Social Graces

by Dixie Browning

  Come to think of it, Miss Mitty had never really trusted Will Jordan. As a rule, people whom she didn’t trust rarely remained at BFC very long. Jordan was an exception. If Mitty Stoddard didn’t trust a person there was usually a sound reason, even if it wasn’t apparent at the time. Val was sure she had voiced her reservations where it would do the most good, but for once in their long association, Frank Bonnard must have disagreed with her.

  Val sighed. She desperately needed someone to bounce her ideas off, and Miss Mitty would be perfect. Under all that lavender hair lurked a surprisingly keen mind. Darn it, it wasn’t like her not to return a call. The last thing she’d said before boarding the plane to Atlanta when Val had driven her to the airport was, “You call me now, you hear? You know how I feel about your young man.” Val had been engaged at the time. “But then, you won’t listen to an old woman. I guess I can’t blame you.” She’d laughed, wattles swaying above the navy suit and lacy white blouse with the tiny gold bar pin fastening the high collar. “Once you set the date, you let me know and I’ll make plans to come back. Belinda and Charlie are getting along in years—the last thing they need is a big, fancy wedding.”

  Belinda was two years younger than Mitty Stoddard, and no one knew Charlie’s exact age. As it turned out, Miss Mitty had been absolutely right about Tripp Ailes, but that wasn’t the reason Val was so desperate to get in touch with her now. Was she even aware of all that had happened since she’d moved to Georgia? The collapse of BFC had been big news in the northeast for a few weeks—the Wall Street Journal had covered it, with updates for the first week or so. But it had probably been worth only a few lines in the business section of the Atlanta Constitution, or whatever newspaper Miss Mitty read now.

  She would keep on trying, but in the meantime she had work to do before she could settle down with those blasted files. If there was a method in her father’s filing system, she had yet to discover it. Brilliant, Frank Bonnard had undoubtedly been; organized, he was not.

  Absently, she scratched her chin, leaving another smear of dirt. After waiting this long, the files could wait another day or two. She was making inroads on years of dirt and neglect—the pungent aroma of pine cleanser now replaced other less-pleasant smells, but it was still a far cry from the fragrance of gingerbread and Cape jasmine she remembered from so long ago.

  “Up and at ’em, lady.”

  She didn’t budge from the chair. She could think of several things she’d rather be doing than scrubbing down another wall. Shagging golf balls barefoot in a bed of snake-infested poison ivy, for instance.

  Okay, so she was procrastinating. Scowling at the heap of filthy paper towels on the floor, she admitted that sooner or later the house would be as clean as she could get it and then—then—she would focus all her attention on going through her father’s files with a fine-tooth comb.

  Not even to herself would Val admit the smallest possibility of finding evidence of her father’s guilt.

  Three

  A few hours later, with both the furniture and the downstairs windows sparkling—on the inside, at least—Val collapsed onto one of the freshly scrubbed kitchen chairs. She kicked off her Cole Haans and sipped on a glass of chilled vegetable juice, hoping that that and peanut butter constituted a balanced diet.

  The ugly green refrigerator probably dated from the sixties. It was noisy and showing signs of rust, but at least it was now clean, inside and out. And if it wasn’t exactly energy efficient, neither was she at the moment.

  Marian had relayed the promise that her phone would be hooked up sometime today, which was a big relief. New number equaled no crank calls. She’d had to go outside and stand near the road to get even an erratic signal on her cell phone. After today, though, she could hook up her laptop, deal with her e-mail and check out the Greenwich newspapers to see if there’d been any new developments since she’d left town.

  That done, she’d better start composing a résumé. Unfortunately, the only kind of work in which she had any experience was the kind that paid off more in satisfaction than in wages.

  “Ha. How the mighty have fallen,” she said, dolefully amused.

  How much would a private investigator charge to dig into her father’s records? The same records that had been turned inside out by swarms of experts?

  Too much, probably. Anything was too much, given her present circumstances. Besides, even if she could have afforded to hire an investigator, she wasn’t sure she could trust him with her father’s personal files. Was there some code of ethics that said a private investigator had to turn over any incriminating evidence he might find?

  “Dad, I’m out of my element here, you’re going to have to give me a hint,” she whispered now. Will Jordan might be still under investigation, but Val had a feeling he was going to find some way to pin the whole thing on Frank Bonnard. Why not? Her poor father was in no position to defend himself.

  Val was feeling more inadequate with every day that passed. If she got lucky and found evidence that would vindicate her father, then she could be charged with concealing that same evidence. Couldn’t win for losing. Classic case, she thought ruefully.

  Finishing the last of her vegetable juice, she wiped her watering eyes with a grimy fist and went to see who had just pulled into the front yard. Marian had mentioned stopping by later today on her way to pick up her daughter at preschool. Still blinking, Val peered through the newly cleaned glass panel beside the front door. Or maybe it was the phone people.

  It wasn’t Marian. The vehicle that had just pulled up behind her own didn’t look like any telephone van she’d ever seen. It wasn’t even a van, it was a junker—a collection of mismatched parts. As for the driver…

  Did she know him? There was something vaguely familiar about that thick, sun-streaked hair, the angular features—the wide shoulders that threatened the seams of his navy windbreaker. Her gaze moved down past the narrow hips to a pair of long legs that looked powerful even under loose-fitting jeans. He was definitely what her friends called a hottie. And the rush of sudden warmth she felt sure wasn’t coming from that creaking old oil heater.

  He stopped beside the sprawling palmetto that fanned out to cover the for rent sign she’d forgotten to take down. Bracing his legs, he shaded his eyes against the harsh sun and surveyed the front of her house. Not only was his face oddly familiar, but there was something about his stance—feet apart, one thumb hooked in the pocket of his jeans, that nudged the backside of her memory.

  Could she have seen him somewhere? At the post office? The grocery store? She might’ve forgotten those rugged, irregular features, but that indefinable quality that was loosely referred to as sex appeal for want of a better word, would be hard for any woman to overlook. He had it doubled in spades, as the saying went.

  Could she have met him before? She’d be the first to admit that her mind was stuffed with so many details, she had trouble remembering whether or not she’d even had breakfast this morning, much less what it had been.

  Oh, well…peanut butter toast and hot tea, that was a given.

  Still, even his vehicle looked vaguely familiar, and cars weren’t her thing. She’d driven the one her father had given her for her twenty-sixth birthday until two weeks ago when she’d traded it in for something larger, older and a lot cheaper, plus a nice amount of cash.

  On the other hand, how often did one see a rust-brown-and-primer-gray SUV that looked as if it had been pieced together from junkyard components? With yellow molded plastic seats, no less.

  She stepped back from the panel of glass beside the door, unwilling to be caught staring if he came any closer. The last time she’d felt this fluttery sense of uncertainty she’d been fifteen years old. On a dare, she had asked a certain seventeen-year-old boy to a dance and nearly thrown up before he accepted.

  He took his time looking the house over—the uneven shutters, the mended porch post, the ever-so-slightly sagging roofline—almost as if he were sizing up what it would take to fi
x it.

  And then the light dawned. This must be the handyman Marian had promised to find. Of course! That would explain his interest in the house. He was mentally preparing an estimate.

  The question now was whether or not she could afford him.

  “I’m sure I can rent it for you once we get it fixed up,” Marian had said. “There’s a growing market for low-end housing.” And Grax’s old house was certainly that, as much as it pained Val to admit it. “The last couple rented it as a fixer-upper,” the rental agent went on to say. “Trouble is, they didn’t fix anything, so you’re probably going to have to put some money into bringing it up to standard before I can advertise it again. Look, why don’t I call around and see who I can find to do the minimum?”

  Val had nodded, not knowing what else to say. Catch-22. She had to spend money she didn’t have to make money she desperately needed.

  His deck shoes made no sound on the porch. She swallowed hard. I really can’t afford you, but oh, how I need you.

  Want you?

  “Don’t even go there, woman,” she muttered.

  His jacket was open slightly, revealing a gray sweatshirt bearing the letters OD’S HO. Underneath the soft, loose-fitting clothing he looked solid as a slab of hardwood. Pecs, abs—from here she couldn’t see the gluts, but she had no doubt they were every bit as splendid as the rest of the glorious package. Compared to this man, her ex-fiancé on his best day wasn’t even a blip on the horizon.

  Standing just inside the front door, she waited until he’d knocked twice before opening the door. “Yes?” She had the eyebrow lift down pat, having learned it at an early age from Charlie, who, she was convinced, had picked it up from watching “Masterpiece Theater.”

  “Miss Bonnard?”

  For a moment she was startled that he knew who she was, but of course, Marian would have given him her name. Hopefully, she’d also told him that Val could afford only a minimum of basic repairs.

  She nodded. It would have helped if he’d had a high-pitched nasal drawl. Instead, his voice was better than Belgian chocolate. “If you’ll come around to the back, I can show you what needs doing first.” Everything needed doing first. Mentally, she tried to prioritize what absolutely had to be done, whether or not she could afford it.

  Instead of taking her implied suggestion that he go around outside, the tall stranger stepped through the door and glanced around curiously, making her aware all over again of the shabby, mismatched furniture and the boxes still waiting to be unpacked.

  “Back this way, then. The shower, I think first of all. It barely trickles when I turn it on and then it takes forever to drain.” She glanced over her shoulder as she led him down the hall. “You can do plumbing, can’t you?”

  “Nothing major, I’m not licensed, but maintenance, sure.”

  “Ms. Kuvarky might have told you, I’m considering renting the back bedroom separately.” She hadn’t been, not seriously, but with what she’d been spending lately on cleaning supplies, the slightest income would help. “So I’d rather start there if you don’t mind.”

  After that, she decided, the hot-water heater and then the windows. Maybe the roof. Patching, not replacing. It hadn’t rained since she’d been here, but she didn’t relish the thought of waking up in a cold, wet bed, and she’d noticed a few suspicious stains on the ceiling.

  “I’ll have to get my tools.”

  “Oh, well…of course. I mean, it doesn’t have to be done today, although…”

  He nodded, pursing his lips.

  Mesmerized, she stared at his mouth, then shook herself back to reality. The back end of the house was freezing. The back door didn’t fit any closer than the front. She needed this man for practical purposes. The last thing she wanted to do was scare him off before he even agreed to take the job.

  After a cursory glance at the ugly, closet-sized bath, he turned his attention to the tiny adjoining bedroom. Val studied the room objectively, trying to see it through the eyes of a stranger. That mattress definitely needed tossing, but at the moment she couldn’t afford to replace it. The furniture was old, but hardly old enough to be called antique. Not that there was anything really wrong with it that a lick of paint and a little judicious sanding wouldn’t remedy. Anyone with half a brain could figure out country chic.

  She shook her head. Repairs first. Interior decorating later, if at all. “I can bring one of the spare heaters down from upstairs and put it back here while you work. Oh, by the way—do you know anything about space heaters?”

  “I know they’re probably not cost-effective, depending on the local power rates.”

  She sighed. “I was afraid of that. There’s an oil heater in the front room, but it doesn’t heat much beyond that. How on earth do you suppose people used to get by?”

  “Furnaces have been around a long time. Aside from that, fireplaces, quilts.” He grinned unexpectedly. It was as if the sun suddenly burst from behind a cloud. “Long johns.”

  She blinked and said, “Yes, well…there were two fireplaces originally, but they’ve both been boarded up. I’m not sure the mice haven’t been chewing on the cords of some of the heaters, so you might take a look while you’re here.” She paused, tapping her lower lip with her fingers, wondering how much of him she could afford.

  Stop it! Don’t even think what you’re thinking.

  “How much?” he asked. His eyes were the color of single malt whiskey, only not as warm. Noticeably cool, in fact.

  “To, uh—to do the work? I guess that depends on what needs doing most and how long will it take. I don’t even know your hourly rate.” The fleeting expression that crossed his face was impossible to interpret. She didn’t even try.

  “I mean, how much rent are you asking? What kind of terms?” he said.

  If there’d been a chair close, Val would have dropped down on it. As there was only a three-legged stool, a sagging iron-framed bed and an oak dresser, she leaned against the doorframe and stared at him, her mouth open like a guppy waiting to be fed. “The, uh—the going rate, I suppose.”

  Whatever the going rate was. It probably varied wildly in different parts of the country.

  “Kitchen privileges?”

  God, yes. If the man could cook, she might consider paying him. She couldn’t afford many more restaurant meals, and she was growing tired of peanut butter three times a day.

  She assumed an air of competence she was far from feeling and hoped he bought it. “That’s negotiable,” she said coolly.

  He nodded, gave the place one last look, then turned and headed down the hall toward the front door.

  “You’re leaving?” She hurried after him, wanting to plead with him to stay, but for all the wrong reasons.

  “Tools. Be back in an hour.”

  Tools. Right. “What about…that is, how much—?”

  At the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “A week’s rent in exchange for fixing the plumbing and seeing to any other minor repairs.”

  She followed him outside. “Does that include doing something to my water heater and checking to see if the roof leaks?” she called after him.

  Instead of answering, he lifted a hand, swung up into the driver’s seat and swerved out onto the narrow blacktop called Back Road.

  She stood there for several minutes, arms wrapped around her body for warmth, and wondered what had just happened. Had she really hired herself a handyman? Had she actually rented out her back room?

  Had her fairy godmother touched her with a wand and produced…

  Well, hardly Prince Charming, but maybe someone even better?

  And yes, his gluts were every bit as good as the rest of him, she couldn’t help but notice as he’d strode across her front yard.

  Too keyed up to go back to work, Val considered the possibility that her renter-repairman might not be back. She hadn’t even asked his name, and now she was too embarrassed to take her cell phone out to the edge of the road to call Marian and admit that she’d hired the
man without even asking that much.

  Where was her brain? You’d think she had never screened a single applicant or volunteer. That was part of her job—to keep troublemakers from worming their way inside and causing trouble. Activists. These days, for every worthwhile cause, there was almost always some group of malcontents with a different agenda.

  This time she didn’t have a cause, at least none that anyone else could know about. When and if he came back she would have him sign an agreement spelling out the terms of…whatever. Rent versus work with a possible sidebar on kitchen privileges. While she was at it she would also ask for references. If there were rules covering renters and rentees, they probably differed down here. Just about everything else did. Imagine having to drive to the post office to collect your mail.

  Welcome to the real world, chicky.

  That was what Tripp, her ex-fiancé, used to call her. Chicky. She’d hated it. He’d known it, which probably was why he’d done it. He’d loved to ruffle her feathers. The harder he tried, the more determined she’d been not to be ruffled. It was a game they’d played, one she had never particularly enjoyed.

  Shivering, she backed up to the oil heater. She almost wished he could see her now, in all her grime. Pondering the possibility of adding another layer over her silk undershirt, her cashmere pullover and the boiled wool cardigan, she thought longingly of a deep, hot soak, with a handful of whiteflower bath salts. And as long as she was wishing, she might as well have a Sibelius symphony playing softly in the background, a warm toddy within easy reach and towels staying warm on a heated towel rack.

  Dismissing the wishful dream, she collected a stack of change-of-address cards, located her pen, her address book and a roll of stamps, then settled at the coffee table. This was one task she could do herself and cross it off her list. Trouble was, the to-do list was growing faster than she could do.

  The first name in her address book elicited a grimace. Ailes, Timothy III, other wise known as Tripp. Amherst, Yale law, junior partner in his father’s law firm at age thirty-two. All-around jerk who had given her a two-carat engagement ring six months ago and asked for it back less than a week after the scandal broke.