Dad spent most of Saturday morning finishing the estimate for Martin Hayes. The kitchen table was covered with photographs, measurements, supply prices, and pages of handwritten notes. He had separated the proposed restoration into stages, each with its own description of the work and the conditions that needed to be met before it could begin. I arrived shortly after breakfast and found him comparing two prices for exterior primer. His glasses rested low on his nose, and the pencil behind his ear had left a faint gray mark against his hair.
"You're still working on this?" I asked.
He looked up.
"I wanted to check the material costs."
"You've been checking them for two days."
"And now I'm nearly finished."
I put my bag on the chair and looked over his shoulder. The estimate was more detailed than I expected. Dad had identified the porch areas requiring repair before painting, the window trim that needed further inspection, and the interior surfaces where old coatings would have to be removed. He also listed tasks that belonged to other specialists, including the roof-related work and any structural repairs uncovered during preparation.
He wasn't promising to restore the entire house by himself. He was explaining exactly what he could provide and where the project depended on other people.
"Martin's going to need a lot of patience," I said.
"He already knows the building needs work."
"Do you think he'll be surprised by the price?"
"Probably."
Dad didn't say it with embarrassment. He knew that careful restoration was expensive, particularly when older materials had been damaged by years of moisture and neglect. The price wasn't simply the cost of paint and brushes. It included preparation, repairs within his scope, skilled labor, and the time needed to let materials cure properly. He wanted Martin to understand those details before deciding whether the project suited his budget.
I asked why he didn't make the estimate simpler. Dad pointed to the section describing the front porch.
"If I write 'paint porch,' what does that mean?"
I shrugged.
"Paint the porch."
"Does it include repairing damaged trim?"
"I suppose that depends."
"Exactly. Does it include removing loose paint? Replacing boards? Sealing exposed wood? How many coats?"
He tapped the page.
"If I don't explain those things now, we're asking for trouble later."
I thought of the Prescotts' signed change orders. Those documents had seemed excessive when Dad first showed them to me. Now they looked like ordinary tools for avoiding confusion. The difficulty with Gerald hadn't come from unclear instructions. It came from his refusal to honor instructions that were already clear.
Dad finished reviewing the estimate just before noon. He made a copy for his records and emailed the proposal to Martin. The message was brief. It thanked him for the opportunity, explained that the figures reflected the visible conditions observed during the inspection, and invited him to ask questions about any section. Dad also noted that certain items would require confirmation after the roof and other repairs were assessed.
Then he closed his notebook.
"That's done."
I looked at him.
"Now what?"
"Now we wait for him to decide."
I wanted to ask whether he was nervous, but he had already stood up and begun clearing the table. He gathered the photographs, placed them in order, and returned the supply lists to the folder. The coffee can sat near the cupboard, as dependable as ever. Dad dropped a receipt into it and carried the empty mugs to the sink.
That afternoon, we went to a small diner for lunch. I insisted on paying. Dad complained mildly that we had food at home, but he eventually agreed to order a sandwich and soup. While we ate, I asked how he felt about the new opportunity. He said the house interested him because it had original woodwork worth preserving. He liked restoration jobs that required thought and patience. But he was also aware of his limits. If Martin accepted the proposal, Dad would have to arrange the schedule carefully and make sure he had appropriate assistance for the heavier work.
"Would you be willing to turn it down?" I asked.
"If it became more than I could handle responsibly."
"Even if the money was good?"
"Especially then."
He stirred his soup.
"A large payment doesn't make an unsafe or badly planned job worthwhile."
I thought about how different that sounded from Gerald's attitude. Gerald had wanted the finished house as quickly as possible, then complained about the cost of the work he requested. Dad was willing to decline a profitable opportunity rather than promise more than he could deliver.
We were finishing lunch when Martin called.
Dad answered and listened for a moment.
"Yes, I sent it this morning."
He paused.
"Of course. Which section would you like to discuss?"
Martin had reviewed the proposal sooner than we expected. He appreciated the detail, but he wanted clarification about the sequence of exterior repairs and whether some interior work could begin while other trades were finishing the roof. Dad explained that certain rooms could probably be prepared independently, provided the moisture problems were contained and the work wouldn't be damaged by later repairs.
Martin asked several more questions. Dad answered each one without rushing.
Then Martin said he wanted to proceed with the first stage.
I saw Dad straighten slightly.
"All right," he said. "I'll prepare the agreement for that portion."
Martin confirmed that he wanted the terms documented before work began. He also asked Dad to include a process for approving any additional repairs discovered after preparation started.
Dad smiled.
"That's already in the proposal."
Martin laughed.
"I noticed."
After the call, Dad placed the telephone on the table and took a slow breath.
"He's approved the first stage."
I grinned.
"That's wonderful."
"It's a good start."
"You're allowed to be happy."
"I am happy."
He picked up the check.
"But we still need to finish the paperwork."
I laughed because I knew he was right. Dad's satisfaction didn't come from hearing a verbal promise. He wanted a clear agreement, proper scheduling, and a realistic plan. Those were the things that made a good job possible.
During the following week, Dad and Martin exchanged several messages about the contract. Martin didn't object to the written approval process or the payment schedule. He asked questions where he needed clarification, and Dad answered them directly. There were no impatient demands to begin work before the scope was settled. No suggestions that Dad should accept less because the project might lead to future opportunities. The discussions were practical, sometimes detailed, but never hostile.
I noticed how different Dad seemed during those conversations. He wasn't bracing himself for an insult or trying to defend ordinary charges. He was discussing the work.
One afternoon, Martin called to ask whether a particular interior room could be completed earlier than planned. He had a reason: he wanted an appraiser to inspect the property after the initial repairs. Dad reviewed the schedule and explained what could be adjusted without affecting quality. They agreed on a revised sequence and recorded it in writing.
Afterward, Dad showed me the updated schedule.
"See? That's how changes are supposed to work."
I looked at the revised dates.
"People discuss them before the work is done."
"Exactly."
"And nobody pretends the extra work is free."
Dad smiled.
"You're learning."
The first stage began the following Monday. Dad arrived early with his tools and a small supply order. Martin met him at the property and walked through the areas scheduled for work. They reviewed the written scope, identified the sections that were ready, and confirmed which repairs would be handled by other trades. Dad took photographs before beginning. He had done the same at the lake house, but this time nobody acted as though documentation were an inconvenience.
Martin even asked for copies.
"I like having a record of what's been done," he said.
"So do I," Dad replied.
They shook hands, and the work began.
For the first several days, Dad concentrated on preparation. He removed loose paint from selected interior surfaces, repaired minor damage, and tested the condition of older coatings before deciding how best to proceed. He worked at a measured pace and arranged help for tasks that required another person. I stopped by after work one afternoon and found him standing beside a window, examining the edge of a repaired section.
"How's it going?" I asked.
"Better than I expected in some places. Worse in others."
"That sounds encouraging."
"It means the inspection was worth doing."
He showed me an area where previous repairs had concealed damaged material. The problem wasn't dramatic, but it affected how the surface should be prepared. Dad photographed it and contacted Martin before doing anything beyond the agreed scope. Martin came by later, examined the area, and agreed that an additional repair was necessary.
Dad prepared a written change order.
Martin read it and signed.
The entire conversation took less than fifteen minutes.
I watched from the doorway, almost astonished by how ordinary it felt.
After Martin left, I asked Dad whether he'd noticed the contrast.
"With Gerald?"
"Yes."
Dad put the signed page into his folder.
"I noticed."
"Doesn't it make you angry all over again?"
He thought about that.
"A little. But mostly it reminds me why clear agreements matter."
I looked at the page.
"Same paperwork. Different person."
"That's right."
He returned to the wall and began preparing the damaged area.
Over the following days, Martin visited regularly. He asked questions about the work, sometimes staying long enough to watch Dad demonstrate a repair technique. He seemed particularly interested in the older woodwork. Dad explained why certain pieces could be preserved and why others needed replacement. Martin listened with the curiosity of someone who understood that expertise often appeared in small decisions.
One morning, he brought another property manager to inspect the work. The man asked whether Dad had considered taking on larger restoration projects. Dad said he preferred choosing jobs he could supervise properly rather than expanding simply for the sake of growth. The manager seemed impressed by that answer.
Martin later told Dad that he appreciated working with someone who didn't make promises he couldn't keep.
Dad thanked him.
"I've been around long enough to know what happens when people promise too much."
Martin looked around the room.
"Gerald could have learned something from you."
Dad paused.
"I hope he learns something from the experience."
Martin didn't press the subject.
Instead, he asked about the next stage of the project.
That evening, Dad and I reviewed the week's records at his kitchen table. The folder contained photographs, supply receipts, and signed changes. I noticed how much easier the paperwork felt when both sides cooperated. There were still decisions to make, unexpected repairs to address, and costs to track. But none of those ordinary complications had become personal battles.
I asked Dad whether he thought Martin would continue hiring him after the first stage.
"Possibly."
"Do you want him to?"
"If the work suits me."
"You're impossible to impress."
Dad laughed.
"That's not true. I'm impressed by people who keep their word."
I thought about the first morning at the café, when Martin said he hadn't called out of sympathy. He had meant it. His interest came from seeing quality work and recognizing the person responsible for it. He didn't treat Dad as an elderly man who deserved charity. He treated him as a skilled professional whose judgment had value.
Before I left, Dad showed me a photograph of the first completed room. The walls were smooth, the window trim had been carefully repaired, and the original details stood out again beneath the new finish. It wasn't a dramatic transformation, but it was beautiful in the quiet way good work often is.
"Martin liked it," Dad said.
"Of course he did."
"He asked whether I'd be willing to restore the front entrance next."
I looked at him.
"And?"
"I told him we'd need to inspect the door more carefully."
I laughed.
"Naturally."
Dad placed the photograph in the folder.
There was still plenty of work ahead, but the relationship had begun on solid ground.
For the first time in months, my father was being paid not merely for what his hands could do, but also for the experience that told him when to use them, when to wait, and when to ask another question.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: A Question About the Lake House Returned Without Warning, and My Father Had to Decide Whether Gerald Deserved Another Conversation
My Father Spent Nine Weeks Restoring Their Lake House, but the Final Conversation Revealed They Never Intended to Pay Him
Part 10 of 20
