choke down a meal or two in her new place.

He crossed over to the opening, studied the bar s.p.a.ce. A lot of work yet, he judged, but he could envision it finished, with the long bar he and his brothers were building in place. Dark woods, strong colors, some brick on the walls. And all those beers on tap.

Yeah, it wouldn't hurt his feelings to spend some time there, and hoist a beer in satisfaction of a job well done.

When it was done.

He heard voices, crossed back over.

Once he got the crew going, he walked down to the bakery to check on the men there. If he'd had a choice, he'd have strapped on his tool belt, gotten to the real work.

But he had a morning meeting scheduled back at the new job site, and he was already running late.

He started back around, saw both of his brothers' trucks in the lot. He a.s.sumed Owen had picked up coffee and donuts as well as the demo permit. You could count on Owen in the everyday and in a nuclear holocaust.

He thought of Beckett, married to Clare the Fair, instant father of three, and now the expectant father of twins.

Jesus, twins.

But maybe the thrill of upcoming twins would distract their mother from thinking up a new project.

Probably not.

He went through the open doors on St. Paul, smelled the coffee.

Yeah, you could count on Owen.

He plucked out the single go-cup left, the one with an R written with a Sharpie by his a.n.a.l brother. Glugged even as he flipped up the lid on the donuts.

His dog's tail immediately sent out a tattoo on the floor.

He heard his brothers' voices, somewhere in the rabbit warren, but took his coffee and, after tossing D.A. a chunk of his jelly-filled donut, walked over to the plans spread out on the plywood and sawhorses.

He'd seen them before, of course, but they knocked him out. Beckett's concept gave their mother everything she wanted, and more. Yeah, he thought, better than bulldozing it. Better to gut what needed gutting and build on what could be built on.

It didn't look like a gym to Ryder-at least not the speed-bag, sweat-soaked locker roomtype he might frequent, but it was a beauty.

And enough work, enough complications to make him curse Beckett's name for weeks, months. Possibly years.

And still ...

Lifting and pitching the roof was practical as well as aesthetically pleasing. Taking the flat-roofed jut off the parking lot side and making it into a deck, also smart. Plenty of gla.s.s for plenty of light with new windows and doors. G.o.d knew the place needed them, even if it meant cutting into the cinder-block walls.

Fancy locker rooms with steam rooms and saunas. His keep-it-basic mind balked at that, but he had to admit, he liked a good, long steam.

He ate his donut, tossing bits to the tail-thumping D.A., while he studied the first floor, the second floor, the mechanicals.

Beautiful work, he thought. Beckett had the talent and the vision, even if invariably some of the vision was a pain in the a.s.s on a practical work level.

He washed down the donut with coffee as his brothers walked out of the maze.

"Demo permit."

"Check," Owen said. "Good morning to you, too." His sungla.s.ses hung from the neck of his spotless white T-shirt. Since Beckett intended for him to join in the demo, the spotless wouldn't last long.

"You press those jeans, Sally?"

"No." Owen's quiet blue eyes flicked toward the donuts before he broke a cruller in half. "They're just clean. I have a couple meetings later."

"Uh-huh. Hey, Big Daddy."

Beckett grinned, raked fingers through his mop of chestnut brown hair. "The boys want to name them Logan and Luke."

"Wolverine and Skywalker." Amused, Ryder considered. "Melding X-Men and Star Wars. Interesting choice."

"I like it. Clare laughed it off at first, then the idea got a hook in. They're good names."

"Good enough for Wolverine and Skywalker."

"I think we're going with them, which is cool. My ears keep ringing though. You know, like they do after an explosion."

"Two's just one more than one," Owen pointed out. "It's about planning and scheduling."

"Because you have so much experience with rug rats," Ryder said with a snort.

"Everything's about planning and scheduling," Owen countered. "Speaking of which, let's check the plans and schedules." He pulled his phone off his belt.

Ryder decided on another donut, let the sugar and fat soothe him through the volley of details. Inspections, permits, material orders and deliveries, rough-ins, finals, shop work, site work.

Ryder kept it all in his head as well, just maybe not as precisely columned and tallied as Owen. But he knew what had to be done and when, which men to a.s.sign to which job, and how long the steps should take. On the inside, and-given the vagaries of construction-the outside.

"Mom's looking at equipment," Beckett put in when Owen paused. "You know, treadmills and cross-trainers and all that happy s.h.i.t."