by Theresa Weir
After the toilet slurp, he lifted his head and pricked his ears. Alertness brightened his expression, and I was shocked at how familiar he already seemed.
He let out a loud woof.
I squeezed my eyes tight against the pain and laid a hand on his head.
“Quiet, big guy. Please.”
A series of barks followed, and he pivoted to bound downstairs. I put my hands over my ears to keep my head from exploding, then realized some of the pounding came from the front door.
I edged my way to the first floor. Sunshine clawed at me through every window. My hand managed to nab sunglasses from the counter as I shuffled to the door. It was solid, no peephole, but there was a mail slot at just the right height for William to thrust his nose into. Mercifully, he’d stopped barking to snuffle and growl through the opening at whoever was on the other side.
“Who is it?”
“Miss O’Hanlon, is everything all right?”
The deep voice, male, could be familiar, but in my foggy state, I wasn’t sure.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Gabe,” he said in a tone that indicated I should have known.
On another day, that tone would have rubbed me the wrong way, but as it was all I could do to keep one eye open, I let it slide. The Rolodex in my head flipped around. Gabe, Gabe, Gabe…Fagen! My gardener-slash-handyman. Of course. It was the second Saturday of the month when he came around to mow and tidy the yard and take care of whatever needed to be done on the old, three-apartment house. Last month, it’d been Mrs. Spangler’s dripping faucet. The month before, I’d replaced Mr. Weinperth’s refrigerator.
I didn’t charge the two elderly tenants much rent, and even though my main source of income had just dried up, the company had given me a decent severance package, and the house had been paid for long ago. Remembering this brightened my mood.
Gabe Fagen and I spoke on the phone perhaps once a year and otherwise communicated via his bills and my checks to pay them. I’m not sure we’d ever met in person. He’d come with the building, as had the tenants, when my mother died. From the sweet scent of fresh-cut grass wafting through the mail slot, he must have already mowed, and I couldn’t believe I’d slept through it.
“Yes,” I answered, drawing the word out because I wasn’t sure why he was asking. “Everything’s fine.” Uh huh. And the pity party the night before?
Silence. Had I taken too long to answer? Had I spoken at all? Had he left? William whimpered.
Thankfully, I’d left my keys hanging in the lock the night before, so it was easy to turn the deadbolt and crack the door. William shoved his head through, forced it wide and bowled into the man standing on the stoop, knocking him down all three steps to the walk and straddling his chest.
“Oh, my God.” I found myself on my knees next to Mr. Fagen, lightly tapping his cheek. No response. William sat to the other side where I’d shoved him, panting, smiling. He turned to make a quick circuit of the small front yard, sniffing and peeing as he went, then returned, pretending concern for my handyman. But I had a feeling remorse hadn’t entered his repertoire. I glanced up and down the street. It was quiet.
Mr. Fagen wasn’t what I expected. Truthfully, I hadn’t pictured him at all. So typical of me to not give him a second thought except for the work he did. I really needed to pay attention to the people around me. I would. As soon as I could think straight. As soon as I dealt with…everything. Fagen was tall, as far as I could tell with him lying on the ground. Broad shoulders encased in a battered t-shirt. Short brown hair. Maybe a little older than me, and maybe quite attractive, despite being slack-jawed-eyes-in-the-back-of-his-skull unconscious. I felt around his scalp. No blood.
A door opened and closed behind me. “Oh my, what have you done to dear Mr. Fagen?” Mrs. Spangler rushed over to us.
“Call 911,” I said.
She looked him over. He groaned as she moved his arms and legs. “Nonsense, Stephanie,” she said. “That’s not what he would want.”
How did she know what he’d want? Skyrocketing insurance and liability costs popped into my head and I envisioned my savings following my severance down the rat hole of a lawsuit. I sent William a castigating look. He rolled on his back and stuck his legs in the air. Mrs. Spangler finally noticed him.
“Good heavens, what’s that?”
“That’s what happened to dear Mr. Fagen.”
“I see.” She narrowed her eyes at the dog and stood, that blaring morning sun glinting off her silver hair making me wonder what I’d done with those sunglasses.
She wore a knee-skimming, sheer white dress over a red bathing suit. Matching red swim shoes stuck out the top of large woven tote she’d dropped. I wouldn’t be caught dead in the outfit, but somehow a woman nearly twice my age carried it off. I remembered my mother telling me Mrs. Spangler had been a dancer back in the day. That could explain it.
“Well,” she continued. “I’m sure he did what he thought he must.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I would deal with the Conqueror later. The contents of my stomach threatened to bail and my head pounded as I stood, but I figured that was nothing compared to the headache my handyman would have later. It would be a miracle if he didn’t sue.
“We have to call 911,” I said again.
A fuzzy no came from Mr. Fagen.
“See? Help me get him into the house.” Mrs. Spangler yanked on one of his arms.
I gave her credit for pretending she could pick him up. Lacking the clarity or energy to fight her, I got my shoulder under his other armpit and with a little help from himself, we got him onto the porch. I tried to wrangle him toward Mrs. Spangler’s door, but she led the way into my side of the house.
“Wait a minute—”
“Oh, I can’t take him. I’m on my way to water aerobics. Then, I’m having lunch with the girls and we’re going shopping, and then I’ll be at the Center. You’ll manage. He wouldn’t fit on my settee, anyway. Your couch will be perfect.”
“Um…”
We were through the door before I could protest more.
William helpfully jumped on the couch first, stretched the length of it, laid his head on a pillow, and quirked his eyebrows.
“Go on, Biggun’,” Mrs. Spangler said with a sharp gesture. “You’ve helped enough for today.”
William slithered to the floor and lay there.
We dropped Mr. Fagen on the couch and swung his legs up. I squashed a pillow under his head wondering if my day could get any worse.
“You take off his boots while I fetch a couple of things, then I really must be going.” She left me alone.
I thought Mr. Fagen and William could manage while I ran upstairs and dressed. When I returned, my dog stood over the man, breathing heavily in his face.
“Come,” I said with a tug on his collar.
I dragged him to the kitchen and filled one bowl with water and another with dog food and put them on the floor for him, then poured myself a glass of juice and downed four Motrin. Mrs. Spangler bustled back in without knocking and I realized that my tidy life had trotted down the same rat hole as my savings and severance.
“What on Earth are you doing? Get a cool cloth for his head.” She went through to the living room. “Goodness, you haven’t even gotten his boots off yet. Honestly. Kids,” she said with an impatient wave. She knelt and began unlacing Mr. Fagen’s heavy work boots.
I got the cool cloth, slapped it on his forehead, then got one for myself and sank into a chair. “He probably has a concussion. I’m calling 911.”
Mrs. Spangler stood. “He needs ice for his head,” she said as if I hadn’t spoken. She opened a tiny bottle she’d brought in with her and let a few drops of its contents fall onto the cloth over Fagen’s face.
The scent of lavender filled the room. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
“There now.” Mrs. Spangler came over and cupped my cheek. “You take good care of him, and I’ll check on you later. Mr. Weinp
erth is upstairs, but he’ll be leaving soon for the Center.” She placed the tiny bottle in my hand. “Use a few drops of that every now and again.” She glanced at Fagen’s inert form, then back at me. “For yourself and for him.”
“The Center?” I asked, feeling dazed.
“That place downtown where the orphan kids are. Mr. Weinperth reads to them on Saturdays. I teach them ballet.” She cocked her head slightly, reminding me of William. “Poor thing, you’ve been so busy. I’m glad you’re taking the day off. About time, too.”
I hadn’t been mothered in years, and it felt good, though I hated admitting it. She headed toward the door. I didn’t want her to leave. Aside from needing and wanting nothing more than a return to bed, I had no idea what to do with dear Mr. Fagen.
“Supper’s at seven,” she called over her shoulder. “We’re grilling salmon. Come over around six. Bring the men.” With that, she was gone.
The men?
I looked at “the men.” William curled in a tight ball in the frayed easy chair asleep, his tail wrapped round his nose. Mr. Fagen—one boot on and one off—showed signs of coming around. I fetched a package of frozen peas and sat next to him on my mother’s deep old couch.
Color had returned to his cheeks. He looked lean and healthy like he spent a good deal of time outside. I scooped one hand under his neck and gently lifted his head enough to slide the peas underneath. His skin felt gritty, but his hair was soft, and he smelled of grass and gasoline and sweat. I maintained contact longer than necessary, enjoying the feel of him. The term, “real man” came to mind. Absurd. I needed to go back to bed.
And yet, my heart sped up a bit and my stomach performed an unexpected little flip unrelated to the hangover. The men I usually came into contact with wore suits, reeked of aftershave, and always looked pale.
“Mr. Fagen?”
His eyelids fluttered open. He winced and looked confused. “Wha—”
“Shhhh. You hit your head.” I held up three fingers. “How many?”
He managed to squint and look annoyed at the same time. “Three. Where am I?”
“My house. Do you know your name?”
“Of course I know my damn name.”
This was going well.
We glared at each other for a moment, but the effort was too much for either of us to maintain. His lids slid down again. Exactly how I felt.
“Well?” I prompted after a moment’s silence.
He put his hand to the cloth on his forehead and sniffed the air. “What the hell—?”
“Your name?”
Without opening his eyes, he said, “Gabriel Michael Raphael Fagen.”
Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael? I couldn’t help tilting my head to one side as if studying a sculpture. With a day or two’s beard growth, dark wavy hair, long eyelashes women would envy, high cheekbones, a strong jaw and a mouth just short of voluptuous, he could be a fallen angel.
“What?” he groused.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“My parents thought I would need all the help I could get.”
“I didn’t ask.”
We were silent again for a time. I became aware of warmth where our hips touched. He felt solid. I needed solid. But then, I had William.
“Just Gabe,” he said.
I tried to imagine a mother feeling the need to burden a tiny baby with the names of three archangels. There had to be more to the story.
“What happened?” he asked after a short time.
“My dog knocked you down. I’m sorry. Mrs. Spangler insisted you wouldn’t want to go to the hospital, but I really think a doctor should check you out.”
“That’s not a dog. That’s a horse.”
I glanced at William where he slept, his lips fluttering with each exhalation. He must be exhausted, too. All that time in and out of the shelter would have been stressful. We would rest together for a while, then I would find a new job that didn’t require so many hours or travel.
Returning my gaze to Gabe, I asked, “Are you sure? At the shelter they insisted that he is, indeed, a dog. But I haven’t spent any time around horses. Perhaps you’re right.”
A sexy smile grew into a chuckle and I began to relax.
“When did you get a dog?”
“Yesterday. His name is William the Conqueror.”
Gabe pushed himself up on his elbows, and I moved to give him room. “Ah,” he said with another wince, feeling the back of his head.
“You should probably keep ice on that for a while. Do you feel dizzy? Can I get you anything?” Can I please go back to bed and start this day over? Although Gabe seemed good-humored about what had happened, I reminded myself I didn’t know him well, and people sometimes still sued, even after insisting they were all right.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a doctor?”
“No doctor,” Gabe said. “I’m fine.”
He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. His eyes promptly rolled back in his head and he slumped to the couch. That did it. I got the phone and returned to Gabe’s side, taking his wrist and feeling for a pulse. His blood pumped steadily. Not dead. Good.
Before I could start to dial, he gripped my arm. He was plenty strong.
“Just need to rest a while, okay?” He positioned the frozen peas so they cradled the back of his head. “Don’t call anyone.”
I could sympathize. I avoided the doctor myself. Still, you never knew with head wounds.
“I’m not going to die on your couch,” he said with convincing clarity.
My headache had returned with double force. My body felt heavy. My joints ached. Maybe I was coming down with something. “I’m really not in the mood to deal with a dead body, so I appreciate that.”
“Thanks for the help. Go get some rest, and I’ll let myself out in a little while.” He opened one eye. “You look worse than I feel.”
In a testament to just how worse I felt, it made perfect sense to leave an injured man—who wore only one boot—on my couch.
I trudged up the stairs. William immediately rose and followed. Halfway to the top, I turned. The sun now slanted through the stained glass window next to the fireplace, drenching the couch and the man on it in a fractured reddish halo. A fallen angel, indeed.
“If you die on my couch, I’ll kill you,” I said.
He yawned. “If I die on your couch, I’ll kill myself.”
Chapter 3
Gabe waited a few moments after hearing the upstairs bedroom door close before ditching the clammy washcloth and thawing bag of peas. If he’d really hit his head, he probably would have gone to the doctor. If he’d hit his head. He burrowed deeper into the down-filled cushions of Martha’s old couch. He was glad Stephanie hadn’t gotten rid of it. It was still the same bottomless well of a comfort as it had been when he used to crash here as a kid. Not a kid, really, though it felt like that now.
He hadn’t been in this side of the building since Martha died. Stephanie wasn’t home enough to break anything or even wear out the faucet washers, so there’d been no need. And unlike Mrs. Spangler, Stephanie probably changed her own light bulbs. He glanced around the room. Other than Martha being gone, little had changed in two-and-a-half years.
Including Stephanie’s work ethic. What the hell was she doing home on a Saturday, anyway? He recognized the smell and look of a hangover. That was unusual enough, but he didn’t think it would keep her from going to work. It had to be something else.
And what was with the giant dog? Gabe couldn’t decide which was stranger—Steph being home, the hangover, or…what had she called him? William the Conqueror?
Whatever it was, she’d be starving in a little while and in need of a good breakfast. He got up and returned the peas to the freezer, noting that the only other things in there were a pizza, a box of fish sticks and too much frost. The fridge wasn’t much better. He checked the pantry, made a mental list of what he needed, and headed to the store.
Within the hour, Ga
be had a pot of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling in a pan, bread slices poised in the toaster’s slots, onions, garlic, and peppers sautéing, eggs whisked. The smells should wake her soon.
And then what?
He thought about their earlier exchange. What had possessed him to rattle off his entire name? And be defensive about it like a…kid?
She’d always done that to him. His brain cells took a hike, his tongue swelled up, his lungs shriveled. Nothing had changed since they were teenagers except they were thirty years older.
Except that he’d never heard of her missing work, drinking too much, or having time for a pet. Stephanie O’Hanlon had eyes only for her career. He’d kept tabs on her through her mother. Martha had always encouraged him to call Steph, but it had never seemed like the right time. When Mrs. Spangler casually mentioned The Lady of the House hadn’t yet surfaced this morning and perhaps he should check on her, he’d been genuinely concerned. Then…things had gotten out of hand. Not without a little help from Mrs. Spangler, who’d forever been in league with Martha to foster a relationship between him and Steph.
Which was exactly what he’d always wanted and exactly what he’d always avoided.
Movement upstairs and the unmistakable clang of the pipes as the shower started alerted him that she was awake.
The eggs joined the veggies. The bread went into the toaster.
The monster dog bounded down the steps, into the kitchen, and put his hairy front paws on the edge of the counter, sniffing and snuffling.
Steph followed shortly after, minus the bounding, sniffling, and snuffling. She wore baggy sweats, a sleeveless thermal shirt that drifted off one shoulder, and had her hair wrapped in a towel. The plain scent of soap preceded her into the room. Gabe’s heart stopped.
Her eyes widened. “What are you doing up?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
He gestured with the spatula to indicate breakfast, as if that clearly answered both questions. They stared at each other for a few moments while the dog looked from one to the other, probably trying to figure out which of them was going to toss him a piece of bacon.
