by Sarah Title
It took about two days of gentle, but constant, prodding before Myron coaxed it out of him. Then the next time the guy called, Myron grabbed the phone (he was pretty quick for an old man, especially when Walker was caught off guard) and gave him what-for.
Actually, Myron told the guy that he had the wrong number, but while he had him on the phone, had he accepted Jesus as his personal lord and savior? And would he trust in the goodness of God to save him from the fiery sting of the rattler’s venom?
The reporter never called again.
And Walker learned that it was not worth the energy trying to keep secrets from Myron. It was not the most normal way to form a friendship, going from shop teacher to guardian angel, but then what did Walker know about normal friendships?
But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Not all the time, anyway.
“I have a new neighbor,” he admitted as he helped Myron the rest of the way off the bench while pretending not to.
Myron pretended not to lean on Walker’s arm. “What’s he like? Is he cuter than me?”
Walker thought about shorts and scowls. “Yeah.”
“Ah, so no chance of getting my old room back?”
Myron smiled like he was joking, but Walker knew better. He knew it killed the old man to be in a home, to have to rely on other people to take care of him. Walker hated that. Even if Lindsey were a perfect tenant—which she was not—Walker would give anything to give Myron his independence back. But the house had too many stairs, and Myron was too stubborn to see that leaving the lights on overnight was one thing, but leaving the oven on all day was another.
Shady Grove was for the best.
The best sucked.
“She’s driving me crazy,” he told the old man.
“She?” Myron’s eyes lit up with interest.
Walker ignored the eyebrows. “She makes a lot of noise.”
“With those paper-thin walls? What’d she do, sneeze?”
“And she’s nosy. She keeps asking people about me.”
“Probably wants to make sure you’re not a serial killer. You do tend to give that first impression.” Myron put a hand on Walker’s arm and they stopped and sat on the next bench. “He was so quiet, they always say. We never would have guessed he was secretly chopping people up.” Myron pulled the second half of his sandwich out of his pocket and began unwrapping it.
“Is she cute?” asked Myron.
“Cuter than you.”
“So, very cute.”
Walker sighed. “Yeah, she’s cute.”
Myron ripped off a corner of mayo-free bread and threw it to the ducks. “And you don’t like that.”
Walker didn’t say anything to that.
“She married?”
Walker shook his head. At least, he didn’t think she was married. If she was, she sure didn’t live with her husband.
“Boyfriend?”
Walker shrugged, although he was pretty sure the answer was no, if the way she was flirting with Josh was any indication. If she did have a boyfriend, he didn’t live around here. There was no way a man from around here would live in a house with a couch like that.
They got up and started walking again.
“So, you’ve got a cute, probably single woman living next door. She’s loud and nosy, which, coming from you probably means she said ‘hello’ once or twice.”
Walker watched the Duck Puddle. Really interesting place, the Duck Puddle.
“Does she ask you to fix things?”
“Not yet.”
“So she’s cute, single, polite, and so far she hasn’t asked you to do your job as her landlord. Sounds terrible.”
“You don’t get it.”
Myron reached for Walker’s arm again and sat on the bench behind them. Walker sat next to him, watched him closely.
“I’m fine,” said Myron, waving off Walker’s concern. “But I want to make sure you’re paying attention.” He squeezed Walker’s forearm. “I know you need to be alone to work. But you’ve convinced yourself that you need to be alone all the time.”
“I’m not dating my tenant.”
“I’m not saying you date her.”
Walker raised his eyebrows at Myron’s dirty mind, then quickly blinked the expression away when he realized that was not what Myron meant. He should definitely not just sleep with Lindsey. That was a ridiculous idea. Totally inappropriate.
His mind was filled with a sudden image of those shorts.
“It’s not gonna kill you to be nice to her, that’s all.”
Walker grunted. She seemed like a nice girl. If he were nice to her, she’d be nice to him. Then she’d see that his house was a mess and his sleep was irregular and his diet was a joke and she’d try to take care of him. He didn’t need a mother. Hell, he didn’t even need a girlfriend. He just needed a nice, quiet tenant who left him alone and had liver spots.
His phone beeped with the alarm Walker had set so they would get back to Shady Grove on time. Good. Now Walker wouldn’t have to talk about Pollyanna and her shorts. That thought immediately sent a jolt of guilt through him—what kind of guy wants to get rid of a friend because of an uncomfortable conversation?
Walker Smith: Stand-Up Guy.
“All right, all right,” Myron said before Walker got the chance to say the words forming in his mouth. “I know, it’s time to get back so Nurse Ratched can take her attendance and give me my pills.”
Nurse Ratched was actually Molly Callahan, Shady Grove head nurse, who was in her late sixties and very nice.
“You’re going to miss her when she’s gone.” Walker stood behind Myron as he climbed into the truck.
“She’s already gone. Retirement party was last week. With my luck, she’ll move in next door.”
“Or the new Nurse Ratched will be even worse.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that.”
Walker closed the door, shook his head, and drove Myron back to Shady Grove.
Lindsey snapped the lock shut on her new locker, reminding herself that she was an adult now. Adults sometimes had lockers. Shady Grove’s owner, Ned Grubb, had told her with pride that the lockers had been salvaged from the old high school, and repainted Wildcat Blue, which was apparently the color of the University of Kentucky basketball team. Lindsey guessed that because this was the color Ned wore every day, usually in the form of a seemingly never-ending supply of polo shirts with the UK Wildcats logo emblazoned on it.
She wasn’t known as Detective Lindsey for nothing.
There were still streamers up in the staff room from Molly Callahan’s retirement party, but today was her first official day retired, and Lindsey’s first official day as head nurse. She was a little nervous. She knew she was young, but she was qualified. She had her degree and professional experience, and she’d been working in nursing homes since she was in high school. She knew the lay of the land. She knew how to handle geriatric medicine, and how to handle geriatric emergencies. And, for extra comfort, because Kentuckians were pretty much the nicest people ever, Molly was on voluntary speed-dial for the next week until she left for her Caribbean cruise. Nothing to be nervous about. Just get briefed, then start making rounds.
Hope Neely, the overnight nurse, was at their shared desk. “It was pretty quiet last night, thank goodness,” she said, knocking on the wooden desk. “Mr. May didn’t want to take his blood pressure medicine, but I was able to sneak it into his ice cream.”
“Clever.”
“Having two kids is good training for this job.”
Lindsey laughed.
“Okay. You have everyone’s medical records, and I think Molly showed you the activity schedule, right?”
“The big calendar in the sunroom?”
“That’s the public schedule.” Hope pulled a well-used desk calendar from a drawer. “This is ours. It’s a little more informative.”
Lindsey thumbed through it. Today was a visit from therapy dogs, then arts and crafts later. Next
week was the Bookmobile, then something she couldn’t read, illustrated by what looked like dripping blood.
“What’s this?” she asked, alarmed.
“That’s Evan’s sense of humor. Sorry about that. That day we have the middle school choir coming in to sing.”
“Are they that bad?”
“I say this as a woman who has two kids in that choir: yes. But they mean well, and most of the residents like it. Sometimes the kids get weird around old people, but other than that, you’ll be fine. I suggest making yourself busy in another room.”
Hope grabbed her purse, and Lindsey walked with her through the common areas. Hope re-introduced her to the residents, most of whom declared that of course they remembered Lindsey, what a nice-looking young woman. There were a few jokes questioning whether or not she was old enough to administer medication, then Hope left her alone with her new charges.
“You have big shoes to fill, young lady,” said an old man, crocheting in front of the unlit fireplace.
“Leave the lady alone, Eugene,” said a woman playing bridge at a sunny card table. “I’m out.”
Okay. Maybe that wasn’t bridge.
“Thanks, Mrs. Harper,” Lindsey told her. “I can handle Mr. May.”
“Oh, he’ll behave,” said Dolores Harper. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
Lindsey raised her eyebrows in alarm, but Mr. May just laughed into his afghan.
The front door beeped open and Lindsey turned to see Mr. Harris slowly amble toward the group. A car squealed out of the parking lot.
“Hi, Mr. Harris,” she said as she approached and gave him her arm. He looked at her, confused.
“I’m the new Nurse Ratched,” she reminded him.
“Ah. Good.” He patted her hand paternally. “Call me Myron. I don’t like when beautiful women call me Mr. Harris. Makes me feel old.”
“That’s because you are old!” shouted Mr. May from the fireplace.
“So what have you been up to this afternoon?” she asked, but Myron had pulled away and embedded himself in the ladies’ poker game. Good thing it was a rhetorical question—Hope told her Myron frequently went to lunch with a family friend. Still, Lindsey didn’t like his lack of focus. She made a mental note to review his chart more carefully and to talk to his family about any possible memory loss.
For now, though, he seemed happy to help Gladys Kilburn cheat at cards. She left him to it.
Where did these people go all day? At first, he’d wanted the place all to himself, but now he was starting to get worried that they weren’t coming back at all. Good thing his legs were fast and his nose was strong. He would find the lady, no matter where she went.
Chapter 5
Four hours of sleep. That must have been a mid-project record for him; usually he went for days on four hours of sleep. But he didn’t feel refreshed or rested at all. Probably because he’d spent all night dreaming about a nurse, coming into his room and making him feel all better.
Sexy nurse dreams. Was he twelve?
The worst part was, they were not just sexy nurse dreams, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. He was having sexy nurse dreams about Pollyanna. Of course she worked with the elderly and infirm. Walker had seen her the day before when he’d dropped Myron off at Shady Grove. He saw her through the glass doors, waiting in the foyer for Myron to come in, and he peeled out of the parking lot so she wouldn’t see him. So he was a total chicken, and she was freakin’ Mother Teresa.
Which, unfortunately, did nothing to deter his sexy nurse dreams.
Everything about this is wrong, he told himself as he poured an extra scoop of coffee into the coffeemaker. He needed diesel fuel this morning. He needed a lobotomy. Or, he thought as he trudged upstairs to throw on some clothes, he just needed to get to work. Everyone has an inappropriate sex dream every now and then. When he was fifteen, he had a sex dream about his history teacher, who wore orthopedic shoes and cat sweaters.
She was pretty cute, though.
At least in his dream.
He didn’t do so great in history that year.
It didn’t matter. Mother Teresa was his tenant. She was also in charge of the care of his only friend. An entanglement with her would mean nothing but complications, and he didn’t need complications. His dealer wanted him to be part of a group show in New York, and a New York show meant he had to have new work, and new work meant he couldn’t spend all night having weird sex dreams about nuns with bad taste in couches. It would take months to create the piece. Even with a clear idea of how he wanted it to look, the actual end product was up in the air. He hated that fluffy sort of artist talk, but it was true: he just had to feel it.
Before he could feel anything, though, he needed coffee.
Jeans on, boots on, mug in hand, he headed out the back door to the garage to wait for inspiration to strike.
Instead of inspiration, though, he got a dose of Mother Pollyanna in shorts and a tank top, hands on hips, glaring at the remains of Myron’s garden.
She must have heard him step stealthily off the back porch (damn work boots), because she turned to him.
And smiled.
God, she had a great smile.
Walker took a sip of his coffee.
“Morning,” she said. He gave a little wave and headed toward the garage.
“Oh, hey,” she said, holding out a hand to stop him as he passed. “I’m really sorry about the other day. About waking you up with that couch?” she added when he looked confused.
“That’s okay,” he said, trying hard not to remember the different ways he had considered murdering her and Josh McGuire.
“I used to work nights. It totally messes up your sleep schedule, right? They did not make blackout curtains strong enough to convince me that it was possible for me to sleep during the day.”
She was being sweet. She needed to stop being sweet. Or he needed to remember that he didn’t do sweet. He liked a woman with a hard edge and a mean streak. He didn’t like women who apologized for their mistakes and wore purple short-shorts.
“Anyway, I’ll try to be more quiet.” She gave him that million-dollar Pollyanna smile again. “I’m Lindsey, by the way.”
He shook her hand, then retreated quickly to the coffee.
“You’re Walker, right? I mean, I’d hate to think this whole time I’ve been . . .” She trailed off.
This whole time she’d been what, exactly?
“It’s just funny that we haven’t met since I moved in, is all. You’d think with sharing the number of walls we share that we’d run into each other more often. I guess our schedules are really different.”
Walker eyed the garage door. He was so close . . .
“So . . . Mary Beth tells me you’re an artist. That’s so interesting. I saw some pictures of your work online but I’d love to see . . .”
He didn’t hear the rest of it. He never talked about his art in progress with anyone. Anyone except Myron, and barely that. He didn’t even talk anything beyond vague concepts with Madison, and she was the one who signed the checks. So he definitely wasn’t going to suddenly start talking about it with Pollyanna in her purple shorts and her messy ponytail and her great legs.
He grunted, which meant good-bye, and stalked into the garage to hide from the pretty lady, and, hopefully, to get some damn work done.
Lindsey watched Walker’s retreating back as he stalked into the garage. It was a nice back. The whole view was nice. Too bad he was such a . . . what was he? Maybe he just wasn’t a morning person.
Or maybe he was a jerk.
She didn’t like that. They didn’t need to be besties, but a cordial relationship would be nice. Maybe, over time, he’d mellow out and just be unpleasant.
But, man, she wanted to get into that garage.
No. It was none of her business, and he had made it abundantly clear that she was not welcome.
Or had he? Maybe he was just shy! Maybe he’d had a rough life on
the streets and didn’t know how to accept people’s kindness! Maybe he secretly wanted to show off his work, but his fear of rejection was so great that it paralyzed his social skills!
Or maybe he wasn’t making art at all. Maybe he was making meth.
Okay. Now we’re getting crazy, she told herself. Detective Lindsey could sometimes go into overdrive and become Crazy Paranoid Lindsey. What she really needed to do was respect his wishes, and if Walker came around to wanting her in his studio, he’d invite her in. She could be patient. She could wait, and she could accept that it might never happen.
She could!
That’s why she was shouting at herself! Because it was totally true, and not at all because she needed convincing!
Whatever. At least she had a cute apartment, and she was getting to try her hand at gardening. As long as Walker didn’t mind. She should go into the garage and ask him. No, stop, she told herself. You’re just being nosy. Just stalk him on the internet like a normal person. Besides, the lease said she had access to the garden, which to her meant she could tear the whole thing up if she wanted to.
She did not. When she wasn’t researching her landlord for her own peace of mind (she told herself), she’d been all over the internet looking for gardening tips. The Willow Springs Public Library had a great list of online resources that gave her hope that she wouldn’t have to start the garden from scratch. In fact, that was a bad idea. She even downloaded a free gardening app that Gladys turned her on to. Since she was going to leave Walker alone, she stood there with her phone out, trying to identify various green things poking out of the dirt. According to her research, some of it might be salvageable. With her starting kind of late in the season, she wanted to save all that she could.
She practically jumped up and down with glee. Late in the season. She’d never had a season to be late in before!
It was not too late for tomatoes. Zucchini would be fine, eggplant maybe. She couldn’t tell if she had melon or pumpkin, which was embarrassing, but fortunately no one was there to see her squat down and try to figure it out.
She wished she could talk to the man who’d planted the garden. She imagined he’d have some good advice for her. But more than that, the garden was clearly a labor of love. Beneath the weeds—she was pretty sure those were weeds—she could see neat rows laid out inside a border of wildflowers. She wanted to show him that, just because he’d moved away, a part of him remained in Willow Springs. Maybe, once she got it whipped into shape, she could invite him over. Make him some apparently terrible iced tea. Or maybe Walker was still in touch with him, and he could keep the guy updated. Or she could ask Walker to invite him over and the three of them could have lunch. And, if Walker spoke actual words to her, it might be more fun than a root canal. That would be an amazing step forward in their relationship.
