They went back downstairs where Mr. Pickett waited by the front door. He handed them both a key to the house then withdrew an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Mandy. “Your mother asked that I deliver this today.”
“What is it?” She reached for it with shaky fingers.
“No idea.”
Mandy stared down at her name scrawled in her mother’s handwriting on the outside of the envelope, heaviness settling over her once more.
The attorney started out the door, saying over his shoulder, “Good luck to you both.”
…
Later that afternoon, Alex sat at the battered table in the kitchen, trying to figure out exactly when he’d lost control of his orderly world. No. That wasn’t true. He knew exactly when it had started—Maureen Reynolds’s death. She’d written to him when he’d been in the hospital after the shooting, giving him a bit of sunshine when he’d needed it most. He’d always liked her, and she’d been one of those people who seemed larger than life—immortal and undefeatable—so her passing had rocked him harder than he’d expected. Of course, the fact he’d lost his own mom to cancer when he’d been fifteen didn’t help, either.
His fingertips tingled as he held his key to this place. He was thankful to Maureen—beyond grateful, really. He’d given up the lease on his place in Chicago during his stint in rehab, so inheriting this place had been a godsend. Kept him from imposing on his friends or siblings. Mark and Jack had both been through enough themselves since the shooting, and his older brother Dave and younger sister Nicole were far too busy to have Alex hanging around. Besides, he needed something to do, something to keep him busy.
So, yeah. It was all good.
Except for the part where he and Mandy would be living here together.
An analytical guy by nature, Alex liked things cut-and-dried. Clear. Concise. Sensible.
And this situation with Mandy was anything but. His anxiety bit at his heels every chance it got these days, making him moody and suspicious and far too fond of being alone.
Scowling, he rubbed his sore leg and tried to concentrate on his list again. They needed lots of stuff to get this place move-in ready, first and foremost cleaning supplies. Next, he wanted to tackle renovating the kitchen and bathrooms, then maybe work on the woodwork and plaster, restoring them both to their former glory. There were also the floors, which needed a good buffing, and the walls, which needed fresh paint. Finally, the HVAC system in the house. With winter coming soon, he wanted to make sure the old boiler was replaced. In fact, he’d already called a guy to come out and look at it this afternoon.
He set his pen aside and scrubbed a hand over his face, his mind wandering back to his earlier encounter with Mandy. He’d missed her at the funeral, with all the people and his need to avoid the crowds, so today had been the first time he’d seen her in over a decade.
Back in the day, she’d been a starry-eyed teenager, mooning over him when he’d been home on college break. Now she was twenty-eight and a professional actress. She was prettier than he remembered. More confident, too. She hadn’t backed down an inch, and he respected that, even if he didn’t like the fact she wanted to sell the place.
He considered this his home now, and he planned to keep it that way. Planned to restore the place to its former glory and prove once and for all he was capable of getting by on his own, without help from his dad or anyone else. He didn’t need his father’s money or his judgment or crap opinions where his anxiety and PTSD were concerned.
List done, he got on his laptop and checked his savings account. The sum there had gone down steadily due to his extended hotel stay here in town, but he’d still socked away enough to live on and pay for the new boiler as well as start the renovations. Not enough to buy Mandy out, but he’d get there. It might take longer than he wanted, but he’d get there.
Once this house was done, then maybe he’d start freelancing. He’d minored in architecture at Northwestern, after all, and he missed working. Home remodeling was all the rage these days, too, and this place would start a nice portfolio of his work. Building and restoring things was his first love, and he could run his business from home, which would help him manage his anxiety. In fact, he’d already picked a room upstairs for his office. The corner one with the big windows. Lots of natural light.
Mandy went back to her sister’s house shortly after Mr. Pickett had left, so Alex had the place to himself for now. He’d considered staying here tonight, but his storage pod wouldn’t be delivered until tomorrow, so it was one more night in a hotel for him.
After checking his watch, he got up and made his way down the hall toward the foyer. The HVAC guy should arrive soon, and he wanted to be ready. Along the way, he stopped to admire the battered wainscoting in the hall, still covered by layers of paint and stain from the previous tenants. Still, he saw beyond it to the gems beneath, just waiting to be uncovered.
At the front windows, he peeked outside. It wasn’t quite five yet, but dusk had already started to settle. A box truck pulled up near the curb and a squat man wearing a gray knit skullcap headed for the porch. Alex answered before the bell rang.
The man extended his hand, his accent straight out of the Bronx. “How you doin’? Skip Marshall, QR Contracting.”
Alex led the guy down the hallway toward the basement door. “I checked the boiler and looks like it was installed within the last twenty years, though the house is much older.”
“You know somethin’ ’bout HVAC?”
“I grew up around construction.”
“Any relation to those bigwigs up in Chicago?” Skip followed Alex down the wooden stairs to the unfinished basement.
His chest tightened at the reminder of his father, and Alex ignored the question. “I’m thinking of upgrading to forced hot water with multi-zone capability. Want to keep the current radiators, though, to cut some expense.”
“Sure, sure.” Skip pulled out a small notepad. “Cut expenses. Yep.”
“No sacrificing quality, though.”
“Understood.” Skip yanked out a tape measure, and Alex crossed his arms and watched the man work.
“You said you’ll get a discount on the new boiler if you order it direct?” he asked.
“Yep.” Skip looked around the space then stared up at the wooden joists. “I’ll get you a good deal, no problem. Those oak?”
“Solid.”
They went back upstairs, and Skip thumped Alex on the shoulder. He tensed under the unwelcome contact. “Okay, buddy. Got a pretty good idea what needs to be done. I’ll write you up an estimate and email it this afternoon. Pleasure doin’ business with you.”
Alex stood in the front parlor after the guy left, an air of possibility swirling around him. He’d been here less than a day, yet he already felt connected to this place. Like it was a new beginning. Like if he could rehab this house, then maybe—just maybe—there was a chance he might be able to fix the damage to his life, too.
He’d turned to head back toward the kitchen then halted as a car backfired outside. Loud noises were his kryptonite. Before he could shake it off, his pulse tripped and his throat constricted. Just like that he was back in front of the courthouse, lying face down on the pavement as the bullets flew. He placed his hand on the fireplace mantel for support, his knees tingling and his temples throbbing.
Not gunfire. Not bullets.
He repeated the words over and over again in his head, but the stress and panic blasted through his composure like shrapnel.
Bile rose hot in his throat, and his face blazed.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Alex focused on the ceiling’s wedding cake plaster design until the shadows receded and his equilibrium returned. Inhaling was painful but he sucked in oxygen anyway to keep calm. The trembling took longer to stop, probably because of his unfamiliar surroundings, but eventually his limbs steadied.
He returned to the kitchen for a glass of water then sat at the table again. The sun set. The air grew colder. An hour passed without him noticing, until a knock on the front door jarred him from his daze.
“Hey Lex,” his friends called. “Ride’s here.”
He went back to the foyer to let Mark and Jack inside.
“So, this is the place, huh?” Mark stepped across the threshold first, looking around. With his hipster glasses and geektastic wardrobe, he’d always reminded Alex of Taye Diggs. “Wow. This is… Wow.”
Alex knew BS when he heard it and shook his head. “It needs some work, but I’m ready.”
“Yeah?” Jack moved in beside Mark with a low whistle. At six-four and two-hundred-eighty pounds, he looked more like a linebacker than a tax man. “I can help, too, if you want.”
“I appreciate the offer.” Alex shut the door. “Let me just do a quick walkthrough of the house and make sure everything’s locked up and turned off, then we can go. I’ll give you guys a full tour later.”
“No problem,” Mark called from downstairs as Alex headed to the second floor.
After checking the place and grabbing his coat, Alex locked up the place for the night then followed his friends to Jack’s old Chevy pickup parked at the curb, cramming onto the bench seat beside Mark.
As they nosed out into traffic, Alex peered back at his new home one more time. His mind flashed back to Mandy—playing games with her and his siblings during the holidays when they’d been younger, her bright smile when he’d let her win at trivia. They’d gotten along fine back then, so why did things have to be so difficult now? It wasn’t just his anxiety. It was the fact she wanted to sell the house out from under him.
Friday night meant groups of town locals clustered on the sidewalks, heading to neighborhood pubs to kick off their weekend. Heavenly Falls hadn’t changed much since he’d lived here before college. Small-town feel, small-town issues. Vacant manufacturing plants, lots of strip malls, a downtown desperate to rebuild and rebrand. Before the shooting, he’d visited once or twice for work, but he’d never imagined he’d call this place home again.
Of course, he’d never imagined having his future obliterated by one fateful shot, either.
Jack swerved up to the front of the hotel a few minutes later. “You need me to pick you up in the morning?”
“Nah. It’s Saturday. Sleep in. I’ll take the hotel shuttle back to the house. I could use your help at the house in the afternoon, though, if you’re free.” Alex climbed out, careful to keep his weight on his good leg. “They’re delivering my things tomorrow.”
“You got it,” Jack said, smiling.
“Sorry, but I can’t make it,” Mark said as he scooted over to fill Alex’s vacant seat. “Pulling overtime in the city for a new case. I’ll see you on Sunday, though.”
“Great. Thanks again guys.”
The truck pulled away, and Alex watched the red glow of the taillights disappear into the darkness. With a sigh, he went inside, scanning the area for any suspicious-looking people. Being out in the open made him feel vulnerable. When he’d been a criminal investigator for the IRS, he’d jokingly called himself an Avenger of the tax world.
Alex wasn’t feeling so heroic these days.
He headed to the elevators, his senses hyper-alert. The bell dinged and the doors opened. People boarded, including a couple with a stroller. Coos from their baby filled the tight confines. Alex shuffled his feet, restlessness buzzing inside him.
They arrived at the second floor, and Alex bolted the few short paces to his handicapped-accessible room. He hadn’t requested any special accommodations and hated the stupid blue sign outside his door, but the front desk had seen his limp and stuck him in here anyway. Exhausted, he took a long shower then climbed between the sheets, pulling the duvet up to his chin.
In a few more hours, he could get back to the house, start working on the renovations, create a new home and a new life and a new future on his own terms.
Chapter Two
Saturday morning Mandy was up even earlier than her normal dawn patrol. Not surprising, since she’d tossed and turned most of the night, running through the meeting with Mr. Pickett and Alex over and over in her head and questioning her decision. Opening one eye, she squinted up at the ceiling.
Welcome to day one of home ownership.
Well, co-ownership. With Alex.
Ugh.
Mandy pulled the blanket over her head.
A cold nose nudged her ear, followed by a hungry whimper, forcing Mandy to lower the covers and find Bubba—the small, fuzzy, floppy-eared mutt Gina had adopted from the pound a few weeks prior—staring at her expectantly, tongue lolling as he panted away. She patted her stomach and he hopped up to sit on her.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Mandy scratched him behind the ears and laughed when he collapsed in joy. “You need to go outside?”
The magic words had Bubba jumping up and down and turning circles, wagging his tail.
Smiling, she stretched and got up, sliding on her green furry monster slippers before hooking up the dog’s leash and taking him downstairs to potty. Afterward, she returned to the second-floor walk-up and rolled out her small yoga mat in the open space below the large living room window. Mandy folded herself into the lotus position for her daily meditation, careful not to Om too loudly for fear of waking Gina.
Unfortunately, Alex kept interrupting her moment of Zen.
Mainly thoughts about his closed-off demeanor the day before and the way he’d dodged her questions about his injury. He was so different now from the guy she remembered, and that presented an intriguing puzzle that all but begged her to solve it. And therein lay the problem.
There were so many possibilities in trying to figure him out—and so many red flags.
She had enough on her plate these days without adding a trip to the Land of Misfit Men to her agenda. Five more non-relaxing minutes later, she rolled up her mat, then refilled Bubba’s food bowl and started a pot of coffee. The letter from her mother sat on the counter, taunting her. She probably should’ve opened it right away after Mr. Pickett had given it to her, but she’d felt so drained she didn’t have the spoons to open it last night. The wounds from her mom’s passing were still too fresh. Besides, she had a shift at the diner ahead of her to get through and the house to clean up. Whatever was in the letter could wait until her life was back on track again. Then she’d read it and fully process her loss.
Until then, Mandy crossed her arms and waited for the coffee to brew, figuring out her next step. With her audition falling through and her stay in town extended indefinitely because of the house situation, she need another way to supplement her income besides waitressing at The Chipper Chicken. She took a seat at the kitchen table and booted up her laptop, scrolling through the local job boards, hoping to find some leads, but nothing looked promising. Office Assistant? Too boring. Telephone Customer Service Rep? Too stressful. Adult Toy Party Host? Too weird.
Mandy nearly gave up when she spotted the second to last entry on the page:
Reader for children’s group. Part-time afternoons. Some theater experience helpful.
Intrigued, she Googled the place, aptly called the Playground, and discovered its connection to a local organization for the homeless that provided a safe environment for children while their parents gathered the life skills needed to regain their independence.
Good so far.
Plus, the map showed it was in walking distance of both The Chicken and the house.
Check number two in the Pros column.
Add in the fact she’d always loved kids and her acting background and…
We have a winner.
Mandy bookmarked the job posting, then shut down her computer. They accepted applications only in person, according to the website. The place was closed on the
weekends, so she’d have to wait until Monday to apply, but having a plan made her feel better.
After fixing a mug of coffee, she shook some fish food into the small glass tank on the counter. The goldfish inside stared out at her, his small cheeks puffing out like tiny balloons. She bent and grinned at her pet. “Rise and shine, Duckie. Time for a new day!”
Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in her waitress uniform, Mandy stood in the living room once more, twisting her still-damp hair into a tight bun before pinning her pillbox server’s hat atop it like a woebegone gingham tiara.
She tugged on her coat on the way out the door then headed toward Main Street, her breath frosting in the brisk early morning air. She rushed inside the diner with five minutes to spare before her shift started, and the place was filling up already with regulars—the ladies book club, who gossiped more than they read, the high school football coach and his husband, a prominent abstract African American artist who’d shown in galleries across the nation, several local weekend warriors who stopped in each Saturday before hitting the biking trails around the town. After she hung her coat on a peg in the back room and shoved her purse into a locking metal filing cabinet in the manager’s office, she went back out into the hall and stopped short. A new addition to the crowd appeared. Tall, dark, with a duffel bag over one shoulder.
Alex.
…
Alex observed the hive of activity from his curved corner booth, hunched behind a copy of the Tribune, his bag on the floor between his feet. He’d checked out of the hotel early and hoped to get a jump on the day’s cleaning at the house. But on the shuttle ride over, he’d spotted Mandy and against his better judgment had followed her—knowing it wasn’t a good idea, knowing it couldn’t lead anywhere safe.
Never mind the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen.
“Morning.” Mandy set a glass of ice water in front of him. “Surprised to see you here.”
He ignored her implied question and focused on the menu instead. “What’s good?”
Worth the Wait Page 2
