Seventeen Days

by Linda Griffin

  He laughed, although she was quite serious. “Are you settling in all right? Need some supplies?”

  “Yes and yes.” The present ambience of the place blended with her memories, and she held out her list, remembering her grandfather doing the same thing. It was apparently still the right thing to do. Kelly looked over the list and gathered things from the shelves as he talked.

  “When we heard Bill had left the house to his granddaughter, we were afraid you would sell to outsiders or summer people.” Apparently he didn’t consider her an outsider, even though nobody here could possibly remember her childhood visits. “Are you planning to stay awhile?”

  “I hope so.” If she had run away from the city to hide, where would she run if she couldn’t make it here? At least here she would never run into Patrick or his skinny blonde girlfriend. “I’ll be working on a book, if I can concentrate in all this beauty.”

  “Ah, you’re a writer,” he said, his tone a mixture of satisfaction that he had categorized her and disapproval of so impractical a calling.

  “No, an illustrator.”

  “Ah,” he said again, apparently mystified. Perhaps Bill Scott’s granddaughter was an outsider after all. He added up her purchases on the cash register and packed them in an open-topped cardboard box. She scanned the counter displays, which included gum and candy but no cigarettes. “Anything else?” he asked. She hesitated, tempted by the Hershey bars, but resisted.

  The door behind her opened abruptly, and a voice boomed, “Hullo, Jim Kelly!”

  “Morning, Violet.” The person who marched up to the counter was in no way like her name. She was a tall, beefy woman with a tangle of streaked blonde hair, dressed in overalls and a green flannel shirt. “Violet Hopkins,” Kelly explained to Jenna. “This is Bill Scott’s granddaughter.”

  “Of course it is!” Violet announced in her deep, rough voice. “Who did you think I supposed she was? The Queen of Sheba? Hullo, Jenna Scott! Heard you hove into town last night. Now, listen here. Anybody doesn’t treat you right, you let me know. We don’t put up with any nonsense in San Ignacio.”

  “Violet is on the town council,” Kelly explained.

  “Hell, I am the town council!” she corrected and then laughed. Her laugh was as deep and rich as her speaking voice.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Jenna said as soon as she could get a word in. She held out her hand, and Violet enveloped it in both of hers.

  “We’re all pleased to have you here! Bill Scott was a good man—none better. Your daddy was a corker too, if I remember. Well, Jim Kelly, are you giving this little gal everything she needs?”

  “Everything she asked for,” he said. “Couldn’t say about what she needs.” He winked at Jenna.

  “None of that talk!” Violet boomed. “Now, listen here. I’m having a barbecue on Saturday. I have a grocery list as long as your arm, and I want a notice put up, too. Everybody in town is invited, and if I don’t see you both there, I’ll know the reason why.”

  “You know we’ll be there,” Kelly said. “Nobody can resist your ribs.”

  “I know you can’t,” she agreed. “I ’specially want you to come, Jenna Scott—good chance to meet everybody.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Never mind thank you, just be sure to show up, no later than twelve noon. Now, Jim, I ain’t in a hurry, so you go on and see she gets those supplies loaded in the car. What kind of car is that?” she asked, but didn’t wait for a reply. “It’s a real pretty shade of blue anyway.”

  Kelly lifted the box and followed Jenna out to the car. “Violet’s a mite loud,” he said, “but she has a good heart.”

  “I’m sure she does,” she agreed. With such colorful characters as inspiration, maybe she should write a book.

  When she got home, a van was parked in the front yard, and Rosalie was talking to a tall, gaunt man with fiercely bushy eyebrows. “Hi!” Rosalie called as she got out of the car. “You’re just in time. Gabe is here to hook up your phone.”

  “Good morning, Miss Scott,” Gabe Burrows said sternly. He sounded as if he suspected her of illegal activities.

  “Good morning,” she said, holding out her hand, which he ignored.

  Rosalie took a few steps away, ready to leave. “Can we count on you for supper tonight?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied, although she hadn’t given it much thought. She didn’t see any point in being unsociable. She had met more people in San Ignacio in less than twenty-four hours than she had in the apartment building in as many months. Rosalie was probably the nicest of the lot, and she would prefer to be on good terms with the neighbors.

  “We’ll eat at six thirty,” Rosalie said. “Come early and we’ll talk.”

  “Okay,” Jenna agreed.

  “That woman has too much time on her hands, if you ask me,” Burrows grumbled. He started up to the house, and she followed, both amused and intimidated. “Now, I can put the phone somewhere else if you want,” he said grudgingly, apparently used to city folks’ nonsense. It was in the kitchen, where she remembered it had always been, but now the instrument was more modern, with cheery yellow plastic and a push-button dial.

  “This is fine,” she said, and he set to work, quickly and silently, while she put away the groceries. When he was finished, he handed her a local phone directory, dated 1987, and presented a work order for her signature—a simple printed form, no carbons.

  He said, “We’ll send you a bill first of the month. Any problems, give us a call.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Burrows.”

  “The name’s Gabe,” he corrected. “I knew your grandfather.” As he gathered up his tools, he nodded toward the stained ceiling and said, “Been neglected awhile, I guess.”

  “Yes, my grandmother was ill for a long time. Rick Alvarez is going to give me an estimate on the roof.”

  “Alvarez,” he said disapprovingly. He said something else, which she hoped she had misunderstood, under his breath and went out. Jenna followed as far as the porch and called, “Thanks again, Gabe. Goodbye.” He didn’t reply, but he waved as he drove out. In a place like San Ignacio, even the town curmudgeon was a friendly sort.

  She convinced herself she shouldn’t start work on the book only to be interrupted by the carpenter and instead made a batch of cookies to take to Rosalie’s, coming as close as she could to her grandmother’s recipe. The cookies were in the oven, filling the room with warmth and a rich, chocolaty fragrance, and she was scrubbing the sink and counter when she heard a car turn into the driveway.

  It was Rick Alvarez and his son in the gray pickup, the bed piled with plywood sheets and paper-wrapped bundles. The little boy got out first, clutching a coloring book and a box of crayons, but stayed close to the pickup while his father lifted a ladder out of the back. Alvarez wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with a tool belt around his hips like a modern-day gunslinger.

  Jenna stepped out on the porch and let the screen door slam behind her so he would know she was there. She wasn’t sure what to say to him. The beauty of dealing with the apartment house manager was that once you had convinced him something needed fixing, he was responsible for hiring the repairman and making sure he did the job properly. She wasn’t sure she was up to the responsibility of being a homeowner.

  “Good morning,” Alvarez called. He beckoned the boy to follow him up the steps. “Danny, this is Miss Scott. My boy Danny. I don’t think you met formally yesterday.”

  “No, not formally,” she agreed. “Hi, Danny.”

  “Hi,” he said softly. He seemed much more cheerful than the day before, but stayed close to his father.

  As they passed into the house, Alvarez took notice of the loose screen door hinge, but he said nothing. He followed her into the kitchen, the sound of his boots on the hardwood floor echoing in the nearly empty rooms, and she pointed out the leak in the hall and the stained ceiling.

  He studied the stain for a few seconds before he nodded curtly and said, “I’ll
go up and take a look.”

  “You’re not going to take your son up on the roof, are you?” she asked. The idea of anybody walking around up there made her a little queasy.

  He gazed at her as if he wondered why she cared, but all he said was “No.” He bent and whispered something to the boy and gestured at the kitchen table. “Okay?” he asked Jenna.

  “Oh, yes, sure.” Danny climbed up on a chair and laid out his crayons with careful precision. Alvarez headed back outside, and she was left with this strange, quiet child. She had no idea what she should say or do. Danny, oblivious, began to color.

  She was saved by the bell—the oven timer chimed, and she hurried to take out the cookies. They smelled wonderful, even if they were not exactly like her grandmother’s. She offered one to Danny, and he hesitated and then took it shyly. “Thanks,” he murmured.

  “Would you like a glass of milk with that?” she asked. He shook his head and bent over his work. Jenna resumed her scrubbing. She heard sounds from overhead but couldn’t tell what he was doing. A sudden crash made her jump, and she glanced quickly at Danny, who kept coloring, unconcerned. More loud noises followed, and she realized Alvarez was tearing off loose shingles and throwing them to the ground. She started to go out in the yard and remind him they had agreed only on an estimate, but she didn’t want to see him on the roof. What if she startled or distracted him and he fell? It had been so much easier to go off to work and let the manager deal with everything.

  When the cookies had cooled a little, she began packing them in an old cracker tin. The screen door banged, and Alvarez strode in. “The roof’s not so bad,” he said conversationally, leaning in the doorway with his thumbs hooked in his tool belt. “If you want to come out, I’ll show you what needs to be done.”

  Jenna hesitated. It would be the cautious, sensible, homeownerly thing to do, but San Ignacio was a small town, and this man was practically a neighbor. She might as well be honest at the start. “I wouldn’t know what I was looking at,” she confessed. “All I need to know is how much it will cost and how long the job will take.”

  He took a pen and a small spiral notebook out of his pocket and scribbled a few figures. “It won’t take long. I can do it right now, if you like. I have enough shingles in the pickup.”

  “How did you know…?”

  “Didn’t,” he said. “But I got a good deal on the shingles. Do you know Jeff Tanner?”

  “I don’t know anybody here,” Jenna said.

  “Anyway, he had them left over…I think they’ll be a good match.” He tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to her. It didn’t exactly constitute a contract, but the final figure was encouragingly low. If the roof leaked, she would know where to find him.

  “All right, let’s do it,” she said. “These cookies are fresh out of the oven. Would you like one?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll get to work.” He started to leave and turned back just as she handed Danny another cookie. He raised an eyebrow.

  Danny, with the cookie halfway to his mouth, caught the look and said, “Gracias.”

  “In English,” Alvarez corrected.

  “Thank you, Miss Scott,” Danny said dutifully and bit into the cookie. He seemed unembarrassed, but she wondered if his father wasn’t a bit of a bully to correct him in front of her.

  “This is California,” she said. “We at least know gracias.” He didn’t answer, and his face was unreadable. He left the house, banging the screen door again, and Jenna finished putting the cookies in the box. She didn’t want to entertain the boy, and apparently it wasn’t necessary, but now she was a little curious. “What are you coloring?” she asked, but made no effort to see his page.

  “Trucks,” he said.

  “Oh, you like machines. I like to draw buildings, myself.” He looked up and regarded her gravely, and she felt as if she needed to prove herself. She retrieved her sketchbook from the bedroom and showed him the rendering of the Alvarez house. He gave her a small smile and pointed to the figure on the steps.

  “That’s me.”

  “It’s supposed to be. It’s not very good.”

  “I like it,” he said, making a simple, straightforward statement of fact, not meant as a compliment or a request, one artist to another.

  “Would you like to keep it?” she asked. “I can always draw another one.”

  “Yes, please,” he said. His father—or someone—had taught him manners. She tore off the page, and he laid it carefully beside his row of crayons. “The house is sad,” he said and gave her a shy look, shaded by his beautiful eyelashes. “Houses are sometimes,” he explained.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But my house isn’t. It’s getting a new roof, and it smells like freshly baked cookies.”

  “But I like trucks the best,” he said and picked up a blue crayon.

  A loud thump on the roof made her jump. As long as the Alvarez men were working, she might as well join them. The technical drawing required for the book she was illustrating was not as enjoyable as sketching the harbor, but the project would pay for the groceries. She could at least start the preliminary sketches at the kitchen table. Consciousness of the carpenter working above her head kept her a little on edge, but she disciplined herself to work steadily.

  She and Danny had worked in companionable silence for some time when a car door slammed. Danny immediately dropped his crayon and was out the front door like a shot. Vaguely alarmed, she followed as far as the front window.

  Danny joined Alvarez at the pickup, and they sat on the open tailgate and dug into a large sack for sandwiches and thermoses. Jenna glanced at her watch, which showed exactly noon. When she looked up again, Danny was talking animatedly. His father nodded gravely a couple of times and then suddenly smiled, a nice, warm smile that broke up the too serious lines of his face. She felt a pang of longing for the lost dream of Patrick as the father of her children. No, she would not think of Patrick here; he had lost the right to enter this peaceful haven, even in memory. She returned to the kitchen and briskly set about making herself a sensible, nutritious lunch.

  Danny didn’t come back after lunch. Alvarez climbed back onto the roof and began pounding in nails. He had passed the stage of throwing shingles to the ground, and it was safe enough for Danny to play outside. She could hear him running back and forth in the front yard, making engine noises. Not so long ago she had played there herself, inventing grandiose plans for a future full of castles and unicorns. She was too restless to settle down to straight lines and careful angles, so she decided to give the house a thorough cleaning. Real physical work was therapeutic, and her spirits lifted.

  She was mopping the kitchen floor when Danny came running in, skidded to a stop at the door, and announced, “Miss Scott, my dad says come see.” She had been so busy she hadn’t noticed when the sounds on the roof stopped. She leaned the mop against the wall and followed Danny out to the porch.

  Alvarez was holding the screen door open, and he pulled a screwdriver out of his tool belt and gestured at the loose hinge. “No extra charge,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said. Danny tugged on her hand, and she followed him into the yard. She shaded her eyes and stared up at the roof, but it looked exactly the same in the front. Danny led her around to the side of the house, and she could see where a sizeable area had been reshingled. The new shingles made the rest appear a little faded by comparison, but the job was neatly done and made her feel altogether better about the prospect of rain.

  When she had admired the roof to Danny’s satisfaction, they returned to the porch. Alvarez had finished with the screen door and was testing the ricketiest step with the toe of his boot. “Ought to put new boards on one of these days,” he said, but didn’t sound as if he meant to pressure her.

  “Come in the house, and I’ll write you a check,” she said. They followed her into the kitchen, and Danny put his crayons back in the box while his father again leaned in the doorway. Danny showed him the sketch of their hous
e, and he took the page without comment and studied it briefly before he handed it back. Jenna dug her checkbook out of her purse and filled in the amount from memory, but hesitated over the name. “Rick” didn’t seem formal enough for a check. “Is it Richard?” she asked.

  “Enrique,” he said, and she flushed a little under his cool gaze, as if she should have known. His eyes were dark and deep-set, his lashes as thick as Danny’s. She wrote his name and signed her own in her usual no-nonsense style. He didn’t even check to see if the amount was right—he knew where to find her if there was a problem—and folded it. “Thanks,” he said, slipping it into his pocket.

  “I appreciate your doing the job so quickly,” she said. “It was nice meeting you, Danny.”

  “Bye, Miss Scott,” he said blithely. She wanted to say something else, ask something, make conversation like a small-town neighbor instead of a customer, but nothing occurred to her. For some reason, she felt more socially inadequate than she had since she’d sported braces in the fifth grade.

  She followed them out to the porch and watched Alvarez lift the ladder back into the pickup bed while Danny climbed into the cab. As he was about to join Danny, he asked, “Will we see you at the barbecue?” Ah, Jenna thought, that’s what I should have asked!

  “Yes,” she said, and he nodded and turned away, as if her answer didn’t matter much.

  “Bye!” Danny called again. He waved at her as the pickup swung onto the road, but Alvarez never looked back.

  Jenna returned to the kitchen and finished mopping the floor. The task took only a few minutes and, still feeling energetic, she decided to explore the small backyard shed. It was locked, but the wooden jamb was rotten, and the door flew open with one hard tug. More work for the carpenter. She would have to make a list and figure out a budget. An old, rusty push mower was nestled among the cobwebs. She found a can of oil on her grandfather’s workbench and set to work. When she was finished, the mower squeaked a little, but the blades spun freely. Mowing the lawn was far more satisfying than any kind of housework. A yard was one of the things she had missed in the apartment. The sun and fresh air and the satisfaction of visible progress made the job seem easy. The place was beginning to look lived in.