The Other Twin

by Nan Dixon

  * * *

  A BUMP ECHOED above Nathan’s head. The bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling swayed and dust drifted to the dirt floor of the Fitzgerald carriage house.

  What were Cheryl and the kid doing, dropping loaded boxes from the top of the bunk bed?

  They’d moved into the carriage house this afternoon, barely a week after she’d let the drunk into a secured apartment building. He’d helped unload the truck.

  At least she’d be safer here than walking on River Street when the bars closed.

  He checked the time on his phone, but the numbers didn’t make sense—6:08 p.m.? It was after dinner. The sun had set. It had to be after eight—8:06 p.m.?

  The kid thought he was a butthead. Hell, maybe he was. He planned to keep his distance from the pair. Kids made him uncomfortable. They guessed they were smarter than him.

  Everyone was smarter than him. First-graders could read better than he did. Nathan inhaled and choked on the dust.

  He unrolled the architect’s plans and anchored them on his toolbox. Since he’d remodeled restaurants in Atlanta, he was in charge of this project.

  Studying the blueprint, he willed his eyes and brain to work together for once. He planned to lay out the footings tonight. No way would he let the crew see him struggle.

  His twin brother, Daniel, might think Mom and Pop had scraped the bottom of the barrel asking Nathan to return to Forester Construction, but he would prove his brother wrong. He’d grown up in the five years since he’d been kicked out of the family company. Nathan wanted back in, permanently, not just while Pop went through chemo in Texas.

  For a week every month, Pop and Mom traveled from Savannah to Houston. Pop was enrolled in a clinical trial to help him beat back the monster Myelodysplastic syndromes. MDS. Cancer.

  The thought of not being good enough for the family business still stung. All his life, Nathan had wanted to be normal. Was that too much to hope for? To read without getting confused? To remember the names of people he’d known all his life? Hell, just reading street signs would be nice.

  He shook it off. He’d done okay in Atlanta. He’d coped.

  Locating the back door on the plans, he calculated where the first wall support would be and recited the numbers into his phone. Then he grabbed a tape measure and a roll of flagging ribbon. Time to translate the plan into the actual space.

  He moved to the kitchen area and tucked the end of the tape measure into a crack between the floor and the wall. Checking his phone, he walked straight back. He needed thirty feet. He looked at the numbers on his phone and the ones on the tape measure. The numbers swam and twisted. He closed his eyes and looked again, but it didn’t help.

  He ripped off a piece of flagging tape and placed it on the floor, not willing to commit. Then he worked his way through the plan.

  After he’d taken a half dozen measurements, he stepped away, comparing the markings with the drawing. The architect’s plan was a rectangle. His mess of orange tags looked more like a star.

  “Damn it!”

  He kicked one of the pillars supporting the second story. Why couldn’t he do this? He kicked the pillar again and dust rained down.

  He’d be here all night and even then he might not get it right. The crew would show up at seven thirty tomorrow and he’d still be doing effing measurements a ten-year-old could do.

  He headed to his toolbox, yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out a flask.

  The door to the courtyard creaked open. He tucked the flask in his back pocket and spun to see who was spying on his stupidity.

  “Ooh.” Cheryl filled the narrow doorway. “What are you doing?”

  “Working,” he snapped.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. Her plain gray T-shirt strained against the swell of her small breasts. Her faded cutoff jeans cupped her ass like a man’s hands would.

  He fought to keep his eyes on her face. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail. He’d only seen it brushing her shoulders a few times. It was straight and fine and would feel like silk in his fingers. Not that he would ever touch Cheryl’s hair.

  “Abby told me the work wouldn’t start until tomorrow. It’s almost ten o’clock.” She hesitated before stepping inside. “Did you kick something?”

  He swallowed. “The post.”

  Her brown eyes grew as large as dinner plates. She stepped back. Yeah. Be afraid.

  “What is that?” She moved into the room, pointing at the orange tape.

  “A fucking mess.”

  Her shoulders straightened. “I know you’re supervising this project. I’d appreciate you warning the crew that a six-year-old boy lives here. I don’t want him learning words like that.”

  “Sure.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing off his cap. The same kid who called him butthead.

  It landed at Cheryl’s feet. She picked it up, batted it against her leg to dust off the dirt and then handed it to him. “What are the orange tags supposed to be?”

  He jammed his cap back on his head. “I was marking off the kitchen. We’re pouring footings tomorrow.”

  Now he’d have to ask one of the crew to help. Apparently, he couldn’t measure and mark. The other option was to have his twin help. Perfect Daniel would give him the look. The one that said Nathan was an idiot. Besides, he’d lied and told Pop and Daniel he could do this.

  Cheryl stared at the mess on the floor, frowned and then moved to the plans he hadn’t rolled up. She carried them to where he’d been measuring. “This is close.”

  “Does it look like a rectangle to you?”

  Her head snapped up at the snarl in his voice. Her brown eyes flashed. “Do you want help or not?”

  She was willing to help him? Relief ran through him like a warm shower, easing the strain in his shoulders. “Yeah, I do.” Then he remembered her son. What the hell was his name? “What about your...kid?”

  “Josh sleeps like a rock.” She turned. Clipped to her back pocket was some sort of monitor. “If he wakes, I’ll hear him.”

  His eyes lingered on her lovely rounded butt. He wouldn’t mind wrapping his hands around those cheeks.

  Too bad she had the kid. Josh. Josh always glared at him. Kids were a deal breaker.

  “Let’s start over,” she said. “What’s the scale?”

  He knew this. “It’s...” The words slipped away. His fingers formed fists.

  She stared at the drawings. “Is it an eighth of an inch equals a foot?”

  He nodded, afraid the words would tangle. The story of his life. His fingers flexed against his thighs.

  “Wait. They already have the feet marked here. That’s what this means, right?”

  She moved close, showing him the blueprint. She smelled like—apples. His mouth watered. When her head turned, her hair brushed against his arm, a silky, soft brush.

  He’d known it would be.

  She shook the blueprint. Using her thumb, she pointed to a number. “Is that the measurement from one wall to another?”

  “Yes.” He choked out the word, hoping he’d answered correctly. Sometimes, as much as he concentrated, everything came out twisted.

  “Let’s see where you went wrong.” She set down the plans. “Can you hold the other end of the tape measure?”

  He headed to the wall to be a friggin’ anchor.

  “This one’s right.” She tapped the first piece of tape he’d placed.

  They slid along the wall.

  “This one needs to be here.” She moved the orange tape. And kept checking and rechecking each measurement. He’d gotten half of them right. What had taken him thirty minutes took her five.

  “That looks right, doesn’t it?” She held the blueprint and compared it with the tape they’d run and anchored.

 
He stood behind her, inhaling another whiff of apples. “Yeah.”

  He could see the space now. There were the doors into the kitchen and more doors into Abby’s large storage area.

  Cheryl helped him mark off the walk-in freezer, too.

  “Now I can finish running the tape for the footings.” Relief eased out of him like a curl of wood from a plane. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She dusted off her hands. “Anything else you want to get done tonight?”

  “I’ll mark the wall and doors.” That way, if the crew moved the tape when they did demolition, he’d know where everything was supposed to go. He’d developed tricks over the years to convince people that he was in control.

  “Then I’ll head home.”

  “Thank you.” Too bad Cheryl had a kid. Otherwise he would ask her out.

  She moved to the door, stopped and turned back. “Do you...have trouble reading?”

  Reality slapped him in the face. “I can read,” he growled. Sometimes.

  “I could help.” She gave him a small smile. “At the army school, I worked with kids who had trouble reading.”

  His face heated with shame. Kids. She’d helped kids. “I don’t need help.”

  She jerked back a step at the snap in his voice. The woman was scared of her shadow. “It’s just...”

  “Thanks for the help.” He pulled the flask out of his pocket. He wouldn’t admit his flaws.

  Her face paled and she crept backward again. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t drink in front of my son.”

  “I’ll bet you would.” He took a big swig. Not wanting her to see she’d hurt him.

  She dashed outside. Her footsteps pounded the stairs to the carriage house apartment.

  He twirled the cap back on. He’d been a jerk. But he didn’t need any help from a do-gooder like Cheryl Henshaw. His flaws couldn’t be fixed.

  * * *

  THUMP!

  Cheryl jolted out of a deep sleep.

  Josh? Had he fallen out of bed?

  She raced into his bedroom. When she didn’t find him on the floor, she scrambled up the ladder. He was still asleep, his hand tucked under his pillow.

  She rubbed her forehead as she headed back to bed. Maybe she’d been dreaming.

  Her alarm clock flipped to six thirty. Her first morning to sleep in for five days and she was already awake?

  Thump!

  The noise came from the second floor.

  It had been a week since she’d helped Nathan measure. Since then, the work crews always arrived at seven thirty and they only worked on the first floor. This noise was next door. A chill raced over her skin.

  Cheryl threw on yesterday’s shorts, tucked in the T-shirt she’d worn to bed and grabbed her phone. Slipping her feet into her Keds, she hurried to the kitchen.

  The carriage house apartment had two doors. The main door led to the outside steps and down to the Fitzgerald House courtyard. The kitchen door opened into the interior of the carriage house’s second floor.

  Holding her breath, she put her ear to the kitchen door.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  She dug out the dead bolt key from the kitchen drawer and paused in front of the door. The key jangled in her shaking hand. Who was back there? Thieves? A homeless person?

  Forcing herself to breathe, she shoved the key into the lock. For Josh and the Fitzgeralds she had to be brave. The Fitzgeralds had done so much for her—saved her. It was her turn to stand up for them.

  Before turning the key, she punched in 9-1-1 on her cell phone, but didn’t hit Dial.

  Inhaling, she unlocked the door and twisted the knob. Nothing.

  She pulled and tugged, then put her foot on the door frame and yanked. The door gave way with a soft whoomp. She stumbled, clutching the knob to stay upright.

  In the dark hall, she waited for her eyes to adjust and her heart to stop pounding.

  A screech of wood on wood came from around the corner. So did a sliver of light.

  Cheryl tiptoed silently toward the light. Her childhood had taught her well. She touched the scar next to her ear. Mama had been a mean drunk.

  Before she rounded the corner, she heard a deep voice swear. Her phone clattered to the floor. As much as she wanted to escape to the apartment and throw the bolt, she didn’t. She snatched up her phone and held her thumb over the dial button.

  “Who’s here?” she called.

  Silence.

  She turned the corner. The door was ajar, weak light leaking out. “I’ve called the police.”

  “Now, why would you do that?” A man moved into the hallway, blocking the light.

  All she could see was big. Big man. Big shoulders. Big hands fisted on his hips.

  “Get out before they arrive,” she whispered through chattering teeth.

  “Cheryl.” The man moved closer.

  The man knew her name. He rushed toward her.

  She turned to run, pressing the dial button on her phone.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She knew that voice. “Nathan?”

  “Did you really call the cops?” he asked.

  She looked at her phone. The call had already connected.

  She pulled it to her ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t...”

  Nathan’s hands slapped against his thighs.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a woman asked.

  “I...I don’t have one. I dialed accidently.” She forced the words out.

  “Are you sure?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  There was silence on the line. Then the operator asked, “Do you need help?”

  “I heard a noise, but it’s nothing.” At least she hoped it was nothing. What was Nathan doing here?

  After the woman checked one more time, she hung up. What if they sent a patrol car anyway? The Fitzgeralds might decide she wasn’t worth all the trouble she always caused. She shivered. Only last year, Gray and Abby had saved her and Josh from her brother-in-law, Levi.

  “You didn’t convince me nothing was wrong. And I know everything’s all right.” Nathan smacked the wall. “I’ll be lucky if I’m not in jail within the hour.”

  She jumped. “Why are you here? You worked until almost nine.”

  And not just last night, but for the entire week since she’d helped him measure. Not that she was checking on him. While tucking Josh in bed, she’d glanced out the window and Nathan’s truck had still been in the lot.

  “I’m... I just...” Nathan shrugged. “I want to live here while working on this project.”

  “Here?” she squeaked. No way.

  “Yeah. In the carriage house.”

  She hated the idea of Nathan living next door. Even in the dim light she caught his blush. “Why?”

  “You saw how slow I am.” He paced into the room and then back. “This is the first major project I’ve handled for the company.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Story of my life.” His fingers rattled against his jeans. “If I’m living here, I can work more hours.”

  “But no one’s lived here in years,” she said.

  He waved her over. “What do you think?”

  She nodded, wanting him to walk in front of her. No way was she letting him get between her and the door.

  He rolled his eyes and held up his hands like he was harmless.

  He wasn’t harmless, but she followed.

  A trouble light hung off a fixture, the orange cord dissecting the room. The apartment was a mirror image of hers. The kitchens backed up to each other and the closed door was probably one of the two bedrooms. Sitting in the middle of the living room was a canopy bed that used to be in her apartm
ent.

  “What was the thumping?” she asked.

  “I moved the bed to access the water valve.” He indicated an open panel in the living room wall.

  “That’s a strange place to put water valves.”

  “It’s probably here because the carriage house didn’t have running water when it was built.” He crouched next to a wrench.

  A wrench could do a lot of damage. Cheryl made herself smaller, less of target. And hated her actions. Her hands formed ineffective fists. All the good years with Brad and she was back to her childhood. Because of Levi.

  “You’re shivering.” Nathan’s gaze dropped to the thin T-shirt she’d slept in. His nostrils flared. “Are you cold?”

  “I’m fine.” But the heat in his eyes made her shake harder. She wished she’d thrown on a bra.

  “I think this apartment will work for me.” His gaze snapped back to her face. “I’ll talk to Abby.”

  “Sure.” She backed out of the room. “I’d better check on Josh.”

  She dragged her kitchen door closed, turned the lock and sank to the floor. Her nipples had pebbled from Nathan’s hot look. Only Brad had made her feel like she was desirable.

  She didn’t want to feel that way about Nathan. He was trouble. With his swearing and drinking, he’d be a terrible role model for Josh.

  She couldn’t let him live next door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THIS COULD WORK. Nathan shut off the water and unplugged the trouble light.

  He moved into the hallway just as Cheryl’s lock clicked.

  She’d been shaking earlier. Fear? He’d heard some of what had happened last year. Her brother-in-law had been stealing her military survivor checks. Instead of stopping him, she’d run away but the asshole had found her at Fitzgerald House. Gray and Abby had protected Cheryl and her kid. He couldn’t imagine such a frightened woman standing up for herself.

  But she’d checked on the noises he’d been making. Shoot, this morning she’d actually called the police. That was something.

  Once Jed, his site supervisor, showed up, they mapped out the day’s tasks. Then he headed over to the B and B to catch Abby. He might even snag breakfast. Food was a perk of working at Fitzgerald House. Usually Pop or Daniel reaped those benefits.