The Handyman

by Susan Finlay

  The elderly couple he’d seen had moved on. Good. He headed along the cobbled main street further into town. In minutes he stood in front of a market square, with a gazebo-like structure at the center sporting a steep slate roof. Red geraniums hung, evenly spaced, from the roof edge, all the way around, flower pots swaying in the breeze.

  The square was surrounded by shops at ground level with overhanging shuttered houses above, like in Paris, only here the few people walking looked old and tired and bored. No excitement, no bustling activity. Real uplifting place. Probably not gonna help my mood.

  He gazed up and down the street, searching for the alimentation generale. There was a fromagerie, a boulangerie, a patisserie, but no alimentation generale. The scent of cinnamon and sugar made his stomach growl in hunger. Not going in the bakery. Nope. No more bakeries. Keep walking.

  He quickened his pace and the scent thankfully dissipated. A shoe store on one side of the road, a boucherie, on the other side, then the post office, each business with its medieval-style picture signs, but not the business he needed. It was a tiny business district; he was running out of businesses. The main street businesses led right into a housing area.

  Josh ran his hand through his hair. Did Paulette give him wrong instructions? He spotted some more businesses higher up on the hill, but she’d told him the alimentation generale was on this road.

  He pulled out the paper from his pocket and rechecked it: Ask for Veronique Granville at the alimentation generale on the main street, past the town square. Must have missed it. Turning around, he retraced his steps. When he reached the patisserie, he again resisted the lure of the sweet scents, this time turning his head toward the business directly across the street. The red awning above the alimentation generale’s entrance flapped in the wind, its metal hangers creaking loudly. He sighed. Dummy, it was right in front of you.

  On one side of the front door crates of fruit were displayed on a low platform. On the other side two elderly men sat on an old wooden bench, canes propped nearby. Damn. Is everyone in this town old?

  Inside, ancient-looking floors depressed and squeaked with each step, quickly drawing the attention of the shop’s clerk, a stocky man looking to be around Josh’s age or a little older, perhaps thirty. Phew! At least there’s one other young person in this place. The guy stood near the cash register uniformed in a blue work apron.

  “Bonjour,” Josh said. “Uh, je cherche Veronique Granville.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Un moment.”

  While Josh waited, a long-haired cat appeared and greeted him, rubbing up against his legs. A Norwegian Forest cat. It looked so much like his own Rosamunde that his heart quickened, instantly making him sad at the recollection. Two months ago his sixteen-year-old cat that he’d grown up with had lost her battle with kidney failure. It was like losing a sister. He bent down, stroked the animal, extracting purrs loud enough to awaken the dead. “You look like my kitty,” he whispered, wiping a tear from his cheek.

  Moments later the man returned with a woman. She was tall and slender, with clear blue eyes and straight chin-length blonde hair cut in a bob. Probably his mother’s age, mid-forties. Her beige skirt with lavender flowers and green vines swayed when she moved. Her short-sleeved beige top was simple yet stylish. “Bonjour,” she said.

  “Ah, bonjour, Josh said. He introduced himself and told her why he was there, faltering over the French words, the grammar, and his own awkward pronunciation.

  She smiled, showing perfect teeth, and waved her hand. Switching to English, she said, “If you’re ready, I’ll take you to Paulette. She told me you’re an American. I rarely get a chance to practice my English.”

  He nodded, grateful to not have to worry about conversing further in his embarrassingly poor French.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to walk,” she said, heading outside, holding the door.

  “That’s okay. I’ve been sitting a lot today—on the train, you know.”

  He smiled and walked alongside Veronique.

  As they walked down the sidewalk, Josh suddenly felt like someone was behind him. He turned his head and peeked over his shoulder. Sauntering casually behind them was the cat from the store. “Uh, your cat is coming with us. Is that okay?”

  Veronique made a tsk-tsk sound, then stopped and turned to face the cat. “He’s not mine. Rentrez à la maison, Apollo.”

  The cat stopped in its tracks, but stood his ground, clearly having no intention of following orders. Yep, definitely like Rosamunde.

  Josh turned his head to hide his smile.

  “Rentrez à la maison, Apollo!” Veronique turned back around and started walking again, then sneaked a peek back at the cat. “Merde! What is wrong with him? He’s never followed me before.”

  Josh stared at the cat, giving him the same eye contact he’d used on his own cat over the years, and motioned with his hand toward the store.

  The cat turned around and sauntered away.

  Veronique gave Josh a quizzical look, obviously surprised at Apollo’s response, but said nothing.

  “How do you know Paulette?”

  “In such a small village we all know everyone.”

  “That must be nice. Back home in California, you can live in the same place for years; visit the same place regularly, without anyone even noticing you. Life here must make you feel like you aren’t alone in the world.”

  “Well, yes and no. People here get bored. That leads to gossip. One rarely has privacy.”

  “Hmm. Guess I hadn’t thought of that.”

  After a few minutes walking, Veronique turned onto one of the side streets. They followed a narrow cobbled lane as it twisted and turned, and it seemed that tucked around every corner were miniature chateaux and manor houses. Sometimes Josh thought they were about to walk into the private drive of a manor house, when all of a sudden the lane changed course again and led them, instead, past more picturesque houses, some adorned with climbing vines and wisteria. He stopped a moment, as they approached one particularly grand house, an ancient-looking chateau built like a fortress.

  Veronique said, “Joan of Arc was there in 1429. It’s our main claim to fame.” She continued walking and had entered the street.

  As they continued to walk by, Josh turned his head and tried to imagine how it would have looked to Joan of Arc as she approached it on horseback. It was a massive chateau, virtually a manmade cliff of walls and towers rising out of an enormous natural escarpment. Suddenly, he stumbled and almost fell. “WTF?” he shouted without thinking. He looked around. Crap. When he’d attempted to follow Veronique, who was crossing the street, he hadn’t noticed the step down from the sidewalk to the street. Oh, hell. Could he make a bigger ass of himself?

  From a few feet away in the street, Veronique said, “Are you all right? What did you say? What is ‘W T F’? I don’t know this word.”

  Feeling heat rise up his neck, he said, “Oh, sorry. It’s nothing important.” He wasn’t going to tell her it was short for ‘what the fuck’. He’d started using the abbreviation because his mother and Vanessa got upset when he said the whole phrase, and now it had become automatic.

  Are you all right?” she asked again.

  “Yeah,” Josh said, not sure whether doing something stupid in front of someone he’d just met was more or less embarrassing than if it had happened in front of friends or family. He pulled himself together, as best he could, then caught up to Veronique.

  Minutes later they rounded a corner and he stood in front of a massive stone church, a structure even older looking than the chateau. “Interesting church,” Josh said. “Looks ancient.”

  “Indeed. It was built in the 12th century.”

  “I love the medieval faces carved in the stone. You don’t see that kind of artistry in newer buildings. Sure wish I had my good camera.” He thought about the lesser camera on his cell phone—it would suffice, he guessed—but decided he’d come back later, on his own, and take a few photos.

  Ver
onique smiled. “We have many buildings like this, notably the fourteenth-century chateau we passed and a seventeenth-century chateau that’s hard to see because it’s hidden behind high walls.”

  “Cool.”

  “Maybe another time, if you are here for a while, I can give you a sightseeing tour. Unfortunately, right now we still have quite a way to go further uphill and it’s not an easy walk. It’s fortunate you seem to be in shape. Are you perchance an athlete?”

  “Nah, not really. I don’t consider myself an athlete, anyway. I do work out at a gym twice a week and jog three times a week. That’s mostly to keep in shape.” He shrugged, then followed her onto a sloped cobbled footpath that wound its way around the church, then turned slightly, becoming a dirt path. The dirt path continued up the hill on a steep dirt trail meandering into a dense copse of old conifers.

  He breathed in the fresh scent of pine, wondering where in the world this woman was leading him. Near the top of the tier, they turned once more and headed off to the right along a narrow ridge, laden with low brush and a spectacular view of the village below until they approached a white chalk limestone wall, partially hidden by ivy, nettles, and blackthorn thickets.

  “We’re almost there,” Veronique said, turning and walking along the wall.

  “This seems like an odd place for a house,” Josh said, by this time more than a bit concerned he had somehow placed himself in jeopardy. Did they have bandits in the hills in France? Was Veronique leading him into a trap? Was Paulette in on some nefarious plan to kidnap him? Could he even find his way back if he decided to run? Crazy thoughts kept circling the drain as he followed Veronique.

  She chuckled. “Didn’t Paulette tell you about her house?”

  “Nope. Seems a bit secretive.”

  “That she is. That’s part of what makes her such an enigma.”

  The trail—well, at this point it could hardly be called a trail—ended on a flat meadow dotted with several fig trees and a splash of purple wildflowers. Veronique stopped. “Well, we’re here.”

  “Where? I don’t see anything.” He gasped, out of breath and very worried now, looking out at the view of the village at the base of the hill, at the moss-covered rooftops, the fortress walls, and the ribbon of water as a few sprinkles dropped on his head.

  “No, silly, look the other way, toward the higher portion of hill.”

  Josh spun back around, his gaze going left and then right, still not seeing anything except a couple mounds of trash. Looked like a dumping ground for discards, worried he might be next.

  “Over there, straight ahead and slightly to the right. Do you see it now?” She pointed calmly, smiling.

  Josh edged forward, then stopped. He squinted and spied a white stone façade with a door and a single window, partially shrouded by climbing vines. “What the hell? Is that a cave?”

  “Yes, I guess you could say it’s a cave, though it’s technically called a troglodyte cave-dwelling, or as we call it here, a ‘troglo’,” Veronique said.

  “Oh, cool.” Josh relaxed, suddenly smiling and feeling relieved that he may not be a victim after all. “Is this the only one around here?”

  “No, no, we have quite a few here and in the surrounding area. They started out as natural caves where people worked and lived. But, in later decades, people began modernizing them and adding more footage scooped out of the limestone. Troglos have become popular as vacation homes for Parisians and even the English. Many of our troglos aren’t lived in year-round. The limestone chalk here is also the same material used to build the other houses in the village.”

  That sounded pretty cool, and maybe some were appealing, but Josh had his doubts about this one if the grounds were any indication. The façade of the troglo was okay, he guessed, but set in the middle of a dump? WTF. Numerous piles of old boards, tree branches, brush clippings, broken flower pots, an old mattress, scrap metal, and miscellaneous junk piled about twenty feet from the door, on either side. It reminded him of an inner-city yard back yard in L.A., the kind of place where people who lived there were either too poor to maintain it or plain didn’t give a damn. Crap. What kind of woman am I getting myself involved with? “I’m supposed to live here?”

  “I’m not sure what Paulette has in mind for you.”

  His mother’s words—“Can’t you tell the woman you changed your mind about the job? What on earth made to accept that position, anyway?”—came back to him. He didn’t have to stay here. No one was making him do this. But the earlier conversation with Paulette hit him—“You’ll be here today? And you’ll stay until the job is done? You promise?” “Yeah. Promise.”

  Josh sighed. The least he could do was see what the old woman had in mind. He owed her that much.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JOSH STARED AT the elderly woman standing in the doorway, her gnarled hand holding onto the doorframe as if to keep her from falling outside. Brown eyes peered into his, assessing him, and then a faint smile curved her lips. How much she reminded him of Grandma Jane! Not the hair—Grandma’s hair had been totally gray the last time he saw her before her death. Paulette’s hair was mottled, mostly gray with fly-a-way wisps, with streaks of dark brown, almost black, and from what he could see from this angle, was styled in a bun at the back of her head. It was those warm brown eyes with little creases around them and around her mouth when she smiled that brought back the image of Grandma Jane. He resisted an urge to reach out and hug her.

  “You came. You really came here to help,” she said. She pushed the door open wider with her free hand. “Par ici.”

  He glanced back at Veronique to get her reaction to the words.

  Before she could react, the elderly woman said, “Come this way, boy. Come on. I’m happy to meet you, young man. I’m Paulette Lapierre.” Noticing Veronique, she added, “Come inside, too, Veronique.”

  “Thank you, but I need to get back to the store before it rains.”

  Josh thanked Veronique, took a couple steps forward, and watched as Paulette also thanked the younger woman for bringing Josh to her. After Veronique turned and began her trek down the hill, he followed Paulette into her living room and set down his bags.

  “Excuse my mess. I’ve been in the hospital. They released me yesterday morning. Made me promise to get someone to help me around the house.” She shoved a pile of newspapers and magazines off the couch and patted the seat for Josh to sit.”

  “The hospital?” He wanted to ask more, but didn’t want her to think he was rude.

  “Did I forget to tell you? Oh dear, where has my mind gone?” She frowned, straightening her blouse with her hand. “I . . . I’m dying. That’s odd to say, the words feel strange in my mouth. Hmm. I’m not sure I’ve ever said them aloud, now that I think about it.” She shook her head and then continued. “They wanted me to spend the rest of my days in a nursing home. No, I told them. I will not do that. This is where I will die.”

  Josh leaned back against the sofa. Now it made sense. That’s why she only needed a ‘handyman’ for two or three months. “I’m so sorry to hear that. One of my grandmas, my dad’s mother, died when I was sixteen. She was in a nursing home. I didn’t get to see her.”

  “Are you afraid of taking care of a dying old woman?”

  He stared at her. Afraid? No, well yes. Dying? He’d never actually seen someone die. He’d never even seen a dead person. At the one funeral he’d attended, the casket had been closed. Take care of her? Now he was afraid. He was supposed to be her handyman. Didn’t that mean taking care of her house and property?

  Paulette stood and said, “Goodness, I forgot to offer you a beverage. Un moment. I’ll get us some tea. I made a pot before you arrived.” She waddled out of the room before Josh could respond.

  He folded his hands together. If he wanted to leave, now was his chance. He could find his way back down the hill and call for another taxi.

  Oh, hell. Can’t do it. I promised her.

  Paulette returned carrying a tray and l
ooking as though she could drop it any second, as though the weight of it was too much to bear.

  Josh jumped up from his seat and carefully took the tray from her, setting it down on the coffee table. “Should I pour you a cup?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you take sugar in your tea?”

  “Oui.” She smiled, and he scooped two spoons of sugar into each of their cups.

  As they sat silently with the elephant in the living room, Paulette on an overstuffed chair and Josh on the sofa, Josh looked around, studying the room. It was an honest-to-God cave home. Wow! He had actually heard of them before, but had never been inside one. The interior walls were made of the same creamy white limestone he’d seen all around the village, slightly rough in texture and rounded at the corners. Would they feel cold to the touch? The floor was ceramic-tiled in a light russet color, at least where he could actually see the floor. Piles of clothing, perhaps Paulette’s dirty laundry, were scattered across the floor. The high ceiling, rougher textured than the walls, included several dark-brown wooden beams evenly spaced across its span, which Josh assumed might be needed for structural support.

  Following the ceiling lines, he found that the height along the back wall of the troglo was different than the rest. Too bad he hadn’t paid more attention to the outside of the home. Turning slightly to his right, he noticed that tucked in a corner on the side was a black roll-top desk and a compact pine staircase divided into three identical sections of four steps up, then a landing, then a forty-five-degree turn, similar to a winding staircase. The curious kid in him wanted to run up the stairs and explore the rooms at the top. Instead, he redirected his attention back to the rest of the main room.

  Along the longest wall, the one closest to the front door, was a brick fireplace painted ivory. On either side were tall wooden bookcases painted royal blue, crammed full of colorful books. An array of hardcover books were also stacked in three piles next to the bookcase, making him smile. He and Paulette might be different nationalities, but at least they had one thing in common—a love for and how they arranged books.