The Fix-It Man

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “Then I might not get the job,” he continued, laying his sunglasses on the counter and regarding her earnestly. “I want it very much.”

  She turned away from the mesmerizing blue of his eyes and opened the refrigerator. “Well, actually, I don’t think that you—”

  “Your offer is perfect for me,” he said, interrupting her. “Motel bills will eat me alive before I can complete my research.”

  “On Abraham Lincoln.” She felt better discussing his scholarly background. And not looking at him.

  “Yes. The sociological impact of this town on his future behavior as a president was immense, as I’m sure you already know. I needed to see Springfield for myself, but it’s an expensive proposition. Your plan is a godsend.”

  His words soothed her jangled nerves. He was a scholar, in spite of his muscles and tan. And muscles were important for a handyman, weren’t they? She closed the refrigerator and turned, the frosty pitcher of lemonade clutched in both hands. “We can take this into the living room, if you like.”

  “The kitchen suits me better, if you don’t mind.” He placed two glasses with fruit painted on them in the middle of the table. “The living room looked a little formal.”

  Diana rummaged in a drawer and pulled out two stoneware coasters. “My mother-in-law’s furniture,” she explained, then chided herself for caring whether he thought the furniture reflected her tastes. “Actually, it’s beautiful furniture when the sun comes in,” she added to soothe her conscience. “I keep the drapes drawn in the summer to make it cooler in there. My students….” Her voice trailed off as she realized he was listening to her babbling with mild amusement.

  “So you’re a music teacher. I saw the piano when we came through. Well, that’s no problem. I’m sure a few little girls tinkling on the keys won’t bother me.” He took the coaster she handed him and slipped it under his glass.

  She poured the lemonade. A few little girls tinkling on the keys? He didn’t know the half of it, but his perception of her teaching wasn’t the crucial factor. His tanned good looks were. She took her seat slowly as she tried to figure out how to tell Zach Wainwright he wouldn’t be around long enough to be disturbed by the tinkling of piano keys.

  He raised his glass to his lips and gulped down half its contents before setting it back on the table with a sigh. “Thanks. I was parched. You’re right, it’s hot in here, but it’s also very quiet. I like that.” He stretched his legs under the table and leaned back in the chair to survey the neat but outdated kitchen. “What are those flowers in the window?”

  “African violets.”

  “The leaves look like velour or something. Pretty.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, wracking her brain for a tactful way to maneuver him out of the house.

  He swallowed the last of his lemonade and flashed his dazzling smile. “So what do you think, Diana? Can we strike a bargain?”

  She grasped at the first excuse that occurred to her. “I’m not sure. You’d probably have trouble concentrating here. I didn’t mention this in the ad, but I have two daughters, twelve and thirteen. They’re not at home this morning, but they can be quite noisy at times. And my music students don’t all play the piano. There are other instruments….”

  Zach’s smile widened, and she felt her pulse leap in response. “Don’t forget, I’ve been teaching high school for several years. Two young girls and a few music students don’t frighten me. Besides, I can tell what kind of person you are just by looking at your dress and those delicate purple flowers. You’re not the type to live in bedlam.”

  She glanced down at her dress in confusion. She’d set the scene so carefully to snare a quiet, mild-mannered bookworm, and what had she caught? A bronzed Adonis.

  “But that’s just what it is around here most of the time,” she said desperately. “Bedlam.”

  “I doubt that. You haven’t seen bedlam until you’ve taught high school. So, what do you say?”

  She traced the cluster of grapes painted on the side of her glass as her mind keep time with the dripping faucet. What was so hard about just saying no? She didn’t have to give him rea­sons, did she? She didn’t have to tell him that he was too handsome, too virile, too tanned. She didn’t have to say he scared her to death with his open, breezy California manner.

  He leaned toward her. “What is it? What bothers you about me?”

  “You’re…not exactly what I had in mind,” she said at last. The faucet kept up its steady beat.

  “Which was?” he prompted.

  “Someone a little…older.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve been told I’m very mature for my age.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Me, too. Just recently, in fact.” She thought of Allison. Allison would tell her to hire Zach Wainwright in a minute. Diana had tried to brush her daughter’s comments aside, but they nagged at her. Was she turning into an old lady? Yet Zach was her age, and there was nothing remotely old about him. Having a man like this one around might be good for her — for all of them. Even Laurie, who had been resisting change, any change, since Jim had died.

  “You can always kick me out if we don’t get along.”

  She looked up and imagined the ocean reflected in his eyes. She’d never been to the seashore, never walked along a beach or played tag with the waves. She’d never known someone like Zach Wainwright. Maybe it was about time she did.

  She took a deep breath, as if she were about to dive from a cliff into deep mysterious waters. “When can you move in?”

  Two

  Zach blinked. He hadn’t expected her to say yes, considering she’d been against him from that first moment on the porch. For some reason she was afraid of him. What a laugh. Afraid of a teddy bear.

  “How about tomorrow morning?” he suggested, not wanting to miss his chance. Diana. Wasn’t that the Roman name for the moon goddess? She looked like a moon goddess, with her milk-white skin and silvery eyes. A shame someone like her had ended up alone.

  “Might as well. Would you like to see your room?”

  He chuckled, amused with himself. Shouldn’t his accommodations have been his top priority? Instead he’d been imagining how nice it would be to gaze into those fascinating eyes every morning over coffee. “Sure. Will I be upstairs or down?”

  “Upstairs. The master bedroom is down here.”

  “Oh.” And he was acutely aware that there was no master anymore, that she slept solo in a big bed. Or did she have lovers? He studied her discreetly, noting the shirtwaist buttoned to her creamy throat, the nervous motions of her hands toying with the glass. Lovers were doubtful. His heart warmed with sympathy, but he didn’t kid himself that was all he felt when he looked at Diana Thatcher.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the room.”

  Once again he was following her, and that’s exactly what he’d do from here on out—follow her lead. He hadn’t figured the Widow Thatcher would look like Diana, but he wasn’t at all sorry that she wasn’t old and plump. The scent of violets trailed after her, or was he imagining it because of the flowers in the kitchen window?

  “Here we are. The first room on the right.”

  He reached for the porcelain doorknob, which had some sort of flower painted on it. He turned the knob, almost afraid it would break off in his large brown hand. As he opened the door, the hinges creaked. Somewhere he’d read how to take care of that. Shouldn’t be too hard. He stepped inside the room and took quick inventory, not that he cared what it looked like. He had already made his decision downstairs—maybe on the front porch.

  The floor was polished hardwood and probably creaked worse than the door. He’d have to watch his pacing. The dressing table and double bed looked like antiques of the same vintage as the living room furniture that she didn’t much care for. But for his needs, the decor would provide the perfect atmosphere for digging into the past. He even liked the musty smell of the wood floors and faded wallpaper.

  “There’s no desk,” she explained, �
��but the dressing table might work. I could get you a better chair.”

  “And I can even watch myself study,” he said with a smiling glance at the wood-framed mirror attached to the dressing table.

  “Perhaps this isn’t suitable, after all,” she said quickly. “I’m sure you have other options, so maybe we should forget —”

  “I have no other options.” He looked at her steadily across the room. “This will be just great.” And incredibly hot, he acknowledged silently as sweat trickled down the middle of his back. Not even a hint of a breeze stirred the sheer curtains at the open casement window. The white paint on the sill was blistered and peeling. Painting wasn’t too complicated, though. He could do that.

  “This room has one of the nicest views,” Diana said, walking over to the window.

  “And how appropriate.” He joined her by the window to gaze out at the huge oak trees and lush greenery across the street. “Lincoln Park.”

  “That’s true.” She smiled up at him, and his breath caught in his throat. He focused quickly on the park again. God, she was lovely! “I have the same view,” she continued, “but the height of this room gives a better perspective.”

  So her bedroom was directly below his. An inkling of the problems that fact might present to his concentration began to penetrate his heated brain. “I bet it does.” He glanced sideways, wondering if she felt the heat. She looked so cool and calm in her white dress that he longed to fit his palm to the nape of her neck under the clouds of cinnamon colored hair to see if any dampness lingered there.

  She was so pale, even in the middle of summer. Had he ever made love to a woman who didn’t have a suntan? He caught himself. Diana Thatcher might never be more to him than a landlady. For all he knew, she was still grieving for her dead husband, for God’s sake, and he wasn’t about to trample on any memories.

  “The bathroom’s down the hall.” She moved away from the window, and he gave himself a mental shake. “You’ll have to share it with the girls.”

  “No problem. My mother taught me to put the seat down.”

  Diana’s cheeks grew rosy.

  “Sorry. Chalk that remark up to my California tongue. I forget that people in Springfield are more…”

  “Civilized?” she replied.

  He couldn’t resist. “I was going to say inhibited.”

  She met his gaze with more poise than he’d expected. Classy lady. “Are you saying you’re uninhibited?”

  “I suppose that’s a relative term. Compared to my brother-in-law, who goes skinny-dipping in the Pacific Ocean, I’m inhibited. But compared to a man who wears pajamas to bed, I’m not.”

  * * *

  Diana’s pulse began to race as she realized where her boldness was leading them. She should be more careful. “I see,” she said unsteadily, backing out of the room. Change the subject, Diana. “Then we can expect you in the morning?”

  “Do you want me to sign anything, pay my rent in advance?”

  “Uh, yes, I suppose I should collect a deposit. That would make everything official, wouldn’t it?” she said over her shoulder as she started back down the stairs and he followed. “Have another glass of lemonade, and I’ll get my receipt book.”

  When they reached the first floor, she ducked into her bedroom where she kept her bookkeeping supplies, and he returned to the kitchen. She found him standing by the kitchen window, examining her violets and gently touching the velvet leaves.

  Her skin began to tingle in a way she’d almost forgotten it could, and she fought the insane urge to invite his gentle hands to soothe that tingle away, to—her imagination screeched to a stop. What in heaven’s name was she thinking? Her cheeks burned.

  “How about the first month’s rent in advance?” she asked, her voice sounding loud in her ears. “Is that fair?”

  He lifted his fingers from the soft leaves and turned toward her, his lemonade glass in one hand. “Better than I’d find in California. My apartment complex there requires first and last month’s and rights to my firstborn.” He set his glass on the counter and reached in his back pocket for his checkbook. “But then I’ve seen some of the beer busts my neighbors throw, so I guess the landlord’s attitude is justified.”

  She looked at him in alarm. “Zach, you aren’t some kind of party animal, are you?” He threw back his head and laughed, and she found herself smiling in response to his amusement. “Is that a silly question?”

  He wiped his eyes and laid the check on the counter. “Of course not,” he said, clearing his throat. “You wouldn’t want a—” he pressed his lips together, but his eyes twinkled “—a party animal in this refined white clapboard house with flowers on the bedroom doorknobs.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I drink an occasional beer, a glass of wine when it’s handy, but I don’t get drunk. I haven’t been here long enough to meet any eligible young women, and besides, I’m in Springfield to work. I think you’ll find my social behavior acceptable.”

  “That’s good.” She colored. “I mean—I’m sure you wouldn’t—I didn’t intend to imply —”

  “Hey, don’t apologize. You’re in a vulnerable spot here, a widow alone with two young girls. I can understand that you want to be careful about who you bring into the house.”

  She sighed with relief. “Yes, more for the girls’ sake than mine, but I care, too. To tell you the truth, bringing you into the house will start tongues wagging regardless.”

  “Even if your neighbors understand my role here?”

  “Yes. You see, I thought you’d look…different.”

  “The tweeds and thick glasses? I won’t promise about the tweed jacket in this heat, but if it would help, I could scrounged around for some awful-looking horn rims.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t do it. There’s still the matter of your gorgeous tan, and your body—” She broke off in horror. Glancing quickly away from him, she prayed the kitchen linoleum would swallow her up.

  His voice was soft when he spoke at last. “You’re wonderful when you blush.”

  She bowed her head, hiding her face with her hair.

  “Diana, is my presence going to cause problems for you?”

  Somehow she found the courage to meet his sympathetic gaze. “Probably.”

  “Shall we cancel the agreement?”

  “I…no.”

  “Why not?”

  She couldn’t tell him the real reason, that she’d tasted the heady sensation of being near him and couldn’t imagine sending him out of her life—not just yet. “I need someone to help me around here, and I don’t think Springfield is overflowing with suitable men I’d have in my house. Your high school raved about your sterling character. What chance do I have of finding someone else who comes so highly recommended?”

  He grinned. “They raved, huh? They’re long on talk and short on cash, I guess. And wonderful though they think I am, they’re going to lose me if I can land a university position.”

  “Which is why you’re in Springfield.”

  “Right. Stanford might be impressed by the thoroughness of my doctoral research. I certainly hope so.”

  She quickly wrote his receipt and picked up the check from the counter. “Well, then, it’s settled. Tomorrow you move in.”

  “You’re sure?” He retrieved his sunglasses.

  She nodded her head decisively. “Yes. The neighbors may talk, but they’ll soon realize this is a business arrangement.” She folded her arms and tried her level best to look imposingly official.

  “Okay.” He surveyed her prim demeanor with a sparkle of humor in his blue eyes. “I’ll be over around ten, if that’s convenient.”

  “Of course.” She handed him the receipt then walked with him through the silent house to the front door.

  “Until tomorrow,” Zach said with a soft smile.

  “I’ll be here.” She held the door open, and his gaze met hers for a brief moment. Then he crossed the porch and bounded down the steps with an exuberance that
reminded her of Allison. As she watched him stride down the walk to a battered Jeep with California plates, she noticed again how wide his shoulders were under the blue T-shirt and how the low-slung cutoffs hugged his lean hips. “A business arrangement,” she said softly, as if committing the phrase to memory. “Simply a business arrangement.”

  He pulled away from the tree-lined curb with a wave of his hand, and she raised hers in response. Tomorrow morning he would be back. To stay. She wandered into the kitchen and ran her fingers around the rim of his lemonade glass before rinsing it in the sink. The faucet continued its steady plunk, plunk, plunk after she’d twisted the handle as hard as her strength would allow. Well, she did need a man around, she thought defiantly. And why shouldn’t he be great to look at?

  * * *

  “When’s he getting here, Mom?” Allison flipped the dish towel impatiently at Laurie, who was painstakingly scraping the last bit of egg from the breakfast plates. “Hurry up, slowpoke. I don’t want to be doing dishes when he shows up.”

  “Ow!” Laurie feigned great injury from the towel. “Mom, make her stop that. When is he coming, anyway?”

  Diana opened the oven door and peeked at the browning cinnamon rolls. “Pretty soon.”

  “Are you baking those rolls for him?” Allison asked. “You haven’t made any for a long time.”

  “Of course I’m not baking them for him.” Diana ripped a paper towel from the roll and dabbing at her damp forehead. Or am I? Had she made cinnamon rolls since Jim had died?

  “I don’t care why you’re doing it. I’m just glad you are,” pronounced Laurie. “Only thing is, the kitchen’s getting awfully hot.”

  “Then why don’t both of you go out in the backyard and play with Beethoven? He needs a break from that clothesline, and you might find a breeze under the maple tree.” For reasons she didn’t examine, Diana wanted the scene peaceful when Zach arrived. He’d find out soon enough what life in the Thatcher house was like, but she hoped this first day would run smoothly.

  “Okay,” Laurie agreed. “Right after I comb my hair.”