by Cara Bristol
Millie remembered him right away. “Why didn’t you tell us you were a celebrity?”
“What?”
“I thought you seemed familiar. You’re the guy on the big billboard on the highway.”
Half the patrons in the restaurant had turned to stare.
“I kind of like to keep a low profile,” he said, regretting his choice of personification.
“Hon, with your pretty face plastered fourteen feet high and three times as wide, that ain’t gonna be possible.” She laughed. “You here for breakfast? What can I get ya?”
Aware he didn’t have any legal money, he’d eaten before he’d left the Castaway. “I hope you can give me a little information.” He showed her the paper. “I’d like to apply for this job, but I don’t know where to go.”
“This is Kevanne Girardi’s number. You sat next to her yesterday. She bought the old Richter Lavender Farm, and I imagine it needs a lot of work. As they got up in years, the Richters kinda let the place go.”
“Can you tell me where it is?”
The once-over Millie gave him would have made a Verital proud. “I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I hate to be wrong. Don’t make me wrong,” she’d said. “Kevanne wouldn’t like me sayin’ so, but she could use a good man to help her out.”
Following Millie’s directions, he’d ridden the hover scooter to the lavender farm. The cloaking screen had kept the rain off, but after hiding the vehicle in the woods, he’d had a short hike to the house. He’d figured out the button alongside the door would summon the resident, but he’d pressed it and nothing happened. Wondering if he was at the right address, he’d gone around the house to look for another door. Then he spotted Kevanne standing in her kitchen.
He glanced around the room, noting a primitive food preparation appliance, a large cold-storage cabinet, open shelving stacked with flowered dishes, and a large basin rusted in spots. There were sprigs of dried purple flowers in vases, the same flowers repeated in the pattern on the cloth draping the window.
Her home didn’t show any evidence she lived with anyone, but he couldn’t be sure. The main room where he’d entered had an old long cushioned chair-bed covered by a woven blanket. To the front and sides of the chair-bed were some battered wooden tables. Mounted on the wall was a modest-sized viewing screen. By his estimation, there seemed to be a dearth of furniture and personal possessions, but maybe humans weren’t acquisitive. He didn’t know enough about them to judge.
He heard a click and squeak, and then Kevanne reappeared in a pair of faded blue pants, rubbed white in places, and a hooded gray jacket. She’d pulled her hair into a tail. He missed the riotous mass, but having it scraped off her face showed off her cheekbones and emphasized her large brown eyes. Her eyelashes looked thicker and longer and her mouth pinker. Had she applied pigment?
She eyed his cup. “Can I get you another?”
“I was hoping you’d offer!” he said.
“Would you like some banana bread to go with it? Have you eaten? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“I would like banana bread, thank you.” Since yesterday’s diner meal, he was eager to try more Earth foods.
She took his cup and prepared more coffee. After handing it back to him, she cut slices off a brown loaf, placed the pieces on some small plates, and then withdrew a dish of berries from the refrigerator. She brought the berries and the banana bread to the table, along with eating utensils, paper napkins, and her own coffee.
Did he use the fork for both the banana bread and the berries or just the berries? He sipped his coffee and waited for her to act first. There were so many subtleties to blending in.
He waited until she picked up a slice of bread and ate a mouthful, before doing the same. It was moist, slightly sweet, and nutty. “Delicious.” He chewed.
“Thank you. So why do you want to work as a handyman?”
“I need money.”
“Aren’t you with a modeling agency? Didn’t you pose for the billboard? Can’t you get more work like that?”
He considered his answer before speaking. “The…opportunity fell into my lap unexpectedly. It was a fluke.”
“So, you’re not a world-famous billboard model?” A smile teased her mouth, and desire blasted through him.
“Not by a long shot.”
“What did Millie tell you about me?” she asked.
“That you needed a good man.”
“What!” She choked, turning red.
“She meant the work,” he fibbed. He’d inferred Millie had meant a whole lot more. “I take it you’re not mated, I mean—married?”
“I’m widowed. My husband had a heart attack and died.” She got up. “Would you like more coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.” His cup was still nearly full. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He suffered the loneliness of not having a mate, but that couldn’t be as bad as having one and losing her. Given his ideologies and participation in the opposition, he hadn’t dared to mate. Despite the bond, a loyal Xeno would have turned him in if she had discovered his leanings. If she didn’t rat him out, and if he’d been apprehended, she would have been punished also. He couldn’t put an innocent woman at risk.
Kevanne’s back was turned as she refilled her cup. “Dayton died a year and a half ago. I’m getting over it, am over it.”
“How long were you married?” he asked quietly.
“Ten years.”
“And now you’re running the lavender farm on your own.”
She shook her head. “No. Well, yes, I am running it on my own, but I bought the farm after Dayton died. I’ve only had it a few months. I’ve always loved lavender.” She glanced at a vase of dried flowers, and he made the connection.
Lavender was a flower! Now he identified the floral fragrance drifting around her.
She waved at the kitchen. “This is why I need a handyman. This place needs work, and I have to get it whipped into shape by the summer tourist season. Have you done any fix-it work before? Plumbing, carpentry, roofing, basic home repairs? Rototilling? Planting?”
His hopes of earning some money sank. He couldn’t do any of those things she mentioned—didn’t know what they were. Plumbing? “This would be my first handyman job,” he admitted. “But I learn fast. Tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll figure out how to do it.”
“What kind of work have you been doing?” Her gaze dropped to his hands.
Was he losing the personification again? Alarm shooting through him, he took a peek. His skin still looked human. “Something wrong with my hands?”
Her cheeks tinted. “You don’t have working-man’s hands. You have the hands of a professional—an office worker.”
“I used to oversee communications for a…uh, consortium.”
“Like public relations?”
Nothing so innocuous. “More like intelligence gathering,” he admitted, and realized he’d erred when her eyes widened.
“Like a corporate spy?”
Loyal to the consortium, he’d held the same attitudes and beliefs as any other Xeno when he’d begun monitoring and analyzing electromagnetic signals from project planets and donor worlds. He’d assessed how each civilization was progressing and reported any significant or suspicious activity to the High Council. But as he listened in on the chatter, doubts and questions arose to chip away at his assumption of supremacy, of entitlement. He began to view the project planets in a new light, developing a fondness for and protectiveness toward his subjects. When situations arose that might have led to euthanizing, he moderated and filtered the data, submitting redacted reports to the council.
He’d made one small slip.
“My, uh, department, kept track of what our potential competitors were doing.”
“What company did you work for?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Why did you leave? Why aren’t you doing that job anymore?”
Because by Xeno standards, he’d been born def
ective—he’d grown a conscience. He lacked ruthlessness. “I didn’t like the person I was. I hated myself,” he said.
She flinched.
It had disturbed him to play with sentient creatures as if they were toys, a discomfort that over time had become untenable. He’d risked his life voting against the bombardment—and it hadn’t done any good. He’d been outnumbered, and the planet had been destroyed. It had also forced him to reveal his true leanings.
“I couldn’t be that person anymore,” he said. “I had to discover myself, change myself, and find a way to right the wrongs I’d been a party to.”
Kevanne’s knuckles tightened on her coffee cup. “Have you changed? Did you right the wrongs?” she whispered.
“I like to think I’m a different person now. I did as much as I could, but time ran out. I live with the guilt of not doing enough and doing it too late, but I’m not done yet. I’m not presently in a position where I can do anything, but I hope that will change.”
“In the meantime, you need a job.”
“Yes.”
“Most of the important work is outside, but until the rain lets up, we can’t do it. However, I could use help around the house. I bought some replacement faucets, but they have to be installed. The house is drafty; I’m spending a fortune on heating. Windows need to be caulked. Doors need weather stripping. I can’t offer more than a couple of weeks’ work though. I need more help, but I can’t afford to pay for more.”
He held his breath. “Does that mean I have the job?”
“You said you didn’t have any handyman experience, but I’m willing to give you a try. If I can patch a roof when I have no roofing experience, you can figure stuff out, too.”
“Thank you!” He broke into a big smile. It wasn’t just about money anymore. This human intrigued him, and he wanted to learn more about her.
“Why don’t you come back the day after tomorrow? I have a few things to do before I can go into Coeur d’Alene for supplies. The bait shop in Argent doesn’t carry much.”
He’d been hoping he could start today, but at least he’d landed a job, and this would give him time to study home repair. Both Wingman and Tigre said the Internet offered a wealth of information. He needed to research caulking, weather stripping, faucet installation, and the other chores she’d mentioned. He didn’t know how to do them now, but by the day after tomorrow he would.
Chapter Nine
Scoop. Shovel. Tie. Toss.
On a folding table in the living room, Kevanne worked the assembly line.
Using a coffee scooper, she shoveled a spoonful of lavender potpourri into a pastel bag, tied it closed with a purple ribbon, and tossed it into a big basket. Next time I’ll spring for drawstring bags! They cost a little more, but oh, the time she would have saved. She’d forgotten how long it took to fill and tie potpourri bags. Two days, 180 bags later, she was almost done. Actually, it had taken a day and a half. Half of yesterday had been spent at the big-box hardware store in Spokane because the one in Coeur d’Alene was out of what she’d wanted.
Scoop. Shovel. Tie. Toss.
“Herian! Fithic!” She didn’t understand the language, but there was no mistaking the panic.
What now? She dashed into the kitchen.
A geyser arced into the air from the open pipe as Cam Leon tried to plug it up with his hands. Water bounced off the ceiling and puddled on the floor.
“Shit!” She rushed to the sink and ducked under the cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
“Turning off the water!” Like you were supposed to do! She’d told him to switch off the main valve before removing the faucet.
She was getting drenched as she fought with the rusted spigot. The plumbing was as old as the house, and the valve refused to budge. “It’s stuck, I can’t get it!” What was she going to do? The house would be flooded before she could get a plumber.
“Let me.” Cam dropped down beside her to peer under the sink.
He grasped the valve lever.
“Turn it clockwise,” she said.
She got a blank stare.
“To the right!”
He turned it easily, and the water shut off.
Okay, he was strong. And he smelled good. But he had to be the worst handyman in the world.
“I’m sorry.” Water dripped off him. “I screwed up again.”
His face was so close, if she leaned in, their lips would meet. Her stomach fluttered the way it always did when she got too close to him. He only had to walk into the room, and her stupid body reacted. Stop it!
“Why didn’t you turn off the water like I told you?” she snapped, more irritated at herself than him.
“I thought you meant up top—at the faucet.”
She sighed. “It’s all right. Honest mistake. I’m sorry I shouted at you.” If she’d ever used that tone with Dayton…
Cam seemed to have a general idea what he should be doing, but there were significant gaps in his knowledge. He’d planed the swollen doors okay, but he’d sprayed so much oil on the squeaky hinges, it had dripped all over the floor. He’d misunderstood her directions, and instead of caulking the windows and applying weather stripping to the exterior doors, he’d caulked the doors and had begun sticking the weather stripping to the window frame when she’d caught him. Giving him a task was like teaching a child—it would have been easier to do the work herself.
She’d sensed he was down on his luck, and, having been there herself, she’d hired him to help him out. But she needed a professional handyman—someone who knew more about home repairs than she did. If she had any sense, she’d fire him. Pay him for his time and send him on his way.
Except he seemed so earnest, so genuine in his desire to help.
“I didn’t like the person I was. I hated myself,” he’d told her two days ago. She couldn’t imagine what the company he’d worked for had demanded of him, but his confession had resonated down to the dark, secret places inside of her. She hadn’t liked herself, the person she’d allowed Dayton to shape her into becoming. He’d had her convinced every problem in their marriage was her fault. Then he’d died, and the necrosis of guilt had spread like a flesh-eating bacteria.
I’m so sorry for your loss. People meant well, but every sincere condolence had worsened her shame. Therapy had walked her back from the brink of despair, allowed her to accept and own her emotions. It was okay to feel what she felt. But some days, dormant doubts reawakened to undermine the progress.
So she’d hired Cam, not out of sympathy—but empathy.
And she kept him on for the same reason, but she crossed her fingers he wouldn’t destroy her house before he fixed it.
Rising to her feet, she bumped into him. He steadied her with a hand to her elbow. Heat sizzled at the point of contact. “Let’s get the kitchen mopped up.” The floor was one giant puddle.
“I am so sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t work for you.”
There. He’d given her an out.
“Hey, you can’t run out on me now!” she joked and tapped his arm. “I’ll grab the shop vac.” Fortunately, the previous owners had left behind many of their tools. Some were too old and worn to be of much use, but others had saved her a lot of money.
She wasn’t destitute, but the insurance money was all she had, and after buying the lavender farm, she didn’t have a lot left, and what remained needed to last until the farm turned a profit. So, except for business expenses, she was determined to only buy bare necessities.
She and Dayton had lived well—too well, as it had turned out. He’d insisted on handling the finances, taking it as an insult if she asked about their money. Upon his death, she’d discovered they were in over their heads. They had a huge mortgage she couldn’t afford to pay on her own, and their luxury vehicles were leased. Credit cards were maxed. Dayton’s salary had been larger than most people’s, but they’d still lived paycheck to paycheck. After selling everything to pay off debts, she’d been left with nothing.
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She’d been seeking employment as a dental assistant—her occupation before Dayton had convinced her to quit—when she got a call from his employer’s benefits administrator. Turned out she was the beneficiary of an insurance policy he’d taken out when they’d gotten married. She had a hunch Dayton had forgotten it existed.
She wheeled in the shop vac. “Have you ever used one of these before?” she asked. Of course he hadn’t. Dayton, a suit-wearing corporate executive vice president who hired out everything, had been handier than Cam.
“No…” he admitted.
She demonstrated how to flip the switches from off to on, and from wet to dry.
“Oh—it’s simple,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, but she’d learned not to take anything for granted.
She left him to vacuum up the water and went to change her wet clothes and dry her hair. When she returned to the kitchen, she discovered the water had been sucked up, and he’d installed the faucet.
“Look!” he demonstrated turning it on and off.
The water ran full and steady, the way it should. Trying to be surreptitious about it, she peeked under the sink. Nope, no leaks.
“You fixed it! It’s perfect!” she said, pleased, and a little surprised, although she shouldn’t have been. Despite his mishaps, he was a fast learner, and once he got the hang of something, he did good work. “Thank you!”
He stood there grinning, beaming with pride—and soaked to the skin.
“I’m so sorry! I forgot about your wet clothing. Let me put your stuff in the dryer. I don’t have anything that will fit you, but you can wrap up in a large towel while your clothes dry.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact as all sorts of ribald, juvenile naked handyman jokes sprang to mind.
Her cheeks felt hot, and she feared she was blushing. Her mind might be dirty, but her suggestion had been made with the best of intentions. The man was soaked, dripping all over the floor. Wetter than she had been. Although not anymore…stop it!