'Tis the Season

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “The windows are all open, Allison,” Laurie responded through clenched teeth. “And you’re up here shouting about toilets. Gross.”

  “What’ll be gross is if this thing overflows, and—”

  “Make way, ladies.” Diana pushed past them to the upstairs bathroom. Shoving the sleeves of her green gauze blouse to her elbows, she lifted the chipped porcelain tank top and bent over the mysterious inner workings, then jiggled the chrome handle on the side of the tank. Water continued to pour through the interior. “Go away girls,” she said wearily. “I’m about to swear.”

  “Is it going to flood?” Allison asked, her blue eyes wide and her blond ponytail bouncing.

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll have to call a plumber.”

  “Uh-oh.” Laurie took her younger sister’s arm and propelled her down the hall. “Come on. You know how she gets when we have another repair bill to pay.”

  The chiming of the doorbell floated up the stairs.

  “One of you could answer the door while I figure out how to turn the water off to this thing,” Diana called after them.

  “I will,” Allison replied as her sister dragged her away. “And Laurie can direct Harold for a while. After all, he’s just a beginner.”

  “Fine.” Diana crouched on the linoleum floor and searched for the shut-off valve. God, it was hot upstairs. If only one of the electric fans worked. “Damn you, Jim,” she muttered. “I can handle lonely nights and the girls. But I can’t fix the stupid john!”

  Tears mingled with her mascara, and her eyes stung as she found the valve and turned it angrily. They weren’t tears of grief. She’d wrung those out months ago. Now she was just plain mad – at Jim for dying, at the house for being old, at money for being scarce and most of all at the toilet for breaking down. She treated herself to a colorful string of expletives.

  “Mom, are you crying?” Allison stood uncertainly in the bathroom doorway.

  “No, honey. This is just…sweat. I can’t remember a July this hot, can you?” She fumbled for a tissue and dabbed at her swimming eyes.

  “Nope.” Allison looked unconvinced. “I hate to tell you this, on top of everything, but Mrs. Eckstrom was at the door.”

  Diana plopped down on the edge of the old tub. “Not Beethoven again?”

  “Her rose bed is a shambles, she said, and if we can’t keep Beethoven penned up, she’s calling the pound.”

  “Oh, damn.” Diana looked up guiltily. “Oops. Sorry, sweetheart.”

  “That’s okay. Laurie’s tying him to the clothesline. Want me to fix the fence? I could work Dad’s saws. I know I could.”

  Diana smiled wanly. “And fix the toilet and the electric fans and the kitchen faucet? And paint the windowsills?”

  “Well, maybe not all at once, but—”

  “Allison, you’re a talented girl, but I know what we need around here.” She slapped her hands against the knees of her white slacks and stood up. “And I’ve just decided what to do about it.”

  “What?” Allison trotted after her. “What do we need, Mom?”

  “A man. I’m placing an ad right this minute.”

  “An ad for a man? Freaky!” Allison followed her down the stairs. “Laurie, Mom’s putting an ad in the paper for a man.”

  “She is not, bimbo. All right, Harold, let’s try the last four measures again.”

  “She is, too! Ask her.”

  “Mother?” Laurie stopped directing. “You are calling a plumber, right?”

  “As soon as I place this ad.” She picked her phone up off the side table and glanced at Harold, who had stopped playing and was watching them all with curiosity. “Harold, I’m sorry, but I need to cut your lesson short. I’ll give you a longer lesson next week to make up for this one.”

  Laurie tossed her dark bangs away from her face. “What ad?”

  “For a live-in handyman who’ll do basic maintenance in exchange for an inexpensive room and all his meals.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Laurie’s gray eyes, a shade darker than Diana’s, narrowed suspiciously.

  “Yes, she would,” answered Allison with a smug grin. “I told you she was doing it.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Thatcher.” Unnoticed, Harold packed up his tuba and lugged it out the door.

  “Mother! You’re going to let some strange man we don’t know sleep and eat here?” Laurie wailed. She rested her hands on her hips. “Why not hire a woman?”

  “Because we already have three females living in this house, and we could use a little male energy to balance things out.” Diana noted the genuine concern on her daughter’s face, and lowered her phone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll do a background check on any applicants and get complete references. But wouldn’t you like to have the fence repaired so Beethoven doesn’t get out almost every day?”

  “I bet I could fix it,” Allison said.

  “Maybe after you take shop in seventh grade, but the job needs to be done now. And how about the toilet? I hate to think what kind of bill the plumber will send us, but any handyman with a lick of sense could fix that in no time. And if I don’t have to pay out of pocket for those types of expenses, we would have more money for other things.”

  “Like clothes?” Laurie’s gray eyes shone with interest. “I saw a really neat outfit at White Oaks Mall.”

  “We’ll see, but yes, we might have more money for things you girls want. Maybe a new pair of drumsticks for Allison. And your flute could use a little repair work.”

  Laurie stood silently for a moment, her dark head bent in thought. “It would just be weird, having a strange man living here.”

  “He wouldn’t be a stranger for long. Besides, what if he turns out to be sixty-five years old? He could be like a live-in grandpa.”

  “Oh, Mom, you wouldn’t consider somebody that ancient, would you?” Allison looked horrified.

  “Of course I would,” Diana said. “Besides, age has nothing to do with it. If he’s clean and respectful and knows how to fix things, what difference does it make if he’s got white hair?”

  Allison rolled her eyes. “A lot. He’d probably complain every time I practiced my drums or played my music a teensy bit too loud or wanted a slumber party.” She perched on the arm of the couch. “Your music lessons aren’t so quiet, either, Mom. What about the Bad News Brass every Friday afternoon? Those three boys could blow the feathers off a chicken.”

  “Yeah,” Laurie chimed in. “And what if the fix-it man disturbs us? Susie’s grandpa lives with them, and he gets up early on the weekends and starts whistling. I couldn’t stand that. I need my sleep.”

  “I know what,” Allison said. “Don’t get anybody older than you are. That’s plenty old.”

  “Watch your tongue, young lady.” Diana tugged Allison’s ponytail.

  “Yeah, bimbo. That wasn’t nice. Mom’s not old.”

  Allison’s blue eyes shifted uncomfortably. “I know, but lately it seems….”

  “What?” Diana asked.

  “Well, you act older than you used to.”

  “Is that so? Maybe because I am older.”

  “Not that old. Even Mrs. Eckstrom says it’s a shame for someone as young as you not to have a—”

  “Allison,” Diana interrupted sternly. “We’ve had this discussion before, and I know where it’s leading.”

  “Yeah, quit trying to marry Mom off. She might pick someone we didn’t like.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  “Besides, it’ll be hard enough getting used to a fix-it man. I don’t want to start thinking about a new father.”

  “Exactly.” Diana smiled. “I have no marriage plans. And if the man I hire doesn’t work out, we can find someone else. Simple as that. What do you say?”

  Laurie took a large pink comb from her back pocket and ran it through her short hair. “I still say his being here will change everything.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “Oh, who cares?” Allison said. “I think
it’s a great idea. I’m tired of the fans not working and the toilet running and Beethoven getting out all the time.”

  “Me, too,” Diana said. “I’m placing the ad. Who knows? Maybe I won’t have any takers.”

  * * *

  Secretly, Diana wondered if there was anyone who would be enticed by her offer of low rent and free meals in exchange for handyman duties. The first caller admitted to being seventy-five years old and complained on the telephone about his arthritis. Scratch one prospect. The second sounded way too young. Anybody who used Allison’s favorite “freaky” in every sentence didn’t qualify as a reputable handyman. But the third man intrigued her, and she decided to set up a face-to-face interview.

  She’d forgotten to ask his age, but he had sounded mature. His primary reference was the California high school where he’d taught until this year, when he’d taken a personal leave to finish his doctoral dissertation on Abraham Lincoln’s Springfield years. She called the school, and heard nothing but praise for the character of Zachary Wainwright.

  A high school teacher. A Lincoln scholar. She imagined horn-rimmed glasses and tweeds, a shy manner and a sunken chest. Zachary Wainwright sounded like the perfect maintenance man and the perfect boarder. She just hoped he wouldn’t object to a little noise now and then. She had to admit the Bad News Brass took some getting used to.

  She set the stage carefully for the interview. She sent the girls across the street to spend the morning at the Nelson Center pool, so that their presence wouldn’t make the poor man nervous, or suspicious about a possible noise problem.

  She’d chosen to wear a soft white shirtwaist with a touch of lace at the collar. Despite the damp heat of the morning, she wanted to look cool and poised. She’d stated she was a widow in the ad, but she’d decided not to mention her daughters or her age, preferring to keep her situation somewhat vague until she knew more about her prospective tenant.

  Trying to ignore the steady tick of the grandfather clock, she wandered the living room, surveying the carved black walnut furniture. Her mother-in-law had insisted that the antiques stay with the house when she and Jim had bought it fourteen years ago, and as a young bride, Diana had been delighted. Now she found the dark wood and the hand-crocheted antimacassars a trifle depressing.

  When the doorbell chimed, she smoothed her dress and felt a quiver of trepidation, almost as if she were going on a first date. Ridiculous! He should be the nervous one, not her. But she’d never invited a stranger to live in her house before, and it was proving to be an unsettling prospect.

  As she walked toward the front door, she could see his silhouette dimly through the frosted glass, and he appeared bulkier than she imagined a Lincoln scholar would be. And taller. But that might be a trick of the shadows. With a smile of welcome, she opened the door.

  How long they stood facing each other, she didn’t know, but her smile was completely gone by the time he spoke.

  “Mrs. Thatcher? Or are you her daughter?” He raked his fingers through sandy hair that had been streaked blond by the California sun and dampened by the Illinois heat.

  She knew instantly that this man didn’t spend all his hours huddled over books. Nor was his chest sunken, nor were his deep blue eyes—made bluer by a dark tan—rimmed by thick glasses. He held a pair of sunglasses in one hand, but she would bet money they didn’t correct a vision problem.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m Diana Thatcher.”

  “The widow?” he croaked. “I expected white hair and a cane.”

  “And I expected thick glasses and a tweed sport coat, Mr. Wainwright,” she said, realizing how illogical her imaginative picture had been.

  “In this heat? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Her gaze swept over the man who stood on her front porch looking like he’d just stepped off a beach. His light blue T-shirt was tucked into white cutoffs, and the ragged fringe dangled over tanned muscular thighs that tapered to well-formed calves and ankles. She wouldn’t have been surprised at bare feet, but instead he wore a battered pair of blue running shoes without socks.

  “How old are you, Mr. Wainwright?”

  “Getting older every time you call me that. How about Zach, before I begin to gray at the temples?”

  She resisted the urge to smile. “All right, Zach. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four, Diana.”

  “Really?” She would have pegged him at twenty-eight, tops. Instead, they were the same age.

  He nodded soberly. “Really.” He reached up and wiped a trickle of sweat from his temple. “If you don’t mind, could we possibly continue this fascinating discussion inside? Your living room has got to be cooler than this porch.”

  His comment made her remember her manners, and she stood back from the door. “Inside isn’t much better, I’m afraid, but we can sit down. Would you like some lemonade?” Why was she offering him lemonade? Why not tell him straight out? No, thank you, Mr. Beach Bum. I can’t have someone like you sleeping in the guest room.

  “Love it.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the kitchen, only to hear his voice right behind her.

  “I’ll help. Where do you keep the glasses?”

  She jumped. “The cupboard left of the sink. But you don’t have to help.”

  He grinned, and she stared in fascination at the beautiful smile spreading slowly across his bronzed face. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m lazy.”

  “Oh.” The steady drip of the kitchen faucet was the only sound in the room.

  “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.