Hera strikes me as the kind of woman who hides her true self—her natural beauty—underneath a layer of dust and those wide, dark-colored T-shirts she’s always wearing. Or maybe she just likes to be comfortable.
Before I walk back in, two disposable coffee cups in hand, I look at her through the window. She’s mixing something in a large bucket. Maybe I should ask her about the building process as a way of having her open up to me a little more. But why bother? It’s obvious she doesn’t like me. I learned long ago to not be perturbed by that. Yet, with her, it’s different. Because she’s Rocco’s aunt and, also, because she represents an important step in this new life I’m trying out.
When I walk inside, the radio is blasting an old Genesis song really loudly and Hera is swaying her hips while she stirs the contents of the bucket with a thick wooden stick. There’s rhythm to her sway and she seems completely absorbed by the music.
I don’t want to disturb her but I don’t want her to have to drink a cold cup of coffee either. I clear my throat and she instantly goes back to her usual guarded ways. The sway of her hips instantly stops and she stands there stiffly, as though she’ll never sway to any piece of music ever again.
“Coffee delivery.” I walk up to her. She does have bags under her eyes. The rest of her skin is olive, while the area underneath her eyes is purple like a bruise.
“Ah, thanks.” She takes the cup, then turns to lower the volume of the radio. “I could do with sitting down for a minute.” She heads over to the corner where we’ve placed a couple of old chairs.
“Can I sit with you?” I ask.
“It’s your place,” she says matter-of-factly.
I follow and sit next to her, casting my gaze about. She and Rocco have taken down a wall and I can already imagine how it’s going to look when it’s finished.
“Not too bad for a drink with a silly name,” Hera says.
“So, no need to worry next time you forget your flask.”
“How much did that set you back?” she asks.
“Five bucks,” I say. “Your estimate was bang on.”
“I’ll settle up with you later.” She exhales a lungful of air.
“Don’t worry about it. Consider it part of your payment.” I gaze at her slouching shape in the chair. “You look like you need a nap more than a cup of coffee.”
She pushes her glasses up and pinches the bridge of her nose. “As I said, I only got a few hours of shut-eye last night. And this is my first job in a while. It all takes some getting used to.” She straightens her posture. “This won’t affect my work, of course. No need to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried. You’re Rocco’s family so I trust you implicitly.”
Hera arches her eyebrows. “That’s a bit naive, don’t you think? I could be the worst builder and yet you’d still trust me just because I’m your friend’s aunt?”
“But you’re not the worst,” I say, locking my gaze on hers. “And Rocco knows that.”
She presses her lips together. “He didn’t just hire me because he thinks I’m good at my job,” she says. “I was also a bit of a charity case.” Hera glances away, as though she has said too much.
“Rocco and I are pretty close. Well, very close, actually. I know your partner passed away unexpectedly.”
“Hm,” is all Hera says. “It’s good to be out of the house. I reckon I only have a few more years of this job in me. I’m getting on.” She chuckles. “Christ, I’m really not selling myself, am I?” She brings her gaze back to me. Something sparkles in it—something I haven’t seen in her eyes before. “Please disregard this conversation and consider Hera Walker for all your future renovation work.” She sends me her version of a winning smile—which almost does its job of winning me over.
I grin at her. For the first time, I feel as though Hera doesn’t see me as Katherine the ex-escort, but just as the person she happens to be having coffee with. Something uncoils in my gut. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wanting to redo my kitchen for ages. How are you with refitting kitchens?”
“As good as they come, of course.” The smile hasn’t been wiped off Hera’s face. Maybe the long black I brought her is a couple of notches stronger than what she’s used to drinking from her flask. She tips her head back and drains her cup. “Thanks for this. I feel as good as new.” She jumps up. “Time to get back to it.”
“Can I help you in any way?”
Hera gives me a once over. “Let’s be honest,” she says, “those manicured fingers were not made for helping me.” She stares at my hands, which are wrapped around my coffee cup. “There’s really no need for you to stick around at all. I’m going to plaster that wall over there and I can manage on my own perfectly.”
“I’ll leave you to it then.”
Hera already has her back to me and she just raises a hand. It’s as though the five minutes we just spent chatting, breaking some of that persistent ice between us, never even happened.