Man in The Woods Read Online Free PDF Page B

is there with his car empty and the doors wide open.

    Paul can feel the day tipping ever more markedly in the wrong direction, and he has a feeling that is like knowing halfway into the cut on a valuable piece of lumber that the blade of the saw has been miscalibrated. His next appointment is twelve blocks north, and after fifteen minutes, he accepts that he is not going to find another free parking spot and leaves his truck in front of a church like a desperate mother abandoning her child. It is a little past one in the afternoon. The wind is damp and cold and the sun seems to give off no more heat than a lightbulb in a refrigerator. As Paul turns onto Fifth Avenue, five squad cars go yelping by, heading south at a furious clip, their blue and red flashers throwing pebbles of light off the lower windows and the seashell exteriors of the grand apartment buildings. The doormen in full livery don’t even show a passing interest.
    He has come to look over a job for an actress of whom he has never heard, though Kate tells him she is not only famous but deservedly so. Paul, who never lacks for work, had previously considered this stop mainly a courtesy, but now that it seems he will never see the money Gerald Lundeen owes him he is annoyed with himself for arriving at this second appointment an hour late.
    Here, the doorman looks somehow merrier, with his mutton chop sideburns and long blue coat with crimson piping, shiny brass buttons. Paul says the name of the actress and the doorman waves him through, an indication the place must be seething with workmen.
    “Ah,” the general contractor says, “my favorite carpenter.” His name is Haydn Goodwin; he is about fifty, tall and heavy, a Welshman with graying curly hair and the joking, confident manner of someone who is immensely strong. Paul worked for Goodwin two years ago, building a sleigh bed for a pop star.
    “I want to show you the kitchen,” Goodwin says. They go through the sunken living room, its contents covered by drop cloths. “We’re confining ourselves to the south end of her apartment. That way she can at least have some sort of life, and when everything’s buttoned up we can tackle the north end.” He speaks softly, as if somewhere in this apartment there sleeps a temperamental child who must not be disturbed. Yet in the meanwhile, the sounds of hammers and saws, workingmen in conversation, and the Allman Brothers singing “Whipping Post” make it seem unlikely that anyone within the zip code can sleep or even think clearly.
    “She was hoping to be in Rio during construction, but she’s come down with grippe.” Goodwin’s belt is wide and heavy like a razor strop. The pager that hangs from it squawks and he has a terse conversation with someone, which ends with Goodwin saying, “That would be the end of me,” and pushing the off button. “Anyhow,” he says, returning his attention to Paul, “her daughter was supposed to be here to help out. Nothing massive, just some marketing, taking her to appointments, but the daughter is nowhere to be seen, so things have been rather touch-and-go.”
    Paul cannot remember ever having seen this guy so on edge, and he feels in himself a growing reluctance to work here. The thought of coming home from his New York errands empty-handed is a little depressing, but Paul has long believed that the secret to a happy life is a willingness to do without, and he is willing to do without the work Goodwin has to offer, or the money it will bring.
    He follows along into the kitchen, with its black-and-white tiled floor, modern appliances, and modular built-ins. “She wants a real country kitchen,” Goodwin says. “She has wonderful memories of a place she used to visit in Hillsboro, New Hampshire.”
    “This is an Art Deco building, Haydn.”
    Goodwin lets out a long, weary sigh, shakes his head. “I know, Paul, I know. But this is what she wants. And you can’t argue with her. I mean you can, but it doesn’t do