Mr. Fix-It

by Crystal Hubbard

  Ordinarily, Khela had a cutthroat, take-no-prisoners approach to Scrabble. If she won by two hundred or more points, so be it. But her heart wasn’t in the game, not with Daphne calling every few minutes.

  “Khela,” Carter said, a plaintive note in his voice.

  She scowled at her tiles, trying to ignore the incessant ringing of the phone.

  “She obviously knows you’re here. The only way you’re going to get her to stop calling is to talk to her.”

  “What am I supposed to say?” Khela asked petulantly. She jostled the wooden table when she slapped down six tiles, one covering a red triple word square, to spell JINGLY while turning Carter’s FOLKS into FOLKSY.

  Carter calculated Khela’s score, which put her up another ninety-three points. “In all the years you’ve lived here, I’ve never known you and Daphne to have a fight.”

  The phone stopped ringing, and Khela stared at it as if it had betrayed her somehow. “She pitched the biggest jealousy fit in Starbucks. It was sickening.”

  Carter started to speak, but Khela talked over him. “Do you know how many times I offered to give her manuscripts to my editors?”

  “Three?” Carter randomly suggested.

  “Try three dozen, but she always refused!” Khela gave the three Is in her tray a disgusted sneer. “She wants to get published on her own, with no help from anybody. Even if I gave her a leg up by getting her work in front of an editor, it won’t get published unless it’s good. I don’t know why she won’t let me give her a shortcut.”

  “Some folks like doing things all on their own,” Carter said. “Considering all the strangers who ask you to forward their work to your publisher, you should be glad that Daphne doesn’t want to hitch a ride on your coattails.”

  “Daphne is ten times a better writer than I am, a hundred times! She’s a good storyteller and a good writer. Do you know how rare that is?”

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  Khela fussily pinched her lips together and glared at him. “Of course not. Almost anyone can open their mouths and tell a story that holds your attention. Very few people can sit at a keyboard and create stories that do with words what Monet did with paint.”

  “Or what Mozart did with music.”

  Clearly appreciating his understanding, Khela relaxed, the tension leaving her face. “Exactly.”

  “The best writers tell beautiful stories beautifully,” Carter said.

  “Who’s your favorite author?” she asked him, the new topic mollifying her unhappiness over her fight with Daphne.

  “You are.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, who else besides me?”

  “I’ve always liked F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

  Khela’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I would have pegged you for a Hemingway fan.”

  “He’s too macho for me.”

  “You’re macho,” Khela giggled. “It’s one of the things I like best about you.”

  “Don’t confuse macho with manly,” he advised.

  “Point taken,” Khela said. “It’s your turn, you know.”

  “I know.” Carter’s gaze moved from his tile rack to the game board and back again. “You didn’t give me much to work with in your new word, and there’s not much I can do with no vowels.”

  Khela grabbed Carter’s wrist and glanced at his watch. “Are you hungry? If we leave now, we can beat the dinner rush at Pizzeria Regina.”

  Carter began packing up the game. “You bought all that overpriced cheese just to let it sit in the fridge? Let’s eat in tonight. I’ll cook.”

  “Shoot, I won’t turn down an offer like that,” Khela grinned. “You can cook, can’t you?”

  “What do you think?” Carter asked suggestively.

  “I think there’s not a whole lot you aren’t good at.”

  He closed the Scrabble box and took her hand, clasping it atop the box. “That’s about the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Well…” Khela cast her eyes down shyly. “It’s true. You surprise me with the things you know and the things you can do.”

  “You thought I was just another pretty face?”

  Khela looked at him, unsure if she’d actually heard a note of sadness in his question. “You’re more than just another pretty face. You have one of the best faces I’ve ever seen.”

  Rising from the table, Carter pulled his hand from hers. “I kinda wish you’d stop saying that.”

  “Saying what? Did I say something wrong?”

  He took the Scrabble box and returned it to its home atop Monopoly and underneath Yahtzee on the oak bookcase spanning one wall of Khela’s living room. “How do you feel about pasta for dinner?”

  “I thought you said you could cook,” Khela said, hoping to douse the flicker of tension that had suddenly risen between them. “Boiling pasta isn’t cooking.”

  “You gotta cook to make a good sauce.” He went to the kitchen and began opening cabinets and the refrigerator, collecting the items he would need. “Mind if I use some of the vine-ripened tomatoes?”

  “Go ahead,” Khela said. “Just leave me two of them.”

  She sat back in her comfortable wing chair, listening to Carter’s movements in the kitchen. The wall dividing the kitchen from the living and dining room areas kept him out of sight, but his quiet humming and murmured words reached her ears. And touched her heart in unexpected ways. The soft Southern purr of his accent took her years back to the summer vacations she spent in Mississippi and Alabama visiting the older relatives of her adopted family.

  Her Great Aunt Sugar in Tupelo had been born in Mobile, Alabama, and had moved to Mississippi after marrying Grady Robertson, a man from Jackson. While there was no mistaking the part of the country from which Sugar and Grady hailed, their dialects couldn’t have sounded more different to Khela.

  Grady’s was clipped, while Sugar’s was languid. Sugar had a touch of the Gulf in her speech, and no matter how hard Khela had tried to copy it, she couldn’t make her mouth form words into such lovely sounds.

  Carter originated far from the Gulf, but his accent so reminded Khela of her happy summers down South that she couldn’t help thinking of sleepy June days spent at hidden ponds, fishing for crawdads at mud holes with a bit of pork fat tied to a shoelace. Listening to Carter’s soft musings from the kitchen, Khela found herself daydreaming of long, lazy rides on the tire swing hanging from Sugar’s biggest oak tree—and bellyaches from eating green plums from the tree in the backyard.

  Her family down South had always been exactly that—her family. She had none of their blood, but they had proven that family you choose can be more precious than family you’re born to.

  The man in her kitchen gave her a sense of home and family that ran deep, and Khela wanted to hold on to it, to revel in it. She wanted it to last longer than another week and a half.

  She practically launched herself out of her chair and zipped into the kitchen, determined to renegotiate their two-week agreement. His greeting stopped her short.

  “This stove is unbelievable,” he said, turning away from his simmering pots. “One of my other tenants wanted a Le Cornu, but when she realized how much it cost, she settled for a good old-fashioned General Electric. The best will outlast the rest, that’s for sure. I’ll say it again, if you got it, spend it, because you can’t take it with you. And judging from this stove, you definitely got it, Khela.”

  He set down his wooden spoon, which was dripping with pasta sauce, and crossed the kitchen to get a box of spaghetti from the center prep isle. He kissed Khela’s cheek as he passed her, oblivious to the serious set of her eyes and mouth.

  She crossed her arms and leaned against the wide archway. “Could you stop looking for dollar signs?”

  His smile faltered. “I’m not looking for them, Khela. They’re all over this place. You can’t spend thousands on a fancy French stove and a Toto toilet from Japan without having people notice.”

  “People like who?” she as
ked, her voice a bit too high and strained. “Who could I possibly be trying to impress? Other than Daphne, you’re the only person who’s spent any real time here since I got divorced. My ex picked all these pricey appliances. He’s the one who sat around thinking of ways to spend my money. I confess a fondness for one-of-a-kind perfume and certain specialty foods, but guess what? I earn my own dough and I won’t apologize for how I spend it. J-Fred—”

  “Who?”

  “Jay Fredericks,” Khela explained. “My ex-husband. Daphne calls him J-Fred because when we divorced he made sure that he took a hearty settlement with him. I got the condo and everything in it, and he got a lump sum payment and a percentage of future royalties on all the books I wrote while we were together.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carter said, going to her.

  Her dark eyes gleamed as she held his gaze. “Don’t be. I’m not. I’m grateful for what I have. I just wish Grandma Belle and Grandpa Neal were here, or that Jay had been willing to have a child to spend money on instead of a toilet and a stove.”

  “Family means so much to you, doesn’t it?” he asked, stroking her hair.

  She hid her face in his shoulder until she could look at him without shedding tears. When she faced him again, she changed the subject. “How do you know how much my appliances and toilets cost?”

  “I’m the one who takes care of them, remember?” Carter said, respecting her reluctance to answer his question. “I do my homework so I can learn how to repair them if something gets busted or breaks down.”

  His reasoning made perfect sense, but Khela remained unconvinced that Carter didn’t find her income more attractive than he found the rest of her. Nonetheless, she said, “Forgive me for overreacting. I guess I’m…”

  “A little hungry,” he offered generously. “Hunger makes your mind play tricks on you.”

  She gave him a grateful smile. “Your sauce smells wonderful.”

  He wiped his hands on the blue cotton towel tucked in his waistband. “It’s an old family recipe.” He went to Khela and took her in a loose embrace. “It’s not from my family, though. I picked it up from the owners of a little trattoria in the North End. I used to go there a few times a week for their linguine with red sauce and the chocolate-covered cannolis. When they decided to retire and close the place, they gave me their recipe for red sauce.”

  “They must have really liked you.” Khela’s gaze fixed on his lips, which were almost close enough to kiss.

  “I was a good customer.” Carter bowed his head a bit. “And the owners had no children. I guess they didn’t want the recipe to die with their restaurant.”

  “So now it’ll live on through your family,” Khela whispered, tilting her face upward.

  “Once I have one,” he murmured before pressing his lips to hers in a soft, sweet kiss that sent Khela’s hands to his backside.

  Though no less tender, Carter’s kisses intensified, pushing Khela’s niggling reservations to the farthest recesses of her mind. He kissed her as though he wanted her to stay kissed long after their two weeks ended, as though each kiss would be their last and needed to surpass the one that came before it.

  Carter mumbled against her lips.

  “What?” she managed, breaking for air.

  His lips moved to her throat. “I said, we need to talk about the two weeks.”

  “I agree,” Khela gasped when his hands covered her breasts, his fingers working the magic that never failed to start her blood moving faster through her veins.

  “It’s a mistake,” she said simultaneously with his, “It’s not right.”

  * * *

  They abruptly separated, shocked speechless. Before they could elaborate on their brief but meaningful exchange, the doorbell started to chime, the ringing every bit as insistent as the earlier ringing of the phone.

  “Let me…” Khela said awkwardly, pointing with both index fingers toward her front door.

  “Sure,” Carter said quickly, turning and going back to the stove.

  It’s not right! Khela repeated in her head, her expression betraying bafflement and disbelief. What the hell does he mean, “It’s not—”

  She unlocked the two deadbolts and the knob latch and opened the door to find Daphne. From the neck down, she was the picture of a mild New England summer in a pale green sleeveless tank top and matching Laura Ashley walking shorts. But from the neck up, she looked as if winter’s fiercest nor’easter had settled in her face.

  Khela’s eyes instantly filled in response to Daphne’s obvious misery. The tear-slicked green of Daphne’s gaze met the watery shine of Khela’s, and without a word, they fell into each other’s arms, their apologies overlapping.

  The caterwaul brought Carter from the kitchen, and he stood a ways back in the foyer, waiting for the women to release each other.

  “Do all your fights end like this?” Llewellyn Davies asked, stepping into view.

  “Maybe,” Daphne sniffled. “This is the first fight we’ve ever had.”

  Khela wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “This is the last fight we’ll ever have.”

  “It’s good to see you two getting on again,” Carter said, coming forward to give Daphne a brief hug. “How are you, Daphne?”

  Her narrowed eyes shifted from Carter to Khela and back to Carter. “I think I should be asking you guys that question.”

  “We can jibber-jabber later.” Khela eyed Llewellyn over Daphne’s shoulder. “Who’s your friend?” she asked playfully.

  If her smile was the sun, Daphne could have warmed and illuminated the earth for millennia as she took Llewellyn’s hand and proudly drew him forward. “Khela Halliday, Carter Radcliffe, this is Llewellyn Davies. My fiancé.”

  “I’ve heard…” Khela started, shaking his hand, “…pretty much nothing about you.”

  “Yes, I imagine we have quite a lot of explaining to do,” Llewellyn said, offering a self-conscious smile.

  Khela boldly sized up the man who was planning to marry her best friend. Llewellyn looked much different now in jeans and a black polo shirt than he had the night of the cake auction, when he’d emceed and called the event in a natty tuxedo. Black was a good color for him because it complemented his fair hair and complexion. About Carter’s height, Llewellyn was fit, as all Daphne’s love interests were, but he wasn’t as heavy with muscle as her men tended to be. His expressive blue eyes and accent were the features that stood out most to Khela because he had those traits in common with Carter.

  “Why don’t you and Mr. Davies come in and join us for dinner,” Khela said, moving aside to allow Daphne and Llewellyn to enter. Carter briefly shook Llewellyn’s hand before closing the front door and following everyone into the living room. “Carter’s been slaving over the stove for hours, preparing some secret sauce he picked up from an old Italian couple in the North End,” Khela added.

  “I haven’t been slaving,” Carter said. “That’s the beauty of the recipe. If you’ve got fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic, salt, pepper and olive oil, you’ve got yourself the best red sauce on the planet.”

  “Or gravy,” Daphne said. “That’s what they call it up here in Boston.”

  “I thought gravy was made from the drippings of roasted meat,” Llewellyn said, joining Daphne on Khela’s overstuffed loveseat.

  Daphne rested her hand on his thigh, and he put his arm around her shoulders. Watching them, Khela envied the natural ease of their affectionate gestures. Every time she held Carter’s hand, every time she hugged or kissed him, an undercurrent of urgency powered their contact. Their physical encounters seemed too intense, and Khela reasoned that it was because they had to enjoy as much of it as possible before their two weeks expired.

  That urgency added an extra thrill in the bedroom, but Khela wanted more. She wanted with Carter what Daphne and Llewellyn seemed to be sharing in her living room. She wanted that sense of safe and generous ownership, that knowledge that she had the rest of her life to enjoy touching him, and not
just a few days.

  She sighed heavily, drawing everyone’s attention from Daphne’s attempts to school Llewellyn on the various forms of “gravy” in New England.

  “You okay, Khela?” Carter asked.

  It’s not right, she heard in her head.

  She nodded, even though she felt anything but okay.

  “I’ll throw the pasta in the pot, and we’ll get some dinner on then,” Carter said with a lazy clap of his hands. “Wanna give me a hand, Lew?”

  “Uh, certainly,” Llewellyn said as Carter went back into the kitchen. He turned to Daphne, lowered his voice and said, “I can’t understand a bloody word he says. What does he want me to do?”

  “He wants you help him boil some water,” Daphne said with a grin. She sent Llewellyn off with a pat on the hand and a kiss on the cheek. Khela noticed the diamond engagement ring glinting on Daphne’s finger, and the second Llewellyn disappeared into the kitchen, Khela took his place on the loveseat and brought Daphne’s hand to her face.

  “Oh, my God,” Khela said. “Did he rob Queen Elizabeth to get this rock?”

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Daphne smiled. “It’s a little over one carat, and the band is platinum.”

  “European cut.” Khela admired the way the big rock caught the pink light of the sunset from her living room windows.

  “It’s American, Art Deco circa 1925,” Daphne rattled off knowingly.

  “You sound just like the wife of a renowned antiques expert,” Khela remarked.

  “Well, it kind of rubs off.” She turned her head, as if she could see Llewellyn through the wall. “I’ve gone on buying trips to Vermont and Philadelphia with him. I never really had an interest in furniture other than what was needed to fact-check some of the books I’ve edited. But when Llewellyn finds a piece that excites him and starts telling me what the object is made of, how it was constructed by artisans whose craft is long lost, and its provenance, it excites me, too. It’s easy to fall in love with what he loves. He talks about Victorian end tables the way other men talk about beautiful women.”