The Emerald Hills Collection

by Judith Post

  "You have the third floor free, don't you? I could bring the air mattress I use for camping and some clothes and stay up there."

  Lolita turned that over in her mind. He'd be working all day long. She'd be in her shop. She could feed him suppers, and then they'd say goodnight. That wouldn't be so bad. A little inconvenient for both of them, but do-able. She looked up to find his gaze on her.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "An air mattress doesn't sound very comfortable."

  "Neither is the twin bed in my apartment, but the bedroom's too small for anything else."

  Amy came with their food. When she left, Lolita nodded. "Okay, and I'll fix you suppers."

  Murphy smiled. "Great. I'll move in tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "The sooner I get started, the sooner your house is fixed." He had a smug look on his face, and a wiggle of worry squirmed through her. But this would be good for both of them, right? He'd make money, and she'd have a wall again instead of plastic.

  She took a deep breath. "You're right. I'll go upstairs and sweep and dust, so it's halfway decent."

  He shrugged. "If you have time. I'm used to bach-ing it. No worries."

  "Bach-ing?"

  "Being a bachelor, scrounging for myself. I'm not allergic to dust, so I hardly notice it."

  She laughed. "Well, I do. And I'll feel better if I get it done."

  They finished their meals, and Murphy drove her home, pulling as close to the awning over her front windows and door as possible. "I won't come in. I'll see you tomorrow."

  She waved him goodbye and when she started up the stairs to her apartment, she kept going. She hardly ever went to the Tudor's third floor. It was uncarpeted with oak floors. The stairway ended at a large, open area with three, large bedrooms and a small bathroom, opening off of it. A sloping ceiling met the outside wall in each one—something she'd particularly liked when she first saw the house.

  Lolita went to the closest closet, where she'd left a few cleaning supplies when she'd moved in. She grabbed the dust mop and started sweeping. By the time she finished, every room sparkled. Then she trudged to the double garage at the back of her yard. She dragged the big, air mattress with a plug-in pump into the house and up the stairs to the third floor. It made into a high, double bed—if it still worked. She flipped on its switch and filled it. If it wasn't flat by morning, it might not leak, and it might hold Murphy. The man wasn't small.

  She rummaged in the garage some more. She found a small, brass lamp and a narrow side table. In one of the storage cupboards, she pulled out sheets and a flowered comforter. She frowned. Flowers. Murphy wasn't fond of them, but she was. She tossed a couple of throw rugs on the floor at each side of the bed. When she finished, Murphy would have the barest of necessities, but that was all. If he wanted to watch TV with her after supper, she'd let him. She wasn't used to having company after the shop closed, but it was the least she could do since he was fixing her house.

  By the time she crawled into her own bed, she was exhausted. The alarm rang before she was ready for it on Saturday morning. And when she went to turn the sign in her shop door to Open, Murphy was waiting outside, huddling under the awning to keep dry.

  "Why didn't you ring the doorbell to let me know you were here?" she asked.

  "I just got here. I know when your shop opens." His air mattress was draped over his shoulder. He grinned and held up a white bag. "Donuts from Isak's shop. An Emerald Hills staple. Are you hungry?"

  Her mouth watered. "I didn't have time for breakfast. I wanted to get things ready for you."

  "Is the coffee on?"

  She nodded. "I have a pot in my workroom. There are mugs, too."

  He looked up and down the empty street. "Stinky weather. No one's about. Let's eat."

  They dropped onto the stools at her worktable. She chose a pecan roll and he had an éclair. They sipped coffee while he studied the damaged wall. "I called one of my suppliers, and he'll be delivering materials soon. I'm guessing you'll want to use as many of the original bricks, as possible, so they'll match."

  She hadn't really thought about it, but gave a quick nod. When they finished their breakfast, he cleaned up their things and said, "If you have time, you can show me to my room."

  Wind blew the rain sideways, pelting the heavy plastic. Who'd come out in this? She led him up the stairs to her apartment. He looked around and gave a low whistle. "This is nice."

  Not really. She'd never taken the time to add any extra touches, but it was spacious. She had a blue leather sofa and two matching chairs grouped together by a large screen TV. There was a harvest table with a bench on one side and two chairs on the other for a dining area. And the kitchen was an efficient U-shaped, but it held a stove with six burners. The stove had come with the house, and Lolita loved it.

  She showed him the two bedrooms off the hallway with a bathroom sandwiched between them. She used one as an office. Then she led him upstairs to the third floor.

  "This is awesome." Murphy pressed on the double, air mattress and smiled. "It hasn't sagged yet. It might work, and if it doesn't, I have mine."

  "You have your own bathroom." She showed him the long, narrow room with a bathtub, sink, and toilet.

  "All I need." He looked like he'd been invited to a luxury spa. Clearly, it didn't take much to please this man.

  The bell jingled above the shop door, and Lolita listened to the rain hitting the roof. Steady, but no wind. "I have to go. Make yourself at home."

  She heard him come down the steps while she waited on customers, armed with big umbrellas. Soon, a truck pulled behind the house and men unloaded all sorts of materials. After the truck pulled away, she heard hammering and sawing.

  More and more people came, braving the rain. She hurried to the workroom during a small lull and snagged two granola bars before the bell rang again. Murphy frowned at her and she motioned to the snack cupboard. "Help yourself." Then she hurried back to her counter.

  By the time six came around, and she turned the sign in the door to Closed, she was ready to collapse. She'd stayed up, cleaning, later than she meant to last night. When she went to find Murphy in the workroom to call it a day, she put a hand to her lips in surprise. A two-by-four frame stood where there was once a hole. And plywood covered the outside of it.

  He was sweeping sawdust off the floor and looked up at her.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  He smiled. "Ready to call it quits today?"

  "Yes."

  "What if I run to grab us some supper?"

  She shook her head. "Supper's waiting."

  "It is?" His eyes narrowed. "You never had time to leave the shop. It's not hummus and chips or a big salad, is it?"

  "No." She laughed and reached for a dust pan to help him finish up. When he was satisfied, she said, "Follow me. You'll smell it when you open the door to my apartment."

  He followed her up the stairs and when she led him into her cozy living room, he let out a long, satisfied sigh. "What is that? My mom used to make our kitchen smell like that."

  "The miracle of slow cookers," Lolita told him. "Pork loin, potatoes, carrots, and celery. There's an apple salad in the refrigerator."

  He lifted the lid of the crockpot and inhaled. "I'm in heaven. Don't wake me up."

  She pointed. "The plates are in that cupboard. The glasses are in the next one." She went to the silverware drawer.

  They dished up and sat on stools at the bar that separated the kitchen from the sitting area. She went to the refrigerator and brought them both beers.

  Murphy didn't talk while he ate, just made happy noises deep in his throat. It must have been a long time since he had a home-cooked meal. When he finished his third helping, she asked, "Don't you ever go home to see your mother? She'd probably be happy to cook for you."

  He looked down, not meeting her gaze. "Mom died when Lizzie and I were little. Some kind of complication when they took her appendix out."

  Lolita wince
d. "Sorry. I didn't know."

  He shrugged. "Dad did his best, but he was no cook. I love Lizzie, but she's the queen of fast food."

  "And you?"

  He grinned. "You are you looking at a world class grill master."

  When she started gathering dishes to rinse, he joined in. He rinsed and she loaded the dishwasher. When they finished, she said, "Want to stay to watch a little TV to relax?"

  "You don't mind? That wasn't part of the deal."

  She shrugged. "There's no TV upstairs. No anything really, except a bed."

  He settled in one of the recliners and she took the couch. Before she flicked on a program, he said, "Doesn't your mom ever come to visit you here? You don't have any place for her."

  She chose her words carefully. "Mom has rotten taste in men. I'm not fond of husband number two, and it's mutual. The less we see of each other, the better."

  "You?" He looked surprised. "I thought you'd get along with anybody."

  "Not Otis. I'm polite to him, for Mom's sake, but I can't take too much of him. If you met him, you wouldn't like him either."

  Murphy's expression turned serious. "If you don't like someone, he's on my shit list."

  Lolita stared. "Just like that? What if I'm wrong?"

  "You won't be. You strike me as the type who likes people even when you shouldn't. You give them the benefit of the doubt. If Otis used up his free pass, he's a rotter."

  She couldn't help it. She laughed. "You have more confidence in me than I do."

  "You don't realize how special you are."

  She shook her head. "I never take my magic for granted."

  "Aaah, so you admit it. You do have magic."

  She could feel the blush climb to her hairline. "Your sister's probably told you about it."

  He nodded. "Your mirrors. You can see other peoples' magic, but not your own."

  She fiddled with a strand of her long, fine hair. A habit since childhood. When she was distracted or nervous, she played with her hair. It drove her mother nuts.

  Murphy watched her and smiled. "We've talked about our families enough. What's on TV on a Friday night?"

  "Grimm and Dracula."

  He looked stunned. "I thought you'd watch something like the Hallmark channel or chick flicks."

  "Not me. I love myths and supernaturals. If they're on the dark side, even better."

  He grinned. "I'm in for a lot of surprises, I can tell."

  She arched a brow. "And you?"

  "The history or discovery channels. Gold Rush. Pawn Stars. Shark Week. And sports. Every Sunday. I can bring my TV here and we can divide up for those."

  She nodded. "That might not be a bad idea. I tape the food channel and watch cooking shows on Saturday and Sunday nights."

  He laughed. "Now that might interest me. I love to eat."

  They'd missed most of Grimm, so they waited to start Dracula, and Murphy got really into it. Before he climbed the stairs for bed, he said, "I suppose you don't have any garlic for me hang around my neck?"

  "Sorry. No spare crucifixes either."

  He hesitated. "Thanks for a really good supper and a nice night."

  "No problem. I enjoyed myself."

  "Did you?" His gaze held hers.

  She squirmed. What was there about Murphy? She could feel so comfortable, and then Bam! He threw her off kilter. She let out a breath. "Well, you should know that I don't open the shop until noon on Sundays. I usually fix myself a big breakfast. You're invited if you're up in time."

  "If you cook bacon, I'll smell it and be here." He started for the stairs, and she relaxed. "See you in the morning."

  He disappeared from view, and she gave herself a serious talk. "Get over yourself." That's what Murphy had told her. "He's fun and nice, and he's here to make some money while it rains." She listened to the steady rhythm of raindrops hitting the windows. "And you're….you. You've met a great friend. Don't blow it."

  She shook off her lust and went to bed.

  * * *

  By the time the bacon was crispy in the pan, Lolita heard footsteps on the stairs. Murphy sauntered to the kitchen, his light hair tousled and his feet bare. Her stomach did some weird constriction…or was it her libido? And she squelched it before it could get too happy with itself.

  He came to stand behind her and gaze over her shoulder. He smelled like pine soap and masculinity. Nope, don't think about that. She bent to open the oven door, pushing him farther back, and took out a plate piled high with pancakes.

  "You bake them?" he asked.

  "No, the oven's set on 200. It keeps them warm."

  She put them on the counter and removed the bacon from the pan to drain. "Do you want eggs?"

  "Sunny-side up?"

  "If that's how you like them." She cracked two eggs into the pan and put them on his plate when they were ready. She handed him the plate and said, "The coffee's ready. I like scrambled. I'll be done in a minute."

  He poured them coffee and plopped on a stool to wait for her. If eyes could bore into a back, his did. She could feel his gaze on her.

  "Quit it," she said. "You're making me nervous. Haven't you seen someone cook before?"

  "Not very often." He stabbed a pancake and put it on his plate. He bit into it and groaned with pleasure. "I buy the microwave kind. I'm missing out."

  She came to sit beside him. "My mom always said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. You'd be an easy mark."

  "Don't tell anyone." He piled bacon on his plate, and she lost him. He didn't talk again until there was no food left.

  She stared at him. "I've never seen anyone eat that much."

  He grinned. "I do manual labor. I work it off."

  "If you say so." If she ate like that, she'd waddle, not walk.

  By the time they cleaned up, it was time for her to get ready and open the shop. He followed her down to start work on the house. They separated to do their own things.

  Customers clamored into the shop when she turned the sign on the door. There was a light, steady rain now, and big umbrellas had been traded in for small, portable ones. Business stayed steady for most of the day.

  By the time she turned the sign to Closed, Murphy wandered in to help her tidy up. "You didn't take a lunch break. Neither did I. It's Sunday. What does Nancy have on special?"

  She smiled. She wasn't sure if they'd do their usual Sunday out since he'd moved in, but she wasn't in the mood to cook. "Sundays are roast chicken, sometimes barbecued chicken, with macaroni and cheese on the side."

  His expression waxed nostalgic. "Mom did roast chicken every Sunday. Perfect."

  He drove to the restaurant, chattier than usual. He talked about the men he worked with on his crew. "Boyle looks like he's a hundred, weathered from working outside his whole life, but he's as strong as an ox; and Brian's a cocky, young rooster—always telling us about the latest girl he picked up at a bar."

  She listened, smiling. He liked each and every one of them, she could tell. By the time they were seated for their meal, he was talked out. He frowned at her. "Why haven't you hired someone to work part time at your shop? Then you wouldn't have to put in so many hours."

  "I probably will next summer," she said. "I'm trying hard to make a dent in what I owe on the shop. I've been making two payments a month instead of one since I bought it. I figure in ten years, I'll own it, flat-out."

  He nodded. "My money's in decent shape, too, but I've been working extra to pay off some of my overhead. Big machinery doesn’t come cheap."

  Their food came—a chicken split in half for each of them—and they concentrated on their meals. When Murphy finished, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I'm not used to working Sundays. Can I take Monday off, too?"

  "Sure, but I usually spend some of the day restocking my shop. I sold a lot of mirrors this week. I need to hang more and start work on a new specialty mirror. I don't have any extra in the back room."

  "Can I help you?"

  "No, I
have a routine. You can have the couch and watch football until I come up to steal the remote."

  He looked stricken. "I missed today's game."

  She looked smug. She could feel it. "I recorded it for you."

  He went very still, his gaze never leaving hers. "How did you know which team I follow?"

  "Duh! You have a wobbly-head for the Colts on your dashboard."

  He smiled, then grew serious again. "Do you know how nice you are?"

  She grimaced. "Don't go there. I hear that all the time, and I'm sick of it. If someone writes She Was A Nice Person on my gravestone, I'll haunt them."

  He laughed. "That bad, huh?"

  "Do you know how boring that sounds?"

  "Yeah, well, people might like to read smut, but it's no fun to live with."

  "It must be fun to play with, though. If they say Nice guys finish last, let me tell you, nice girls don't even get started."

  His brows flew up. "You think so?"

  "Who gets the guy at a bar? The girl whose cleavage spills out or the girl with the shy smile?"

  "Oh, hell, when a guy goes to a bar, he's looking for…." He stammered to a halt. "Nice girls meet guys at church dinners."

  Lolita shook her head. "Yeah, right."

  He paid their bill and they started to his truck. "Have you ever had a serious relationship?" he asked.

  "No, and I want to keep it that way."

  Her answer surprised him. He helped her into the passenger seat, then went around to his side. On the ride home, he said, "You never want to get married?"

  "Nope."

  "You don't think you'll get bitter and lonely?"

  "I plan on wearing black every day and scaring small children."

  He shook his head. "You're not being serious."

  "Relationships are work. I only have so much energy." She looked at him. "And you? Do you want the whole package—a wife and kids?"

  He gazed out the windshield, and the sound of the wipers filled the truck with their steady rhythm. "I never gave it much thought, but yeah, I think I do."

  She reached across the seat and patted his hand. "You'll have women standing in line."

  When she started to remove her touch, he turned his palm upward and gripped her fingers. "My friends swear it's damned hard, finding the right woman."