A High-End Finish

You could ve warned me that installing drywall would be hell on my manicure.

I looked down from my perch at the top of the ladder and saw my best friend, Jane Hennessey, scowling at her hands. They were smeared with sticky joint compound. She had flakes of drywall stuck to her shirt and there were flecks of blue paint highlighting her blond hair.

I did warn you, remember? I told you to wear gloves. And a hat, I thought to myself, but didn t bother to mention it aloud. I wondered, though, where in the world that blue paint in her hair had come from.

The gloves you gave me are so big and awkward, it s hard to work in them.

I m sorry, princess, I said, hiding a smile. Why don t you go rest and I ll finish up here?

She laughed. And have you rubbing my nose in the fact that I m hopeless at manual labor? No way.

I would never do that. But I laughed, too, because of course I would do that, and I d expect her to do the same for me. We had known each other since kindergarten and had become best friends when we realized that the two of us were taller than all of the boys in our class. These days, I was still pretty tall at five foot eight, but Jane was two inches taller than me and as svelte as a supermodel.

Despite her delicate hands and my teasing, she had never been a stranger to hard work. This might have been her first experience with hanging drywall, but there was no way she would give up before the job was finished. This place was her home as well as her business, so I knew she wanted to be involved in every aspect of the renovation.

Jane had inherited the old mansion formerly a brothel three years ago, af