Annie's Neighborhood (Harlequin Heartwarming)

by Fox, Roz Denny

  “It all began with me painting my own house. Isn’t it great that all my grandmother’s wishes are coming together? Oh, something I didn’t tell you,” Annie said. “At lunch, Mrs. Gonzales introduced me to an unemployed iron worker. I’ve retained him to make decorative coverings for the windows and doors on the homes we’ve completed. I saw some of his work. It’s exactly what the neighborhood needs to ward off more break-ins of the type experienced by the Spurlocks, the Gilroys and me.”

  “Annie, for crying out loud! You can’t go around hiring every out-of-work Tom, Dick and Betty in this neighborhood.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because...because...” he sputtered.

  She rolled her eyes. “Because doesn’t strike me as a valid reason.”

  “Okay, how about this... When the Stingers hear about the amount of cash you’re shelling out―and they will―you might as well ask the gang to grab you for whatever ransom pops into their heads.” Sky’s gaze and Annie’s locked in another feud.

  “Why are people going to grab Annie, huh, Daddy?” Zachary’s childish giggles broke the intensity of Sky and Annie’s argument.

  She rearranged her defiant features into a warm smile for the boy. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Zachary. Thank you for sanding that molding for me. You were a big help.”

  The little guy puffed out his chest. “It was fun, but I’d rather paint. Or nail. I like nailing stuff, too.”

  “Well, a lot of those things will need doing before we finish this project. Maybe I’ll see you again if your dad brings you around.”

  “Will you, Daddy?”

  “Maybe, after Annie and her friends start painting my house. But we’ll have to clear it with your mother.” Sky took his son’s hand, opened the back door of the car and boosted Zack into the child seat.

  Even from where she stood a distance away from the vehicle, Annie heard the boy’s complaint. “Mama will talk to Papa Archibald, and he’ll say no. He does what Mama wants, and she doesn’t like your house. Do you think she’ll like it better if Annie paints it a pretty color?”

  “Mmm.” Again Sky answered with a noncommittal noise.

  Zack, once buckled in by his father, waved and waved and waved at Annie.

  She envisioned more of the orange soda spewing onto his shirt thanks to those energetic waves. He was a cute little guy. And sharp. It saddened her to know how many hoops Sky had to jump through to have access to his son, whom he so obviously loved. Her squabble with him seemed minor compared to the wrangling he must go through with his ex-wife. Her mood softer, Annie raised her hand in recognition of Zack’s goodbye. She made sure Sky saw her, too, as he ducked into the driver’s seat.

  “Bye,” he called, maybe yielding a little, as well. “You be careful climbing around on tall ladders...and doing other things. We’ll touch base later.”

  Annie resisted the urge to watch Sky drive out of sight. However, her mood swing from happy to pensive didn’t get past Rita Gonzales.

  “Chief Cordova is worried about you Annie. It’s easy to see he’s got a thing for you.”

  Annie paused as she put on a pair of work gloves. “The thing he has for me is that he’s convinced I’m making his work life more difficult.”

  “No.” The older woman shook her head. “He may not admit it, and he may not want to care about you, but it’s written all over his face. You two are shooting off enough sparks for anyone to see.”

  Annie choked off her laugh, because it was plain that Rita believed every word she’d said. “I don’t mean to make fun of you, Rita, but Sky Cordova and I have shot sparks of a different kind from the day we met.”

  Rita grinned. “All the sparks that fly between a man and a woman are rooted in desire. Mark my words. He’ll keep coming around and keep coming around with one excuse after another. Some may be pretty lame before the truth knocks one or both of you upside the head.”

  Anne gave a wry shrug. “You’re a romantic, Rita, but I’m not. As for Sky, he was burned badly by his marriage. In my job as a social worker I’ve met other guys like him—men who become cynical after divorce. I saw so many bad and broken marriages I’ve developed a cynicism toward getting into a relationship myself. Two cynics do not a good match make,” she joked.

  “Well, Homer says I have a sixth sense when it comes to forecasting which couples will end up together. I’m just giving you fair warning, Annie. Even though we don’t know each other well, I predict I’ll dance at the chief’s and your wedding.”

  Snickering at that, Annie climbed back up the ladder. She thought humorously about Rita’s predictions for a while and considered them total nonsense. But painting was a mindless task and left too much time for her mind to wander. Even after being dumped by her high school sweetheart, she’d only dated coworkers once or twice. Mostly she’d been too busy. Looking back she could see the lack of real attraction, of sparks, between her and any of them. Heaven knew she’d helped untangle enough messes that occurred with clients and their exes; she wasn’t interested in being the hated other woman. And all too often, ex-wives did consider any woman who dared to date a former husband the other, even if they’d instigated the split themselves.

  The more she slopped on paint and let her mind roam back to her encounters with Sky, the more it occurred to her that he touched some sad, needy place in her soul. The fact that she still had sad, needy places surprised and irritated her. She liked to think she was strong and independent. However, she’d gone to California after high school because of her various unresolved issues—a romance turned sour, the history of a footloose mom she’d never met and a no-name father. In college psychology courses, it became clear that she’d felt abandoned by everyone except Gran Ida. Annie had told herself that she’d banished those feelings and left them behind.

  She wrestled her wandering thoughts under control as she got off the ladder and moved it to begin painting the next section of siding. That physical act broke the cycle of wayward memories and let her concentrate on her plans for the town.

  * * *

  HOMER GONZALES ARRIVED home from his day job around seven-thirty. He carried a lunch box and a bag of groceries. Rita, Annie and the others had finished painting the house and were starting on the gingerbread moldings they’d sanded.

  “I can’t believe the difference a coat of paint made to our house,” Homer exclaimed. “I’m late because I stopped for groceries, Rita. Mrs. Tompkins raved to me about how nice our house looks. She told everyone within earshot to come and see our street. She went on and on, calling you an angel, Annie. Oh, by the way, I ran into our chief of police in the checkout line and he asked me to give you this note.” Homer pulled a folded paper out of his pocket and passed it to Annie, who shifted her paintbrush and took off one glove.

  She opened the note and saw what appeared to be an address. “Did he say what this is?”

  “No. I assumed it was self-explanatory.”

  “Excuse me a minute while I call him. Homer, if you feel up to nailing some of this trim to the fascia boards, your house will be done, and tomorrow we can start on Evelyn Dodd’s place next door.”

  “Let me put the milk and bread in the house and I’ll get right on it.”

  Turning away, Annie found Sky’s cell number on her phone, and punched Send.

  “Cordova,” Sky answered briskly.

  “Hi, it’s Annie. Homer Gonzales gave me a note with an address, but I’m afraid I’m in the dark.”

  “You said you wanted a place to open a teen center,” he said gruffly. “On the way home from the farm, I remembered hearing about a warehouse that’s reverted back to the city in a foreclosure. I drove by. It’s two blocks from the high school. It has a sizable back lot, already fenced. I have no idea what’s inside. Maybe one big room.” Silence hung between them for a moment after he stopped speaking. “Annie, a
re you still with me?”

  “I am. I...guess I’m getting over the shock of this. The pleasant shock. Before, you sounded as if you were a hundred percent against my idea of opening a teen center.”

  “Yeah, well, I was...am. I assumed you’d do it, anyway.”

  She heard him move his phone and pictured him flustered at being caught doing something nice for her. Annie lightened her tone. “Would you have brought the address to me yourself, or would you have carried it around until you ran into someone like Homer, who could deliver it for you?”

  “I intended to sleep on it tonight and make a decision in the morning. I met Homer at an opportune time for you, because I decided to pass it off instead of letting it give me another headache.”

  Mesmerized by his low voice, Annie almost didn’t say thank you before Sky clicked off. Still, she was left smiling, and was once more reminded of Rita Gonzales’s speculation that Sky cared for her.

  That thought stuck with her all evening. As a result, she was eager to check out the warehouse and hunt him down the next day for further discussion.

  Chapter Eight

  IN THE MORNING Annie answered an early knock at her door. Facing two men, strangers, she grappled for her phone, ready to speed-dial police dispatch.

  The pudgier, red-haired man with a crew cut spoke quickly. “My name is Roger McBride. This is my friend, Charlie Fitzpatrick. Last night the police chief came to see me. He said you might be hiring general laborers. Me and Charlie can do anything.”

  Once again Annie was stunned that Sky would refer people to help with a project he wasn’t shy about saying he’d rather she dropped.

  “At this point, the work I have going is more of a neighbor-helping-neighbor thing, mostly painting houses. I don’t own a business, so I’m not offering real jobs. Not the kind where you fill out applications and get paid regular wages. Right now, I provide lunch and supper if we paint that long. Yesterday I gave all the volunteer workers credit coupons to a local grocery store by way of added thanks. And I supply paint for the homes of workers who pitch in.”

  “Food coupons are worth a lot to those of us who’ve lost our jobs and can’t find work,” Roger McBride said. “And Loretta, that’s my wife, says just about every week that she’d like to paint our house dark gray with wine-red trim.”

  “I like what you’ve done on Rose Arbor,” Charlie chimed in.

  Annie eyed them and judged them both to be in their fifties. Of an age when even in a good economy they might have difficulty getting hired. “What did you used to do?”

  “We were managers at the glove factory. Prior to that, when the Honeycutts produced lingerie, we kept the machines running and did other general maintenance. We both worked there from the time we graduated high school.”

  “My grandmother sewed lingerie for many years. Ida Vance, did you know her?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said together.

  “Miz Ida made a heap of undies in her day.” Roger smiled. “Wore out two machines during my tenure. My wife and I were sorry to read about her passing. We would’ve gone to the funeral, but Loretta couldn’t get off work. She’s in fast food.”

  Charlie echoed his friend’s sentiment.

  “Thank you.” Annie cleared her throat. Talking about her grandmother’s death was still hard. “I may need your skills a bit farther down the road if another plan of mine takes shape. Evelyn Dodd’s home is scheduled for painting today. Her husband power-washed it yesterday. If everyone who worked on the Gonzales house returns, and if you two pitch in, we could finish early enough to move on to the Mickelson bungalow. The other home owners on Rose Arbor Street are waiting to see how it goes.”

  Charlie, the shorter of the men, tilted his head to one side. “Rumor has it that you aim to gussie up the whole town, Ms. Emerson.”

  “Call me Annie. My hope, Mr. Fitzpatrick, is to start the ball rolling and encourage all our residents to get involved.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Roger said, rubbing a hand over his short hair. “Folks in Briar Run, we’re all down on our luck. A lot of us, like Charlie and me, are about to run out of unemployment benefits. We’ll tackle anything to earn a little extra.”

  “Why did the glove factory close? Seems to me gloves are an item people always need. Maybe they’re not quite as essential as toilet paper,” Annie said with a smile, “but between sanding and painting, I’ve gone through a few pairs.”

  Roger nodded. “We all thought that. The Honeycutt brothers retooled to make gloves after they lost the lingerie trade to China. Gloves did real well at first. Then Bill Honeycutt died. His brother got cancer, so he sold to a conglomerate. Lucy Portallis, our accountant, said the new owners bought the factory as a tax write-off. After a year we all noticed orders tapering, then a comptroller from outside cut our shifts. One day, two suits met us at the front door and said the plant was closed. We should’ve seen it coming, but no one did.”

  “Hmm.” Annie nibbled on her lip. “Since the factory was the economic lifeblood of this community, it’s a shame they didn’t sell the business again instead of shutting it down.”

  “The conglomerate’s board didn’t care. They outsourced the contracts. They didn’t know the folks who worked there. Three generations of Honeycutts lived in Louisville. They had skin in the game, so to speak. The shame was that Bill never married. Harold did but he never had kids to pass the company to like their daddy did.”

  Annie stared into space a moment. “I see. Did they come in later and sell off all the equipment?”

  “Not that I know of,” Roger said. “Do you, Charlie?”

  “Nope. But I don’t think so. Kids broke some windows in the back of the building. The police chief before Cordova, Jimmy Heilman, he ordered the place patrolled. Eventually the kids lost interest.”

  Annie glanced at her watch. “I’m late to go pick up paint. If you two want to work, meet me at the Dodd house in half an hour. It’s the second one from the end of this street. I’ll bring over some paint and supplies, and then I have a few errands to run. I’ll swing past the paint store again later to get paint for the Mickelson place.”

  “Sounds good,” Charlie said, pulling a pair of cotton gloves from his pocket.

  Roger let his friend walk away, but he hung back. “Uh, Chief Cordova said I had to tell you that since I lost my job, I had a drinking problem for a while. I swear it’s under control and you won’t have to worry about it if you need handymen later.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Roger. I’ll contact you and Charlie if another project I want to do actually happens. For that, I may be able swing paying a bit above minimum wage.”

  “That would be good. Real good,” he said, lowering his chin before he trotted after his buddy.

  Annie’s cell phone rang as she closed her door. “Hello.” Her greeting was tentative since not many people had her number.

  “It’s Sky. I wanted to let you know that I told a guy to contact you about work. He may bring a friend by to see you today.”

  “They’ve been here. I have to say I wondered why you’d be drumming up workers who need to be paid when you were worried it’d get out that I inherited money from Gran Ida.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think about that. Like I said, I know you’re going to carry on one way or another. But I did have another reason for sending them over. I’ve noticed a lot of gawkers driving down your street. We can’t be sure they’re all friendly locals. Some could be gang members. I’d feel better if you had some hefty guys around in case anybody tried to cause you more grief.” He paused. “Speaking of grief, I called the high school principal and got last names to go with the first names Deshawn accidentally spilled. Roy Dell Carter is a dropout. Heywood Brown is a junior, still attending school, but it’s hit and miss. Both kids’ recent histories suggest they’re prime candidate
s to be your graffiti-painters. In the principal’s view, even if those two strong-armed Deshawn into torching your house, someone pressured them first. It’s unlikely either one is our shooter. Apparently they talk big, but gossip among the students says that Heywood would opt out of the gang if he could. Roy Dell’s been heard to say he wishes he’d stayed in school. Louisville police still have our main suspect. They hope he’ll rat out a partner. What I’m doing is scrabbling for a reason to question Roy Dell and Heywood that won’t implicate Deshawn.”

  “While you’re figuring that out, is there any chance you could meet me at the warehouse? Maybe in an hour? I looked it up online and the size and what it’ll sell for is perfect.”

  “Can you wait until this afternoon? I received a summons a few minutes ago to be in family court at nine. Corrine’s lawyer got someone to take her complaint about the dangers of my job—and the town—seriously.” He sounded bitter.

  “Then this isn’t the custody hearing Sadie told me about, where she and Koot will give character references on your behalf?”

  “No. This is what I call a nuisance hearing. My ex doesn’t even have to attend. She made a complaint and her lawyer filed it.” Sky’s irritation vibrated through his statement. “I have to go with my attorney to register opposition, or the judge automatically rules in Corrine’s favor. I found that out the hard way in Maryland when I skipped a hearing I thought was nonsense. I’m convinced she and her lawyer sit around thinking up all this aggravating crap so they can drag me into court. Stuff they know takes me away from my job and costs me money because I have to pay my attorney. And if the judge rules in her favor, I get stuck paying court costs, too.”

  “I know how that works, Sky. I used to help some of my single-mom clients get those types of complaints before a judge. We didn’t consider them frivolous. My preference in most cases was for the couple to meet without their lawyers and work out their differences rationally. I mean, if it’s a case like yours where there’s no history of child abuse, and both of you love Zachary and ultimately want what’s best for him, involving lawyers and courts just muddies the waters.”