Dany
Two weeks pass. I rest. I get my drains removed. I have physical therapy. I start to feel almost myself again. My mom hints that I need to find another domicile. My dad hints how much he’d like Shawn as a son-in-law. Shawn ignores my calls.
On a dry but blustery early spring Tuesday, I call about an apartment.
It meets my single criteria—available immediately. Surprisingly, there’s a severe shortage of housing in Stanton.
The landlord says to swing by at ten. There’s something familiar about his voice. But I ignore the niggle. Last night at dinner the tension with my mother and father was palpable. They must be desperate to enjoy solitude during their “second wind.”
The taxi pulls up to the house on Rose Street five minutes before ten. Karl, our driver, asked if I needed a ride, but I want to do this on my own. I pay and step out of the back seat.
The front yard is a postage stamp. Tiny. And full of scraggly brown winter grass and overgrown bushes. An empty wooden porch wraps around the front of the house. I take a minute to look my fill.
The house is a little bungalow with peeling yellow paint and rotting wood around the windows. There are weeds clustered at the foundation. I can’t help feeling that it’s a sad little place. It’s in a neighborhood of teeny Cape Cods and bungalows, all bunched together and lined up closely to the road. This house is the most tired, though. The others are well maintained.
I wrap my coat closer and burrow into its warmth. Maybe this was a mistake. I look at the house again. The torn screen door on the porch flaps in the cold wind. Its hinges squeak as it bangs against the wall.
My heels click on the sidewalk as I walk to the front door. I watch my step on the stairs. I’d hate to fall through a rotted board. I reach up and ring the bell.
It chimes a little old-fashioned melody.
No answer.
I ring again. It echoes inside.
I shift uncomfortably. I feel a little queasy. To be fair, I skipped breakfast. My stomach gurgles. I’m tempted to turn around. I could call a taxi and go home, back to my mother. But no. I’ll get my life back on track on my own.
“Door’s open,” I hear a man’s rich drawling voice. “Come on in.”
I frown. Who leaves front doors unlocked? Who lets people in without knowing who it is? I turn the old brass doorknob and slowly open the door.
I step into the dim interior.
“Hello?” I call.
The interior of the house is a construction site. The brown carpet is partially torn up, the avocado wallpaper is half peeled off and hanging in grotesque curls, there are saws and hammers and drill thingies and…I think I’m in the wrong place.
“Hello? Mr. Jones?”
I step over a pile of debris.
“In the kitchen,” he calls.
I walk down the hall toward his voice. Again, it sounds familiar. Not only from the phone call, but from something else. Stanton is a small city, maybe we’ve met?
I make it to the kitchen and let out a surprised huff.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
I’m talking about the stained-glass window over the large farmhouse sink. The window is maybe four feet across and four feet tall. It’s clear beveled glass with panels of colored glass showing scenes from a garden. Yellow roses, white lilies, purple hyacinth, butterflies and green grass. I can almost smell the grass—fresh mowed springtime. The sun is shining through the window and little rainbows are glinting on the white marble countertops. I smile at the farmhouse sink. There’s a hand-painted wheelbarrow in a flower garden.
“Mind giving me a hand?”
I startle at the man’s voice. “I’m sorry. I was admiring the view.”
He chuckles and the sound reminds me of warm honey dripping over freshly baked buttery biscuits. My mouth starts to water.
I peek around the kitchen and realize he’s on his hands and knees. His head is buried in a cabinet and his backside is…goodness. My mouth stops watering and goes dry. His backside is gorgeous.
“Admire away,” he says. I choke a bit when I realize what view he must think I’m talking about. “But while you look, do you mind giving me a Phillips head?”
“Pardon me?” I say. What’s a Phillips head?
He cranes his neck around and stares at me from the darkness under the cabinet. Prickles form along my skin. I feel an electric pulse and I’m itchy and uncomfortable. I shift under his hidden gaze. Then I wonder, is Phillips head another term for head? Is he propositioning me? My face heats.
“A Phillips head. There’s a connection here that I need to screw.”
I gasp. “I’m sorry, I came here about the rental. Not…” I clear my throat. Not about screwing.
He mutters something under his breath. He backs out of the cabinet and stands. As he turns, I take a step back. And another. He fills the space. Absolutely fills it.
I ignore the electrical feel lighting in my body. I ignore the rainbows from the glass window shining on him. I ignore the halo of light surrounding him and the thought that he was sent from heaven just for me. Not a chance.
“You,” I say.
Dark brown wavy hair. Gray eyes. Full, smiling lips. A dimple in his left cheek. I know this man.
I hold up my hands, warding him off. He witnessed the most mortifying moment, the most pathetic moment of my life. To be honest, he made me feel like a fool. Embarrassment washes through me.
“Me?” He smiles and looks down at himself then shrugs. “Give me a minute, honey. I need to screw something real quick.”
My mouth falls open then I snap it shut. Not me, he won’t. “Just because I said I’d marry you”—I hold up a finger—“while I was under heavy medication, mind you, does not mean I’ll screw you, or give you a Phillips head, or do anything else your opportunistic mind comes up with. I’m here about the rental. But not any longer.”
“Wait a minute. What?”
I hurry from the kitchen. I hear him coming after me. My embarrassment becomes righteous anger. I turn around to face him. Our faces are inches apart in the cramped space of the hallway. The light is dim again and I blink until he comes into focus. His lips. They are so close to mine. I shake my head and look into his eyes.
“I think we have a misunderstanding,” he says in a low, slow drawl. It reminds me of the way he spoke to me in the hospital. My body itches to move even closer to him. I scowl.
“There’s no misunderstanding. I will never give you a Phillips head, or a screw, and I will never, ever marry you. I was post-surgery, you cretin. I was here about the rental.” I put my hands on my hips and try to look firm. Because, sad to say, when I emphasized the words “head” and “screw,” certain images entered my mind. Images I liked.
He’s trying to respond. He starts. Stops. Runs his hand through his hair. When he does I can smell wood chips and oil and leather. I start to take another breath, then stop myself. This man is not Shawn, he’s exactly the opposite of Shawn. Which means, he’s the opposite of what I want and need. My heart falls in my chest and gives a sad little ping. I don’t want to think about why.
“Pardon me, I’ll be going now,” I say.
I can’t live here. Because, one, it’s under construction. I don’t do construction or fixer-uppers or whatever. Two, this man witnessed me vulnerable and pathetic. I don’t do that either. And three, every time he’s near I feel antsy and confused and forget about Shawn and start thinking about other things and…no. Just, no. I liked my life the way it was, and this situation here is not going to help me get it back.
“Goodbye,” I say. I step into the living room. My eyes fill with hot tears and my vision blurs.
“Watch out,” he says.
I look down, worried I’m about to step in something. But down was the wrong way to look. My head smacks a wood plank and I stumble back and then fall on my butt. Sticky, gooey cold liquid soaks through my pants.
I cringe and scramble back like a crab. A plastic tray sticks to my butt. I lurch back and smack against a roll of old carpet.
“There’s a two by four. And a paint tray.” He leans down next to me. “Are you alright?”
I shake my head. He looks me over and something shifts in his eyes.
“You’re bleeding.” His mouth tightens into a firm line.
I look down. A splotch of blood seeps through my white linen shirt. “It’s okay,” I say. I’m trying really hard not to cry. “I guess it stretched the wound when I fell. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call a taxi and…” I make to stand, but the tray sticks to my pants. Pathetic, vulnerable, idiotic, weak…can I add anything else to the list of things I am around this man?
“Here. Let me help,” he says. He gently pulls me up. Then my eyes widen as he reaches around. His hand trails in the air over my back. I can feel him, even though he’s not touching me. He peels the paint tray from my pants. Then he scoops me up.
I squeak and wave my arms.
“Cretin. You can’t just pick up—”
“Don’t wobble. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“What are you…” I trail off.
It’s the oddest thing to be picked up by a strange man and held against his warm chest. He’s wearing a soft flannel shirt that rubs against my check. The heat coming through his shirt warms me and I hold myself still so that I don’t give in and melt against him. He carries me up the stairs and nudges open a wooden door. It opens to a large renovated bathroom. There’s white mosaic tiles, a clawfoot tub, a towel warmer, a polished and shining antique dresser with a copper sink.
He sets me down next to the bathtub.
“Thank you, I’ll manage from here,” I say.
He clears his throat. “I’ll set bandages and clean clothes outside the door.” Beneath his tanned skin I think I see the faintest reddening in his cheeks.
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll call my driver. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” I need him to know I’m not some pathetic discarded woman all alone in the world.
“Of course, Miss…” He pauses.
I realize he doesn’t remember my name.
“Miss Daniella Drake.” I hold out my hand. Yes, I’m covered in paint and a little blood and I’m starting to feel woozy, but good breeding always wins.
He quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a relation of John Drake?”
“My father.”
Something strange flashes in his eyes.
“Ah,” he says.
“Do you know him?”
“No.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I’ll let you be.” As he closes the door he pauses, then, “A Phillips head is a type of screwdriver. In case you were wondering.” His eyes fill with laughter.
Mortification washes over me.
I clear my throat, then nudge the door shut and lock it.
I may not know anything about construction or tools, but I do know one thing.
There is no way I can live in this house or anywhere near him.