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“DON’T I EVEN get a cup of coffee?” I joked, knowing full well my daughter had the brushes and roller ready to go.
“Just teasing,” I admitted. “Lead the way.”
She opted to use the roller first. We would trade when her wrist got tired.
The color looked great, and I reveled in the luxury of spending time with my daughter. Lovely as that was, between the work and the bright, late-June day, the fan Bobby provided soon proved to be inadequate and I caught myself swiping my forehead with a sleeve.
“Hope your mother-in-law isn’t a late sleeper,” I remarked regarding the summer heat.
Our conversation started out light, but by the time we’d completed the front wall and half of a side it began to touch on the more personal things one mentioned only when the time felt right.
Chelsea asked me if I was lonely.
“Not the way you mean,” I answered honestly. “I miss your dad. I’ll always miss him, but I don’t think I’m ready to date.”
“My friend, Corey, told me her mother said she minds not having a witness to her life.”
“Heavy,” and true. “But I’ve got you and your brother. And Fideaux, of course.”
“And Gramma Cynthia.”
“Yes, and Didi.”
I chose not to mention that Chelsea had Bobby; Garry had his roommate and a dorm full of fellow freshmen; and Didi had finally found Will, who so very obviously adored her. Even my mother had remarried a lovely widower with an irresistible laugh. So at the moment Fideaux was the closest thing I had to a life partner. Who else “witnessed” my tiny triumphs and everyday failures? The drawer I finally wrestled open, the grapefruit juice in my eye, the disappointment of no Sunday New York Times, the new outfit I wore to the grocery store because I didn’t have anywhere better to go. Fideaux observed it all, my private tears included. At those moments he was at my side—heck, in my lap—until I finally had to laugh over his concern.
Two stories down someone knocked on the kitchen door.
Chelsea automatically scanned herself for paint spatters, but since I didn’t especially care if I looked like a mess, I offered to go.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. B,” Cissie Voight said with obvious delight. “I thought I saw your car.”
Then she grimaced and wrung her hands. “I know you’re busy, but is there any chance you could do me one more favor?”
Although I did worry about becoming the young woman’s crutch, I really really disliked Ronald Voight’s attitude. Beyond being too chauvinistic for words, he was scary slick, and scary trumped clingy any day. So naturally I said, “Certainly. What do you need?”
Tucking her hyperactive hands under her arms, Cissie explained that Caroline was outgrowing her bassinet, and somehow she needed to assemble their second-hand crib and bring a dresser up from the basement.
“The trouble is I stink at putting things together, and the dresser’s too heavy to carry by myself. Since you’re really good at stuff like that, I wondered if you’d mind...”
Since I intended to help Chelsea finish her guest room on time no matter what, even if it took me a week of all-nighters, I figured a half-hour break wouldn’t make much difference.
“Just let me tell my daughter what I’m doing.”
“Thanks, Mrs. B! You’re a sweetheart.” Cissie reached out to hug me, but I raised my hands.
“Paint,” I pointed out. “It’s all over me.”
Cissie didn’t care. The hug was long and enthusiastic.
I thought Chelsea might scold me again for “adoping her whole neighborhood,” but instead she said, “You’re a nice person, you know that?”
Dumbstruck, I must have stood there a moment too long, because she laughed and told me to, “Go!” with her fingers walking on air. “I know you’ll come back; I’ve got your dog.”
Baby Caroline’s room had been cleared and cleaned, but this week’s fresh clothes remained in their wash basket, and the changing table and accessories were still in the master bedroom with the bassinet.
Crib parts were in a heap on the floor. The spindles appeared to be spaced to current standards, but the finish showed a fair amount of wear. “You can cover those marks with scratch remover, you know,” I pointed out. “Not the top edge where Caroline might teethe, but the rest.”
“Thanks. I will.”
No instructions were available, but assembling a crib wasn’t rocket science, and I managed the job in less than fifteen minutes. Together Cissie and I added a rubber pad to the mattress, a soft pink sheet, matching bunny-covered bumpers, and a musical mobile.
“Now about the dresser.” A pinch of concern marred Cissie’s brow. “It’s really heavy.”
“Girl power!” I said with an optimistic fist punch.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Waving my head in surrender, I confessed that we needed a man.
Cissie’s face clouded. Clearly, she’d hoped to impress her husband with her resourcefulness.
“Stay right here,” I instructed. “I’ll be right back.”
Mrs. Zumstein’s porch leaned left, but its roof sagged right. The screen on the front door was torn, and the flower bed needed a good weeding. In contrast to the summery softness of the surroundings, the old Victorian’s battleship hue and maroon trim looked as if Count Dracula had crashed a cookout.
“Is your grandson at home?” I inquired when Maisie herself answered the door. She wore a wool jumper and black ankle boots, both styles I had seen and perhaps even worn but from an era I couldn’t quite place.
“Why?” the gnome-like homeowner demanded.
“I need to ask a favor. It’s for Mrs. Voight two doors down.”
Maisie stared for a couple of blinks then waddled back into the house. Thick shadows prevented me from seeing whether she continued straight out the backdoor.
Yet a moment later the young man I’d seen collecting the newspaper in his bathrobe widened the door opening. “’lo,” he said in a friendly manner. “Who’re you?”
I explained. “I was wondering if you might be able to help Mrs. Voight and me move a piece of furniture from her basement to her baby’s room.”
Close up, the fellow looked better than his first impression, and it wasn't just the shorts and golf shirt. The morning’s puffiness was gone, revealing eyes the color of blueberries. His lashes were blonder than his straight, sandy hair, his teeth even but slanted so his smile appeared to be crooked.
“You’re thinking I played football,” he guessed.
“Hadn’t thought about it. Did you?”
More smile. “Nope, so I guess you’ll have to take the heaviest end.”
Cute answer. Cute guy. I liked him.
He stepped onto the porch, headed down the steps.
Cissie met us at the front door, her color warm, her excitement obvious. She looked beautiful.
“Eric Zumstein,” my recruit introduced himself, taking her delicate fingers in his meaty paw. From his expression I feared he would lift them to his lips.
“I’m Cissie Voight.”
“Pleased ta meetcha. Do you have cats?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m allergic as hell. Lead the way.”
As we progressed single file down the basement stairs, I remarked, “Your grandmother has cats, I take it?”
“Two, Hanzel and Gretyl. I can deal with them during the day, but Gretyl insists on sleeping with me all night whether I like it or not.”
Which explained the puffy eyes I’d attributed to a hangover. “You can’t shut your bedroom door?” I wondered aloud.
“What door? I’m sleeping on a foldout in the living room.”
The three of us stood facing the dresser, a four-drawer, maple specimen that was taller than it was wide. Surrounding us were miscellaneous boxes and household junk, and a laundry tub adjacent to a washer and dryer.
While gazing at Cissie, Eric rubbed his big paws together. “How about you ladies take a drawer or two and I’ll handle the rest?”
“You sure you don’t want help?” That was me talking. Cissie was too busy staring back.
“Nope,” Eric responded as if Cissie had spoken. “Easier to steer it by myself. Don’t want nicks on your walls or bruises on those pretty arms and legs.” He handed Cissie the narrowest drawer.
I ended up helping myself.
Cissie led the way with me and my two drawers next. Eric set the last one aside then hefted the whole dresser up the stairs behind us.
“Nice room. Where’s the baby?” he inquired when we arrived upstairs.
“Sleeping in my room. Our room, Ronald would make me say. He’s very possessive.” She glanced around as if her husband might jump out of a closet.
“Don’t blame him,” Eric observed, and another super-charged glance was exchanged.
“I’ll just...” go get the other drawer, I intended to say, but nobody was listening. I made the trip to the basement and back lickety-split, not because I thought I could stop a rolling train, because I felt responsible for the wreck that appeared imminent.
“Can you stay for lunch?” Cissie addressed her knight-in-shining-armor directly, and anxiety caused me to do something I would not normally have done. I invited myself.
“Oh, thanks,” I effused. “I’m ready for a break. Can I contribute something?”
“Uh, no,” Cissie replied with heat painting her cheeks. “I’ve just been to the store.”
Eric displayed his crooked grin. “Love to,” he told Ronald Voight’s beautiful wife.
“Anything to get away from those cats.”