20 comments/ 20476 views/ 20 favorites Cracked Foundations By: MSTarot Author's note: The story is part of Literotica's unofficial tag team competition. Twenty of Literotica's authors accepted the challenge of being randomly paired with a partner to co-author a story under the pen name "The_Odd_Couplings." The pairings have remained anonymous and the true authors of this story will be revealed in the comments section one week from today. Disclaimer: Because part of the fun of this challenge is the secrecy of the partners I would like to ask that readers and fellow authors alike refrain from posting their guesses in the comments section as we would like the scoring to be as fair as possible. Cracked Foundations "Good morning," he said as he came up the steps. His t-shirt hugged his body, which was as fit as any I'd ever seen from all the physical work he did. He was bald, but I couldn't imagine him being sexier with hair. I wondered again about the tattoo, but decided to ask him about it another time. No point in being nosy. "So far it is," I agreed. "The house is still standing." He smiled. "Were you afraid it wouldn't be?" "Not exactly, but the things you told me yesterday made me nervous," I admitted. I shifted on the swing to offer him room to sit, but he opted to lean against a column on the porch. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that. I just wanted to make sure you understood how big of a job this will be. And I want you to be safe." That was a change, I thought. Someone wanting to take care of me, even in a detached way like that. Wow, what a sap I sounded like to myself. "Thanks, Stan. Listen, I wanted to apologize again for misunderstanding yesterday. It probably sounded a little egotistical, but I—never mind. I'm sorry." I shook my head so I wouldn't ramble. "It's all right," he assured me. "When I thought about it later, I realized how it sounded. I didn't mean it, either. Not that you aren't pretty or anything. I mean, you are pretty, but I—" He reddened and I had to laugh. "How about we forget about that and move on?" I suggested. "Thank God," he said. "What's all that you're writing down?" He gestured toward the notebook. "Lists. I always work better with lists, when I see things written down. It makes me feel like things aren't quite as overwhelming if I can get them on paper." "What's first on the list?" he asked. I sighed. "Find a place to stay. You're right, I can't stay here. I hardly slept last night because of what you said, and every noise I heard made me think the ceiling was going to fall in." "Natalie, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." "No, no, it's all right. I was letting my imagination run away with me. I have a feeling you wouldn't have let me stay if you really thought it was going to fall down that fast." "True," he agreed, and smiled again. I liked his smile. "Do you know where I could start looking?" I asked. "I have no idea where to look, who's reputable, that sort of thing." "Actually, I gave this some thought myself, and I have an idea." "Great. I like ideas." He chuckled. "I hope you like this one. I have an apartment over my garage, and you're welcome to it. The garage is detached, and the apartment has its own entrance, so you'd have plenty of privacy. It's not huge, but it has a kitchen, a bedroom, everything you need. The garage is empty too, and I don't know how much you have in storage, but you could put some in there if you want." It sounded to good to be true. "How much rent would you want?" He shook his head. I was about to protest when he held up a hand. "No, please, hear me out. It's just sitting there, unused, and I had no plans to rent it anyway. The last tenant I had trashed the place, so I decided to stop renting. Now it's for me if I need it, or for guests." "Still, Stan, you've already offered to lower the price on your work. I can't take this for nothing. I'd be using your electricity, your water, your space." It was so tempting, but I couldn't bring myself to say yes. I didn't want to feel like I was taking advantage of him. "Look, how about this," he said after a moment. "How about you pay utilities? For the rest of it, we'll figure it out later, after the house is finished. Think of the money you'll save, money you'll need for the repairs, even if you take a loan." "Yeah, that's on the list, too." I dreaded talking to the bank about that, but it would have to be done. "Come on, what do you say?" He flashed that smile again. I laughed. "All right. You've got yourself a tenant." Next, we moved on to the house and all the work it would need. "I made some calls yesterday," Stan said, and handed me a list of his own. "These are people I've worked with before, so I can vouch for them. But you should call them yourself, and they'll be happy to give you references. A few of them even said they knew your uncle, and they'd love to work on this house." "Wow, that's great." People wanting to help me? Strangers? That was an unusual feeling. Knock it off, I admonished myself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. "Thank you. I wouldn't have known who to call." "It's a big project," he said, "and I don't mean to overstep, but you looked a little overwhelmed yesterday, so I thought I'd do a little legwork for you." "I appreciate it, I really do," I told him. "You have any plans today?" he asked. "I don't think so, aside from trying to tackle some of this." I stared at my list, which still loomed large despite being written down. "How about I take you over to see the apartment? You can check it out and if you like it, we'll come back and get your stuff. " Why not? I thought. What other choice did I have if I wanted to stay in the house? I needed the house, I realized. Somewhere along the line it had become more important to me than I'd known, but I had to do what I could to fix it, and maybe I could sort myself out as well. I nodded, and went lock up the house—my house. Cracked Foundations "Sounds like her daddy." Natalie's eyes sparkled. "Well, I'll let you get back to what you were doing. I just wanted to let you know about the shower." "I wasn't busy, just watching the news. I'll give my friend a call. He should be able to come over tomorrow or the day after and fix that drain," I told her as I moved to get the backdoor for her. "Thanks again. Good night." As I watched Natalie's curves moving in the light from the backdoor, as she walked towards the garage, I'm glad she didn't look back. These sweat pants could not hide the sudden attention she was getting from within them. Cracked Foundations I developed something of a rhythm: poke holes, rip down, move ladder. Poke holes, rip down, move ladder. And so on. Andy came by, said I was doing a good job, and brought some of his equipment in. Then he made me break for lunch, and drink some water, which I'd neglected to do and now felt stupid for. Truth was I'd gotten so involved in the ceiling that it had just slipped my mind. Over lunch on the porch, Andy and I chatted and I asked him something that had been on my mind. "Andy, do you think this is worth doing?" "What do you mean?" he asked as he bit into his second sandwich. "All of this." I gestured at the house. "It's a lot of effort and a lot of money. You can tell me if it's not, I don't mind." I smiled at him. "I'll pay you to keep going even if you don't think so. But my brother says I'd be better of knocking it down and selling the land." "Don't mind me saying so, Miss Natalie, but your brother's an idiot." I almost choked on my water. Andy looked concerned but I waved him off and laughed. "No, no, it's all right. I couldn't agree more." "Some things are worth keeping, some aren't. What one person says is worth it, another one won't. Can't let someone tell you what's worth doing." "No, I know that." I ate some of my salad, and reminded myself to bring more food the next day. "But still. I love this house, I spent a lot of time here growing up and everything, but . . . this is a lot of work." "I don't waste my time on work that's not worth doing," Andy said. After another bite he continued, "If I thought this house wasn't worth the effort, I'd have said so, and so would Stan." "I do believe you would have." I took another look around the room. "You know, I really want to do this. At first I just thought yeah, I'll do that, but now . . . now it's important to me." "Then it's worth it." Andy nodded as though that settled everything. I pondered that while I went back to tearing out the ceiling. There did have to be a point where it wasn't worth it, I thought, and I believed Stan would have told me so. Surely, there had to come a time with a building when there were too many pieces to replace, and tearing it down was the better option, even if it meant he didn't get the work. I spent the rest of the afternoon alternately thinking about Stan and the house, and thinking about nothing while I tore down the ceiling. The room was looking more and more like a tornado had come through as I kept at it. At one point a huge chunk of the ceiling fell down, along with a wall, and I let out a yelp that brought Andy running. He came in, looked around, then looked at me and started laughing. "What? It's not my fault it came down like that," I protested. "You should see yourself," he said. "Good thing we're down South in the summer. You'd be lost in a snowstorm." "Oh, great. I think I'll save that surprise until I get home." "Wipe your face," Andy advised. "You don't want that dust in your eyes." He went back to his work. Despite the safety glasses, he had a point. I ran a finger over my cheek and could feel the grit on my skin. I probably looked like the Pillsbury doughboy. Deciding it was time for a break, I went into the kitchen to clean my face and get more water to drink. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window and had to laugh; I looked like I'd stepped into a bag of flour. I drank one more glass of water, made a mental note to bring a bottle of water or three the next day, and went back to work. When the last piece of ceiling hit the floor, I felt a sense of accomplishment for the first time in ages. My arms were tired and I knew I'd feel it later, but I grinned. Natalie 1, ceiling, 0. Stan wasn't back yet, but I didn't have anything else to do and desperately wanted a shower. Andy was still working, so I told him I was finished and heading back to the apartment. He came out and inspected my work, pronounced it well done, and said I could go. I told him to call me if he needed anything and left. A shower had never sounded so appealing. I was itching now that I had stopped working. Cracked Foundations I remembered how thin she'd been when we'd first met and realized she had put a little weight back on. I meant that in the best way, because it only added to her curves. This woman was truly lovely. I realized it was also that the normal tension she carried was not there. She was at peace. I had a sudden desire to pull back out the driveway. To just drive around for hours to let her sleep. To let her have as much time without worry as she could. To protect her from the world. As my mind tried to analyze that thought I shut off the key. The sudden silence had the effect that I knew it would. She woke up. Even as her eyes were blinking open, I saw that tension settle back on her. The little wrinkle above her eyes came back. A determination to not only find the cause of that but to put an end to it came to me then. "We're here," I told her unnecessarily, just to have something to say. "Come on, sleepy head, lets get to work." "What are we fixing today?" she asked when I opened my door. "Nothing." To her open-mouthed look, I just smiled and started grabbing tools from the box on the back of my truck. I arranged them all on the tail gate. "If we're not fixing things, why am I up so early?" she asked after a moment of silence. "Plug this in and I'll tell you." I handed her an extension cord. Enjoying the look I got, I slid my tool bag in next to the power tools and then pulled a few of the two-by-fours up as well while she was away. When she walked back up she had the end of the cord in her hand like she was considering beating me with it. "Okay, do-it-yourself school is now in secession. I'm your teacher, Mr. Duncan, but you can call me Stan. If you're feeling more daring you can call me Stan-the-Man, a lot of my regular workers do. Alright, the first thing we are going to learn about today—" "Are you serious?" "Very." I stopped fooling around. "You have a house to rebuild. Your house. The house you will live in the rest of your life, maybe. You have to know how to do everything that is needed to make that happen. You will be using every tool you see here." Her eyes looked over the selection of rather scary-looking power tools laying on my tailgate. I saw the slight uncertainty I had been looking for flash across her face. The fear of the unknown. "Now, the first thing you have to learn is not to be afraid of them. To respect them, yes, they deserve that, but not fear them." I picked up the Saws-All. "That thing looks dangerous," she said, giving it a wary look. "Oh, it is. Very." I smiled. "You know what it also is? Nothing more or less than a big electric carving knife. No different than one you would use in the kitchen to cut up a chicken or to carve a roast." I turned the tool in my hand to show it to her. "No different, just bigger and stronger. Now you wouldn’t think you could pick up one of those and immediately use to carve with right? You would make a mess of your dinner with it. This is the same." Setting it down, I reached into my tool bag and puled out a pair of safety glasses. "Don't ever plug in a power tool without putting these on. Make it a habit. If you start right now it won't be one you have to learn to do latter like some of my guys. I spend hours out of every week telling people to put their glasses on." Maybe it was because I'd seen her wear glasses so often when she was reading something, but she made glasses look sexy. "I'm going to start you learning the circular saw first." I told her, plugging it in. "You know why?" "Because it's the hardest to learn?" "Nope. It's one of the easiest. But it's also the loudest and the scariest-looking." I reached for the tape measure on my hip then stopped. "Please tell me you can read a ruler?" "Of course!" "Just checking, not everyone can. Now, the beams under your houses, the ones we are going to be replacing? They are, for the most part, fourteen foot eight inches. That is not a standard length, so we are going to have to cut every beam you put in. Or, spend more money and have a saw mill special cut them." I laid a hand on my saw. "This one just costs time." She looked at the saw with its round blade and jagged edges. I saw her close her eyes take a deep breath and sigh. The half nod was all I needed. "Alright. Safety glasses on. Plug it in and let's get familiar with how it sounds and works." Working first with the saw, then through my list of other power tools, she and I spent the day together pretty much there by the back of my truck. I taught her to handle them not with fear but with a respect for what they were and could do. Then, when I was sure she was used to what it sounded like, I let her make a few thousand trial cuts. I could at times see her patience wearing thin as I had her cut the same thing over and over on the scraps of wood, but she didn't complain. After two hours she had it, and we started cutting floor joists. I would measure them once, then let her measure them, then she cut them to length. I began to notice as we worked just how wonderful she smelled when she was a little sweaty. The perfume that was her normal scent began to heighten. I also noticed just how close we had to get for me to show her what to do. I all but held her hand to teach her how to hold the saw right, or where to place a mark for cutting. I think she began to notice it as well. She would lean into me a little when I stood next to her. Her arm would touch mine, her head turn a bit till it was closer to my face. At one point I turned to find her lips just inches from my own. It was in the middle of this that a charcoal gray Nissan pulled into the driveway. The guy who got out made the construction worker in me flinch. He had the look of either an architect or an OSHA safety inspector. Neither of which is a person a construction worker wanted to see; trouble always followed them around. He walked up carrying a clipboard, another bad sign. "Mrs. Natalie Reynolds?" "Yes? Though it's Miss." She took off the safety glasses and let them go; they dropped to the ground when they weren't on the chain she wore her normal glasses on. He bent down to get them before I could. I noticed him checking her out on the way back up. Not that I can blame him or any man—Natalie had a very nice body—but something about him made me want to punch him on general principle. "I'm Bill Norman, with the Historic society." He held out her glasses. Ah, that explained it. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Norman. What can I help you with?" she asked. She toyed with her glasses, a nervous gesture, I guessed. He looked at the piles of saw dust under our feet and the stack of lumber nearby. "I need to take a look at the construction work, get photos of before and after, and if you could give me his number I need to talk to your general contractor." He checked the clipboard. "A Stanley Duncan?" "Stan, and that would be me." I held out my hand to him. Mostly because I knew I had some hand sanitizer in the car. "Oh. Well, nice to meet you as well, Mr. Duncan. My office needs a list of your building credentials with regards to historic building, for our records, and of course several references to check on the quality of your work in such buildings." He pulled a business card from the top of his clipboard and handed it over to me. "Now, I see you're using modern wood. Why not reuse the original lumber?" "Because most of it is either warped from water or dry rotted to unusable conditions," I told him after a second to get my temper back into check. "Why not saw milled wood then? That would be far closer to the original timbers for a house of this historic age." I hid a sigh. It was going to be a long day. Cracked Foundations In the dead silence that followed, I blushed till my ears burned. Up in the attic, I heard a loud thump, followed by the sweet peal of Rowena laughing. Looking up at Stan, I saw that he was blushing too. Then he chuckled and gave me another wink. That boyish charm made him look so very roguish. I suddenly had no trouble envisioning him looking at me that way, but from much closer. With a bedroom ceiling fan turning above him, maybe. Still blushing, I went to cut the wood. Cracked Foundations "What does that mean?" she asked as her fingers played with the hair on my chest. "It's from Matthew.13:55. 'Is this not the Carpenter’s son?'" I said the words, feeling the bitter burn of old hurt and pain. "I got it right after my dad died. So I wouldn't forget him." Looking down when her head moved, I saw the questions in her eyes. I pushed myself up higher and sat up in the bed, my back against the headboard.. She sat up and pulled the sheet up under her arms so her breasts were hidden. "Tell me about him," she said after a moment. "Tell me about your father." I took a deep breath. The old depressions and self-loathing came to rest in the pit of my stomach chasing out the recent pleasures. "My father's name was Mike. He was a cabinet maker by trade. Did beautiful work, the ones in the kitchen are his work. He was a very religious man. No one touched a bite of food on our table till he had said the blessing over it. We went to church every Sunday morning; be there till noon then come back for the Sunday night service as well. We would go to church every Wednesday night too. He sang in the choir, was a deacon for awhile. Led Bible studies on Sunday morning for the teenaged boys." "That's almost obsessive," Natalie said but I could tell as soon as she spoke the words she regretted them. When she went to apologize I waved it off. "Oh, he was that. Devout man of God." I grabbed a pillow and stuffed it behind my back. The carved headboard was beginning to dig into my back, as if the wood didn’t like the artwork pressed against it. "I was an only child. Spent most of it on the bank of a river fishing. Alone. I would beg my father to come fishing with me, but he was always too busy. Either with work, or with something going on at the church." The sheet rustled and I looked up to see her getting more comfortable. That lovely body, draped with the sheet, drew my eyes and my desire. She smiled, recognizing the look. "Go on, please." "Well, I got a very bad case of unnoticed-child syndrome. I would do things to get into trouble just so he would have to pay me some attention. I finally got a lecture about how a good Christian boy wouldn't do such evil things, that it must be the Devil getting inside me because I didn't pray enough at night. "That set me off. I don't remember everything I screamed at him that afternoon, but I know I told him I wasn't a Christian, that I hated God and everything to do with Him because He had stolen my father from me. That I didn't want to be a good Christian. That all I wanted was a dad to take me fishing, to help me work on my bike. To just be there for me." Chuckling to keep from crying, I ran both hands over my head and held the back of my neck, my fingers laced. I realized even as the old memories came back that it was the arrest position. I moved my hands before I felt phantom cuffs. Natalie rubbed her hand over my chest, back and forth, a motion that soothed instead of aroused. It calmed me. I didn't look at her face, afraid of what I might see there. "That was when I ran away. I stormed out the living room, slammed my bedroom door and locked it. I screamed at him that I was never going to go to church again, even as I was packing a bag. I opened the window, cut the screen, and jumped. I ran off in the darkness, never intending to come back." I fell silent as I remember the cold of that night. The damp drizzle that had bathed my face as I ran. "Did you come back?" Natalie asked softly. "Yes, but not willingly; the police picked me up. About . . . six weeks later, I think. I was four states away, asleep in a train boxcar. One of the railroad guys found me and called the law." "How old were you?" "Fourteen. Same age as Rowena now. It gives me chills to think of her out on those streets. Sleeping in the woods, under bridges the way I did at that age." I took a deep breath. "She's not that much her father’s daughter, I don’t think." Natalie ran a hand over my arm and took my hand. "She has a good head on her shoulders. Even if her mother's head is full of fluff." I smiled and tightened my fingers in hers. "What happened when you came back? Another lecture?" "Nope. Dad came and picked me up. He never said a word to me the whole way home. When we got home it was Sunday afternoon. He told me to go get changed. I told him I wasn't going to church. He said not for church, for fishing." "Fishing?" "Yeah. He took me fishing. We camped out at a lake for a week together, just him and me. He took off work that whole week to be with me. He didn't mention the Lord or Church or anything. He never once the whole time had so much as a harsh word for me." "Well, that's good," she said. "No. No, it wasn't. Although I didn't see it till years later. You see, my dad loved me. He loved me so much he gave up God for me. He never went to church again. Not until his dying day did he step foot into one." My fingers took up their habit of smoothing down my goatee. I'd given up trying to make myself stop in front of her. "He didn't pray over dinner, or before bed. He was a totally different man. I was young and stupid enough to not see just how terrible that change in him must have affected him." "What happened?" Her fingers tightened on mine in comfort. "Nothing. Not right at first. I suddenly had the best friend in the world. We did everything together. He taught me how to do carpentry. We worked in his shop for hours together." I tapped the headboard. "We made this bed. He taught me how to turn a spindle on a lathe, how to carve with chisels, all of it. It was the happiest time in my life." I felt a tear roll down my cheek and brushed it over into my beard. Part of it hit my lip and I tasted the salt. As bitter as the memories that followed. "Stan?" "My dad was a Vietnam vet. I had always been so proud of that fact that when I hit eighteen and the first Gulf War was getting going I went and volunteered. Did two years over there in the desert." I clenched my hand in the sheet, fighting the pain. "I didn't know. I didn’t know it was what my dad had gone through over there that made him turn to God. I made him give up what he had been using to keep himself together. Then I went and joined a war. Mom told me later, after he died, that he would wake up screaming my name, tangled in the sheets. He was trying to save me. Mom tried to get him to go back to church with her but he wouldn't. Said if he did he would be going back on his word to me." Reaching over to the night stand I picked up a warm bottle of water from the night before and drank the last dregs. Natalie waited quietly for me to continue. I wasn't sure I could until I did. "He started to drink. He had been sober nearly twenty years and picked it back up because of me. He drank to forget the dreams, the nightmares, the memories. He drank to forget that his son was in the middle of a war. He drank and drank and when I came home, he was no long the man I had known. He was a surly drunk who hated me because of the pain I had caused him." I threw the empty plastic bottle across the room. I wished it had been glass. Something breaking would have been satisfying at least. "I was angry at him. How could he be so selfish. I had just spent two years being shot at! I needed my friend. I needed my dad. I was angry, so I did what I had always done. I ran away. Again. I left him to his bottle and I said to hell with him. His selfish—" The tears nearly overwhelmed me but I fought them back. Natalie held tight to my hand with both of hers. I cleared my throat. "Anyway, I married, and started my own life. About the time that Rowena was born I got a call from mom. Dad was sick, really sick. She begged me to come home. So I came home, but was too late by about an hour. The coroner's ambulance was here when I pulled up. Mom was a mess, so I handled it all, the arrangements for the funeral, all of that. I felt so detached from it. I hadn't cared for him in years, after all. Then after the funeral mom sat down with me, in there at the kitchen table and told me everything." I sniffed to clear my nose but that didn't help. Leaning over to the night stand, I grabbed a dusty tissue from the box. Natalie took it from me, climbed over my legs, and pulled out a few more till she got a clean one. As I sat there with my eyes streaming, this lovely lady I had just bared my soul to cleaned my face. Her eyes held sympathy, not judgment, as she brushed away the tears. "I listened to her, my mom, and came to realize I had never know the man that was my father." Reaching over my shoulder I felt the raised edge of the inked scar. "I got the tattoo just after that." "Thank you," Natalie said, "for telling me that." Her eyes were wet with tears. I took the tissue from her and brushed a few of hers away. I leaned in and kissed her. She broke away when I couldn't help but chuckle. "What's funny?" she asked. "Not funny, just ironic. This tattoo was the beginning of the end for Shelly and me. She was mad that I had left her to cope with our newborn daughter alone. Then I got this done. Well, started. It was a long process." I looked over my shoulder. "She said I should have asked her first. Then when my Mom passed she was mad that I wanted to move back here." I shook my head and looked down at the wad of twisted sheet in my fingers. I let it go, feeling the ache as blood returned to my fingers. "Stan." Natalie's face held a sexy smile. She shook her head. "Your ex-wife is a total bitch." Laughing, I pulled her into my arms. The silky sheet fell away and her smooth skin caressed mine as we kissed.