To keep out of his way, I sat on the porch, skimming the headlines of the local paper. Every few minutes I’d look up to see him scribbling in a small notebook, the dog following behind. He’d whistle at her every now and then, and she’d lie down and stare at him.
After a while, Jack wandered onto the porch wearing only a pair of jeans, his hair standing up in tufts. “Morning,” he said, sipping his coffee. I could tell from his dopey expression that he’d showed up half-dressed to make me regret leaving him on the couch last night.
It worked.
I pretended not to notice he was missing a shirt, even though it felt ten degrees hotter on that porch. I just said, “Good morning,” and handed him half of the paper.
While he was reading, I studied his tattoo—a bird with long feathers that trailed down his bicep. Black and grey with hints of green. I was dying to get closer and see what kind of bird it was, since I’d been too preoccupied to get a good look the day before. The feathers rippled as Jack turned a page, and I quickly averted my eyes.
Once again, he’d caught me staring. The tiniest smile touched the corner of his mouth, and I raised my section of paper to shield myself from his gaze.
~~~~
After an hour and a half, Grant handed me a list of things not up to code. He seemed a little too chipper about the number of shortcomings.
“It looks so solid, you wouldn’t think it would have all these problems,” he said. “Sorry to be the messenger with bad news.”
“Give me the three most critical,” I said.
He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and marked his list. “Mold in this downstairs room, dry rot in the west corner of the roof, leaky pipe in the downstairs bathroom.”
“Any estimate on that?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t say, ma’am. But it’ll need a new roof too. Probably before the end of the year.”
The dog trotted over and stopped at his feet. She looked at him, then dropped something from her mouth.
Grant stared at the tiny object by his shoe.
“What is that?” I asked.
He picked up a small fabric pouch tied with string. “It seems somebody lost their mojo,” he said.
I stared at the little bag in his hand. It looked like something that might contain a piece of jewelry, some souvenir a tourist would take home.
He placed it in my hand before I could object. I cringed at the dog drool and laid it on the porch rail.
Grant handed me the bill and smiled like he was at a funeral. Perhaps he’d picked the right car after all. “You have a good day, now. Good luck with the repairs.”
I sighed as the hearse sputtered and wheezed down the driveway. I’d known the house would need some work, but this was more than I’d expected. My plan was to come down and spruce the place up with some paint and a few upgrades—not repairs that would run into thousands of dollars. I could call my father, but as soon as he heard the word “mold,” he’d be down here moving like his tail was on fire. He’d come in and take over everything. He was no doubt hoping I’d call him in such distress that he would have to send a crew to rescue me from my own ambition.
It would take more than a few mold spores and leaky pipes to make me give in.
“It’s OK,” I said to the dog. She was lying under the hammock again, staring at me with narrowed eyes. Grant had given me the phone number of a “mold guy” and a plumber, and said, “Just tell ’em I sent you, and they’ll fix you right up.” I had a bad feeling this was going to take the entire budget and leave me justifying it to my father. But I’d have to push that aside for now. Like that old saying, Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Problem was, I didn’t want to ask for either.
Jack came back to the porch—this time with a plaid shirt—and leaned on the banister.
“So what’s the damage?”
“You don’t want to know.”
He frowned. “Sounds like my to-do list just got a little longer.”
I needed him more than I’d anticipated, but I hated to tell him that. With the number of repairs piling up, it would take serious effort to finish in six weeks. As much as it pained me to admit it, I couldn’t do it without Jack.
“Guess we better get started then.” I tried to sound nonchalant.
He sipped his coffee, barely hiding a smile. “We might need to renegotiate the terms of our agreement.”
“First let’s see how efficient you can be.”
He slid his fingers along the porch rail. “Fair enough. I like a challenge. What’s first on your agenda today?”
“We’ve got a couple more rooms left to paint.”
“What’s this doing here?” He stepped to the corner of the porch and picked up the tiny bag the dog had brought up.
“Who knows? The dog was chewing on it.”
“It was here by the door?”
“Out in the yard. Why? What is it?”
“Probably nothing.” Something in his tone said otherwise.
“But if it wasn’t nothing, what would it be?”
He shrugged. “The old folks call them gris-gris.”
“As in voodoo? Let me see that again.”
“It’s just a bunch of leaves and spices,” he said, handing me the bag. “Nothing to worry about. Somebody probably lost it out in the swamp. People carry them for luck. That dog’ll drag up anything.”
I turned the small pouch over in my hand, pulling the strings loose to open it. Inside were some leaves, what looked like herbs, and a few beads. When I dug to the bottom, I pulled out something that looked like a bone from a small mammal. I winced, holding the bone out for him to see. “Isn’t this stuff used for hexes too?”
“Don’t tell me you believe in that,” he said.
“Don’t you?”
He laughed. “Give me a break. That’s from one of those voodoo tourist shops that take your money.”
“But what if it isn’t? What if it’s real?”
“You’ve been reading too many ghost stories. Ain’t no such thing as black magic.”
“Four hundred years of history say otherwise.” I tied the strings back together, sealing the pouch.
He laughed again. “Come on. Get serious. You can’t put hexes on people with chicken feet and coffee grounds.” He turned to go back in the house. “Tell me which paint color you want to use so I can get started, chief.”
I followed him inside and stuffed the pouch into my pocket.
~~~~
In Jack’s room, we took the bed apart and slid the mattresses into the hall. I tried not to imagine him pinning me to that very mattress, his lips moving against my ear as he told me all the ways he longed to touch me. We pushed the dresser, the bookcase and the massive cedar chest into the center of the room, creating an island of mismatched wood. We spread the drop cloths out again, and Jack shoved a heap of clothes into his closet.
We had an efficient system going. He was good with a roller, covering the large areas quickly and evenly. I applied painter’s tape around edges of chair rails and window frames, and followed him with a brush to get the areas that needed more attention.
He still squeezed the roller too hard, which resulted in his whole body getting covered in a fine dappling of paint. But the walls looked great, so I didn’t critique his method. I caught myself staring though, as he rolled with one arm and let his weight shift to his opposite hip. Each time the taut muscles of his arms flexed, I thought of how they’d felt under my palms.
“Hey,” he said at last. “What are you going to do about that list of repairs you got today?”
I snapped back to the present. Inspections. Codes. The endless list of broken things.
“I need to think that over tonight and crunch some numbers,” I said.
“Tough break. But we’ll manage.”
“Yeah.”
As soon as Grant had left, I’d told Jack about the damage. It was more than I should have disclosed, but it was one of those times wh
en you spew everything you’re thinking because of your utter shock at the ridiculousness of it all.
Jack eased the roller into the tray. “Well, you let me know what you decide. I know lots of folks around here who could help. A few of them even owe me favors.”
“Thanks,” I said, wondering how many favors it was going to take to pull off this flip. My father was a stickler for staying within a dime of his budgets. He had this uncanny ability to create one based on his own appraisal of a property plus the official one from an inspector. He’d get list prices of comparable homes, factor in his buying price and the cost of updating, and if the profit margin was high enough, he took on the project. For all of his faults, I admired his ability to calculate risk versus profit. If he had seen Vergie’s house himself, he might have spotted one of these things that had made the top of Grant’s list. He might have decided to sell it “as-is” instead of risking his own money against a return.
But I’d insisted he let me do this one, and he had skipped his own inspection and given me what he thought was a reasonable budget of $8,500. Every time I started feeling anxious about it, I reminded myself that he would get his money back regardless: The house would sell, and since he was only out the taxes he covered for my inheritance of the property plus the repair budget, he would recoup his money even if this ended in disaster and I sold the house under market value. If I did this right, I’d have a profit too. And I’d take on bigger moneymakers that came my father’s way—historic ones with some character.
This house was my set of training wheels. And with my father, you only got one shot to prove you didn’t need the assistance.
When Jack had rolled the last empty spot on the wall, he poured the remaining tan paint from the tray into the pail. Then he peeled the tape from around the door and windows.
He stood back to admire the room. “I used to think all those off-whites and tans were basically the same, but you proved me wrong, Miz Parker.”
“It’s looking good,” I said, climbing down the ladder.
“I think a celebration is in order,” Jack said.
“How’s that?”
He dunked the roller in a tray of water and said, “Two rooms in two days. Not a bad average.”
“This is the warm-up, remember?”
He grinned and closed the paint buckets, stepping on them to seal the lids. “I think we should go have a nice celebratory meal. Can I take you to dinner, cher?”
A dinner date with Jack was hardly the way to keep him out of my zone of distraction, but it was impossible to say no to him. His eyebrows had that hopeful arch to them, and when he unleashed that crooked smile I said, “Sure you can.”
“I’m just going to jump in the shower and try to scrub off this layer of butternut or pecan or whatever this lovely shade is. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Take your time,” I said. I will not picture Jack in the shower. I will not. Will not.
He smirked as he stepped into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door behind him. When the water started running, I imagined him peeling off his jeans and T-shirt. I grabbed the roller and paint tray, and took them into the kitchen to wash them in the sink.
When I was finished, I went upstairs and quickly changed clothes. I considered a hot bath, but decided to do that later, when I could stumble down the hall to bed and not have to be social and chat through dinner. A bath had a way of relaxing all of my parts—especially my brain.
I hadn’t packed a variety of clothes, since I hadn’t planned on evenings out. Jeans, paint-splattered shorts, T-shirts: These are the things I packed for work. I didn’t want to look like I was reading this as a date, so I went for a low-key nice fit—jeans that had no paint smears and a slim-fitting scoop neck T-shirt that normal gals might sometimes wear on dates. I ran a comb through my hair and tamed it back into a ponytail, pulled on my favorite vintage boots and called it done.
Downstairs I paused by Jack’s door when I heard the buzzing of an electric razor. Outside, the dog barked, agitated. When I opened the front door, a woman was standing on the porch, one arm raised to knock. In her other arm was a covered dish. Her mouth opened into a tiny O.
I stared at her for a few seconds, but she said nothing.
“Hi,” I said, because it seemed like I had to. “Can I help you?”
Her big hazel eyes narrowed. She looked a few years older than me, with heavy mascara and platinum hair. She wore a blouse so tight across the chest, the most critical button looked like it would pop the next time she inhaled. Her denim skirt was short and frayed, as if she’d cut it to make it shorter. She wobbled on her pink high heels, and I frowned as I thought of them leaving little divots in the floorboards of my porch.
“I was looking for Jack,” she said, drawing his name out into two syllables, Jay-yack.
Bella growled from the corner of the porch.
“Oh, he’s, uh, out right now. Can I take a message?”
She looked past me into the house, then gave me a long once-over. “His truck’s here. Isn’t he off today?”
Heat rose in my chest.
“I’m Enza,” I said. “And you are?”
“Bringing him a casserole.” She smiled then, blinking at me slowly, the way a cat does when staring you down. “I know he had a bad night, and I usually drop by after the hard days to cheer him up.”
“Ah, that’s thoughtful of you to bring a casserole.”
“Yeah, some nights I bring him dinner. Sometimes we get around to eating it.” She pursed her lips.
My cheeks burned. I wanted to shove that casserole right into her face. Bella growled again, and I thought, Good dog.
“Well, sorry you missed him.” I moved to shut the door.
The woman smiled her fake smile again and thrust the dish into my arms. “Tell him I’ll see him next time,” she purred. “And tell him I said thanks again for last time.” She winked at me, and then turned and strutted down the porch steps. I cringed at the clack-clack of those high heels and fought the urge to slam the door. She was no doubt waiting for that, so I shut it gently and then stormed down the hall and flung open the door to Jack’s room, still carrying that damned covered dish against my ribs.
The door banged against the wall, and Jack turned toward me, dropping the shirt he was holding to just below his waist. His hair was wet from the shower, and he was completely naked.
“Jeez,” he said. “Don’t you knock?” His big blue eyes were wide. They shifted from me to the casserole, and he cocked his head. “What’s that?”
“Dinner.” I tore my gaze away from his chest. “From your girlfriend.” He must have thought I was so naive. “How long did you think you could hide that from me, Jack?”
His eyes got wider. He held the shirt against him. I tried to ignore his broad shoulders, his muscular thighs, the tattoo of the bird that covered his arm from elbow to shoulder, wrapping onto his back.
“Who?” he asked, and he looked genuinely puzzled.
“About five-four, bottle blond, skintight wardrobe. I’m not that kind of girl, you jerk.”
I shoved the dish at him. He dropped the shirt as he caught the dish, and I stole one last look as he held it as skillfully as he could manage. Of course he’d be fucking perfect all over, with a body like one Michelangelo chiseled out of marble.
“Now hang on,” he said. “I do not have a girlfriend. I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Well someone headed down the driveway might beg to differ.”
“Enza,” he said. He smiled like he was stifling a laugh, and I wanted to clock him.
“This is funny to you?”
“Miranda is not my girlfriend.” He stepped behind the dresser and set the casserole on top, then pulled a pair of boxer shorts from the nearest chair. “It’s absolutely not what you’re thinking.” Hiding himself behind the dresser, he slipped the shorts on.
I scowled, turning toward the door. “How stupid do you think I am? Does any woman ever fall for that line any more?�
�
“Listen,” he said, grabbing my arm. “That woman has been after me forever. We went out a few times, I broke up with her, and she just keeps coming back like a damn weed. I keep telling her it’s over, but she doesn’t get it.”
I pulled my arm free. “She said she came over all the time.”
“She does. In that way that people do right before you get a restraining order against them. She shows up at work, she shows up here. I even caught her inside once, waiting for me to get home. But I swear, there is nothing between us.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I turned again, and he rushed to the door, blocking me from leaving.
“You don’t believe me,” he said, sounding truly hurt.
“Jack Mayronne, you let me out of here this instant.” I glared at him, picturing a little voodoo doll with his stupid perfectly mussed hair. I imagined sticking pins into the middle where its heart should be. Then sticking a few in some places lower down.
He placed his hand on my arm, sending a rippling current along my skin. “I wouldn’t lie to you like that.”
“Don’t,” I said. When I reached for the doorknob, he leaned into me. I could feel the heat from the shower coming off him in a wave. Under different circumstances, I would have buried my face in his hair, but I just tensed up, waiting for him to move.
“Trap me in the bedroom?” I said. “That’s your plan?”
He grinned that damned crooked grin and said, “There are worse places to be trapped with me, non?”
That was it. I stomped his toes, and he sprang back, a yelp filling the air between us. I flung the door open and said, “I want you out of here by the time I get back.”
“Dammit, Enza. Come back here!”
I stomped down the hall, my boot heels pounding the floorboards hard enough to leave a few dents of my own. As I strode out the front door, I could still hear him calling my name.
Chapter 7
Outside, the air felt less charged. The sky was turning to violet, like the whole world was about to start over from scratch. I hated the idea of being in the house with Jack just then. So I climbed into my Jeep and started driving.
Bayou My Love: A Novel Page 7
