Free When Morning Comes by Francis Ray

but with no punch. Nothing about either of them would make a person happy, make them feel pampered and like they could start the day in style.
    Again, Tristan would change that.
    Pulling the notebook from beneath his arm, he opened it. They’d start tearing out on Monday to remodel the house. He’d gotten the rehab bug after doing research for his first article for an interior design book. The article, “Luxury Living Without a Luxury Price Tag,” had been a step-by-step remodeling of his favorite rooms: the bath, kitchen, and bedroom. To him they, not the family room or great room, were the heart and soul of any house.
    His thoughts veered to Kara Simmons. If he didn’t like a challenge, he might let it go. Her paintings, with their power and passion and hope, wouldn’t let him. She had talent. He hated to see people waste what God had given them.
    People like Dale Bowler. They’d gotten Dale home a little after six last night. The first thing he did was try to go to the kitchen for a beer. He’d cursed, and Bess has wrung her hands as Tristan poured the four cans out, then searched out the three-bedroom frame home for any liquor that Dale might have stashed.
    It hurt to see the house Bess and Dale had been so proud of when Tristan first visited in disrepair. There were cracks in the ceiling, the panel in the den buckling, water damage on the walls. Along with the health insurance policy, Dale had let the house insurance policy lapse and made no repairs.
    Tristan had brushed aside Bess’s embarrassment. He’d already called Zachary and asked if he could send a crew over the first day Dale was in dialysis to start working to repair the house. He just wished Dale could be repaired as easily. Tristan had no idea why Dale was an alcoholic. He just knew if he didn’t stop, he wouldn’t be alive when winter came.
    Shrugging off the depressing thought, Tristan remeasured the bath and bedroom. Most people called him anal because he checked and rechecked facts, but he’d seen too many costly mistakes in time and money when all it would have taken was a remeasure or a recheck of facts.
    Tristan didn’t like making mistakes. His metal tape crackled. He’d made a doozy! He shook his head. Before yesterday it had been over three months since he’d thought of his failed marriage. Perhaps he was thinking of it now because his mother had broadly hinted when he was over for dinner Thursday night that she had a nice designer friend she wanted him to meet.
    No way, he thought as he grabbed the notebook and headed back to the kitchen. Getting serious was the last thing on his mind. The tape crackled again as he checked the kitchen measurements. He hadn’t had a clue that Gizzelle wanted a divorce until she asked him to pack his things. She’d shown more emotion asking him to take out the trash.
    She was one of those self-assured overachievers who never doubted she’d make it to the top. She’d explained in the logical, analytical way she was known for in the courtroom that they were heading down different paths, had different career goals. That marriage wasn’t working for her.
    He didn’t learn until weeks later that she had been offered a junior partnership in the law firm where she worked. He’d already asked her to scale back her hours at work. They’d seen less of each other in their nine months of marriage than during the six months they’d dated. Too often he’d come home to an empty house and an empty bed. It hurt his pride that she had chosen her career over him.
    The divorce was final a year ago. He’d jumped back into dating as if to prove to anyone who might be interested that he was still capable of getting a woman. Tristan blew out a breath and shook his head at his stupidity. His ex had her life, he had his.
    His cell phone rang. He pulled it from the case on his belt buckle. “Tristan.”
    â€œIt’s Zachary. I