by Angel Smits
He made a guttural sound. Friendly. What a joke. He needed to move on, but why would the next town be any different?
“Excuse me.”
At the sound of the voice, Cole whirled, his right hand balling into a fist. He never allowed himself to be unaware of his surroundings.
It was her. The woman from the hardware store. Green-gold eyes widened and she retreated a step, making him realize his lips had drawn away from his teeth and every cord in his neck probably showed. It took him a couple of deep breaths, but he managed to straighten, and he outwardly relaxed even if his heart still raced.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You startled me.”
“That’s all right.” She studied him. “I heard. In there.”
Cole schooled his face to blankness. He didn’t say anything.
“I’m wondering what kind of job you’d consider. And what you know how to do.”
He stared at her. What did he know how to do? That was what she’d said.
“Because, well, this wouldn’t be long-term, but...it might tide you over for a while, and I really need someone. That is, if you know anything about yard work or basic construction. Like building porch steps or scraping siding.” Pink crept into her cheeks, as if his blank expression was getting to her, making her babble. “Not that scraping siding takes any experience or skill, I guess.”
“I can build porch steps.” His voice came out rusty. Was she offering him a job? “And scrape and paint. And yard work?” He shrugged. “As long as I know what’s expected.”
“If you’re interested, I can pay ten dollars an hour, maybe up it once I have a better sense of what you can do.”
“Is this...a business?” he fumbled.
She shook her head. “I inherited an old house from my grandmother. It’s...well, not falling down, but in need of a lot of work. Since it’s spring, I thought I’d start with the exterior and yard. It’s a mess.”
“You have a husband or...?”
“Nobody. And my spirit is willing, but I’ve never done this kind of work. I need help—someone with muscle and at least some know-how.”
“I can provide that.” He still sounded like he had a hairball caught in his throat, but she’d taken him by surprise. No, more than that. Was she nuts, hiring an ex-con she knew nothing about to work on her house? With apparently no man around to protect her?
His conscience kicked in. “You did hear. I just got out of prison.”
Here was where she’d ask what crime he’d committed. But once again, she surprised him. “How long were you in?”
“Ten years.”
She blinked. “You said you’ve only been out a week.”
And he felt like a toddler abandoned in the freeway median. Everything whizzing by, with him too terrified to move.
“Yes.”
“Do you want the job?”
His throat almost closed. Even a day or two of work would give him the means to eat for a week. He had nothing to fall back on. Ten years ago, he’d spent every cent he had on his defense.
“Yes.” After a moment, he added a belated, “Thank you.”
“Well, then, will you help me load this stuff?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Erin. My name is Erin Parrish.”
He nodded.
“And yours?”
“Cole Meacham.”
“Cole.”
He trailed her to the front of the hardware store, but then his feet stopped moving. “Where are you parked?”
“Out back.”
Was there a parking lot behind the building? He hadn’t noticed. “Why don’t I meet you there?”
“Oh. Sure. See you there,” she said, matter-of-fact. She disappeared inside, and he turned to circle the corner.
A job. Maybe only a few days, but real work. Basic work, the kind that hadn’t changed in the past ten years. A hot little burn in his chest wasn’t pride or even hope, but might be kin to either.
Unless she changed her mind, or had it changed for her by the man in the hardware store, who must’ve been horrified when the pretty woman customer chased the ex-con outside. Yeah, that was what would happen. His steps slowed. She’d say something like, “I’m sorry, but I just got a call from a guy who decided to take the job, after all.” She might offer him a little money, which pride required him to refuse. Shit, why was he going to meet her at all, setting himself up for more disappointment?
But as he started across the parking lot, Cole saw her struggling with the glass door as she tried to back out with her overloaded cart. He broke into a trot, firmly taking the handle and saying, “Hold the door.”
She glared inside. “With what I just spent, you’d think that jerk could’ve offered to help.”
“He’s afraid of me.” The way you should be.
She sniffed. “I may have to drive out to the freeway next time and shop at Lowe’s.”
A smile wanted to break across Cole’s face. Erin Parrish might be a little strange, but what the hell?
His stomach growled.
* * *
ERIN BACKED HER Jeep Grand Cherokee up to the garage, never so glad she’d bought it last year instead of the Mustang she’d had her eye on. Back then, she’d told herself she wanted a burly vehicle, with a powerful engine. Hauling anything but a new piece of furniture had been the last thing on her mind.
She sneaked a sidelong look at the man beside her. There’d been a time when she thought through every decision before acting. The old Erin Parrish was the antonym of impulsive, but that woman no longer existed.
She knew what had triggered this impulse. It wasn’t so much that he’d been turned down for a job he obviously needed desperately or even the reason he was rejected that got to her. No, she’d been watching his face, assuming she’d see disappointment, shame, perhaps anger. Instead, she’d seen only resignation. He hadn’t expected to be hired. She’d found herself wondering if this man expected anything good from anybody.
And then she’d heard herself say, “Will you ring up my stuff? I’ll be right back,” and had gone racing after him.
When she approached him on the sidewalk, his head was hanging so low she couldn’t see his expression, but his body spoke of despair. She’d been conscious of how powerful that body was, noticed the tattoo peeking out above the collar of his white undershirt. When he whirled, prepared to fight, wariness finally kicked in, but then she saw how gaunt his bony face was, that his shirt was wrinkled, his boots worn. His brown hair was cut brutally short, and his expressionless eyes were an icy blue. She had the kind of thought that would once have appalled her.
He could be a murderer. Maybe he’d kill her.
I should be dead. If he corrected that little mistake, so be it.
Here she was at Nanna’s house. Me and the ex-con. Nanna had to be shuddering, wherever she was.
She turned off the engine and set the emergency brake. “Home, sweet home.” They were the first words out of her mouth—or his—since she’d determined that he had no transportation of his own.
He nodded and got out, going to the rear and waiting until the hatch door rose. When she started muscling the garage door up, he moved fast, taking over before she even heard him coming.
In the garage, he walked a slow circle. “I see why you needed the tools. Although—” he picked up an ax “—some of these can be salvaged with some steel wool and oil.”
Me and the ex-con, who is now holding an ax. She cleared her throat. “Really? They’re so corroded.”
“Just rusty.” He set it down. “I’ll unload.”
Of course she helped. They leaned the old rake and shovel and whatever else against the wall and used the hooks and nails to hold the new tools. The smaller tools hung above the workbench.
“Okay,” she said, “let me show you around.”
He followed silently, his expression no more readable. She was slightly unnerved to notice he carried a screwdriver. When they reached the front porch steps, he stabbed the screwdriver into the wood, which made a squishy sound. He removed it, straightened and looked at her. “Your foot’ll go right through.”
“I have been worrying about that. The back steps aren’t so good, either.”
He shook his head, poked at the porch apron, then gingerly climbed to the porch itself, where he did some more stabbing.
His verdict? “Whole porch should be rebuilt.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Well, then.” Gosh, buying lumber might have been a smart thing to do. She’d bought a circular saw with the vague idea that she could use it for small projects. Was that what he’d need?
“Can you drive?” she asked.
Not wasting even one word, he shook his head.
“Then I guess I should go to the lumberyard.”
“Did you buy a measuring tape?”
Oops. “I’ll...go see if I can find one inside.”
“I’ll check the workbench. If you can get a pencil and piece of paper...”
Feeling awkward, she went inside, aware that he’d disappeared into the garage. The best she found was an old wooden yardstick. But she stepped out onto the porch to find him crouched, a metal measuring tape already extended across the porch steps. “I can do the writing,” she offered.
He reeled off dimensions and what kind of board was needed. Two-by-four. Four-by-four. Two-by-two. Nails. Primer. Brushes. He asked if she’d bought paint for the house yet. No.
“Might be good to decide what colors you want,” he suggested. “Then I can paint the porch as I go, while the weather holds.”
She could do that.
He said he hadn’t seen a ladder. She told him she had a stepladder inside. A faintly condescending expression crept over his impassive face. Three steps wouldn’t get him very high on the side of the house, he pointed out. Um, no, they wouldn’t.
“Tell you what,” he said finally. “If you want to run to the lumberyard, I’ll get the clippers and start cutting back the growth that’s crowding the house. Can’t scrape it if I can’t get to it.”
“Will you recognize the lilac and...there used to be a big climbing rose to the right of the porch?” she asked, remembering the garden in bloom so many years ago. “Oh, and some rhododendrons.”
“I’ll recognize them.”
They agreed she could pick up paint chips today and think overnight about what colors she wanted for the house. When she left, clutching the piece of paper with the materials list, she told him the front door was unlocked if he needed the bathroom. But she saw his face. He wouldn’t be going in.
Now was a fine time to wonder whether she’d crossed the line to crazy.
Copyright © 2017 by Janice Kay Johnson
ISBN-13: 9781488017346
Last Chance at the Someday Café
Copyright © 2017 by Angel Smits
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