“Jo, my brother, Ryan Grant,” Kathleen said, rolling her eyes. “He gets lonely and can’t stay away.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” the man said mildly. Gray eyes met Jo’s for a strangely electric moment before he turned to hug Emma. “How are you, kiddo?” he asked in a low, gruff voice in which Jo recognized gentleness.
“Uncle Ryan!” Emma’s pixie face brightened. “Cool! Are you lonely?”
“Nah. I just like all of you.” He touched Ginny’s shoulder. “Hi, Hummingbird.”
Hummingbird? The tiny bird’s quivering energy seemed the furthest thing from Ginny’s repressed, frightened self.
But the name provoked a small smile, quickly hidden but startling.
The man—Kathleen’s brother—smiled in return, seemingly content, and said, “Do I get a cup of coffee?”
“There’s spaghetti left,” Emma told him eagerly. “I can warm some up for you if you want.”
“Thanks, but I’ve eaten.”
“We,” his sister said sternly, “were just going to have an official round-table meeting to discuss rules.”
“I can make up rules,” he said obligingly.
“You don’t live here. Contrary to appearances.”
“I’ll referee.”
With a tartness Jo appreciated, Kathleen said, “Unlike men when they get together to play, women rarely need a mediator.”
Jo could see the resemblance between sister and brother, both what she thought of as beautiful people. Kathleen, though, had the carriage and confidence of someone who had grown up with money—the easy poise, the natural ability to command, the chic French braid—while her brother had shaggy hair and wore faded jeans, work boots and a sweat-stained white T-shirt under a torn chambray shirt, hanging open. His hands were brown, calloused and bleeding on one knuckle. He looked like a working man. Intrigued, Jo continued to watch their byplay as Kathleen told him with mock firmness that he could stay and eavesdrop, but not contribute—unless he wanted his name on their chore list.
Ryan chose to pull up a chair just outside the circle when the women sat back down at the table. He hovered behind Ginny and Emma, elbows resting on the backs of their chairs, his quiet murmurs eliciting giggles that Emma let peal and Ginny buried behind a hand.
Kathleen had grabbed a pen and spiral notebook, now open in front of her. “Well, let me say first that I’m really glad you’re both here.” She smiled warmly first at Helen and then Jo. “I think this is going to be fun.”
Jo had thought so, too, until she’d nearly chickened out before knocking on the front door. Despite her apprehension, she let herself believe that it really would be. Both girls still knew how to laugh. Whatever troubled them, they weren’t beyond hope. Sure, she hadn’t wanted to live with kids, but they weren’t hers. She’d probably see them only at meals—and apparently Emma wouldn’t be sitting down with them for hers, if she ate any at all.
“Now,” Kathleen continued, “I genuinely don’t want to be in charge. I hope we can agree on how we want to run the house, the levels of cleanliness and noise and privacy we all find acceptable. It’s one reason I chose both of you, women close to my own age. I thought we’d be likelier to enjoy the same music, have the same…well, standards, I guess.” She looked around. “I’ll start. I figured we should divvy up chores.”
They decided each would cook dinner two nights a week, with Sunday either a joint effort or an everyone-on-their-own day. Other meals, they’d take care of individually. The two who hadn’t cooked would clean the kitchen together after dinner.
“Unless Ryan invites himself,” his sister said dryly, “in which case he can clean up. By himself.”
“Hey!” he protested. “I’ve been known to bring pizza. Or Chinese takeout.”
“You should see his refrigerator at home,” Kathleen told the others. “Soda, cheese, mustard… Classic male on his own.”
The question, Jo decided, was why such a gorgeous man was on his own at all. He had to be in his early thirties. Guys with smiles and charm like his had been snapped up long before his age. So…what was the catch?
Oblivious, thank goodness, to Jo’s speculation, Kathleen added, “And I hope everyone will clean up after themselves in the morning and after lunch?” The question was more of a tactfully phrased order.
Jo and Helen murmured assent.
Otherwise, they agreed that everyone would pitch in on Saturday mornings to clean house. Bedrooms would be sacred to their owners—knocks were mandatory, and a closed door should be interpreted as a desire for privacy.
Very conscious of Ryan Grant’s interested gaze, Jo said, “We should discuss our schedules as we know them, so we’re not all trying to use the bathroom at the same time. Fortunately, my first class isn’t until 9:00 a.m. this semester, but that may change.”
She’d made the decision to go back for a graduate degree in library and information science. She’d been lucky enough to have risen from page—her job while in high school—to clerk and finally branch manager in a San Mateo County public library. She loved books and libraries. What she hated was knowing that, although she had the same responsibilities as branch managers with master’s degrees, she didn’t get equal pay. And she wasn’t going to be offered any more promotions, or ever have the chance to rise to director. In fact, if she were to move, she would never be offered even a comparable job. Jo was too ambitious to settle for what she had.
Two years of penny-pinching, with full-time graduate school and part-time work, and she would be a degreed librarian. No more subtle condescension. Jo had every intention of ending up director of a major library system. The only drawback to moving away from the Bay Area was that she was farther from the only family she cared about: her brother, Boyce, who lived in San Francisco, and her aunt Julia in L.A. But once she had her master’s degree, she could go back to California.
She’d worked until the last possible day. Today was Saturday; Monday she started classes.
In response to Jo’s suggestion, Helen said, “I start work at 9:00 a.m., too. Ginny’s bus picks her up at 8:25 a.m. I usually leave right after. I guess the three of us will be the ones fighting for the bathroom.”
Emma’s bus left at what seemed the crack of dawn. Apparently high school started obscenely early and let the kids out before two o’clock. Kathleen, too, left the house by 7:30 a.m.
“I’m looking for another job.” She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t seem to convince anyone that I have the skills when I haven’t held paying jobs. The fact that I’ve nearly run several charities doesn’t seem to impress anyone. Anyway, I’m going to check books out of the library so I can learn to use some other software packages.”
“I can’t do much but write a letter or send email on a computer,” Helen admitted timidly.
Why wasn’t she surprised? Jo thought uncharitably, then was ashamed of herself. She had no idea what Helen Schaefer had been like before her husband died. Perhaps grief had changed her personality.
To make amends, Jo asked, “Where do you work, Helen?”
“At Nordstrom. Do you have Nordstrom stores in California? It’s an upscale department store. I’m in the children’s department.”
“So you work on commission?”
“Partly.” Her smile showed a shy prettiness Jo hadn’t suspected. “I’m actually pretty good at it.”
Ryan cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I do?”
Jo couldn’t help smiling. “Okay. What do you do?”
The smile that touched his eyes seemed to be for her alone. “I’m a contractor. We do remodeling. Mainly residential.” With a sidelong glance at Kathleen, he added, “I would love to work on this place, but my sister won’t let me.”
“I can’t afford you.”
A frown tightened his face, and Jo knew she was forgotten. An old argument was apparently resuming. “I’m not asking to be paid.”
“I know you’re not,” his sister said gently. “But I can manage. I’ll l
et you pitch in on a Saturday afternoon. I won’t let you send in your team and swallow the expenses.”
“Stubborn,” he grumbled.
Yes, but Jo had to admire her roommate for not accepting charity, even if it was from her brother.
“We’re all going to help,” she chimed in.
“Uh-huh.” He spared her a glance. “My sister can’t drive a nail. What about you?”
Jo knew that frustration at having his desire to help thwarted was behind his scoffing, but she hated it nonetheless.
Her chin rose a fraction and her eyes met his. “As a matter of fact, I can. I can use a table saw and change the oil in my car, too.”
A glint of something in those gray eyes briefly softened her irritation, but then he said in a hard voice, “Can you update the wiring? Tear up the roof and replace the shingles? Fix cracks in the foundation?”
No. She’d never done any of those things and was pretty sure she couldn’t—for one thing, she was scared of heights—but Jo was fired up enough to lie. She had her mouth open when Kathleen saved her.
“Don’t pick on Jo. I’m the one who said no. If the roof leaks this winter, I’ll save my pennies to replace it next summer. The bank okayed the mortgage, which must mean the appraiser didn’t see dangerous wiring. And of course the foundation is cracking! The house is ninety-plus years old. I don’t think it’s going to fall down any time soon.”
Emma’s head swiveled as she watched first her mom and then her uncle. Eyes already too big for her face were wide, and Jo wondered what she was thinking. Did an argument, however mild, frighten her? She seemed to like her uncle Ryan better than she did her mother, so perhaps she was hoping Mom would be bested. Or, in a teenager’s self-centered way, maybe she just resented living in a shabby house when she could have a gorgeous, remodeled showplace to bring her friends home to.
If she had any friends. People didn’t just become anorexic without other problems, did they? Assuming that’s what was wrong with her.
Ryan abruptly shoved back his chair, lines carved deep in his forehead. “Well, since I’m not any use here, I think I’ll get home and let you women decide which room you’re going to paint first.”
Kathleen started to stand, too. “Ryan…”
“It’s okay.” His grin was resigned. “I wish you’d get it through your head that I can afford to take a hit for you and Emma, and I’d feel happier if you’d let me. But I guess stubbornness runs in this family.” He ruffled his niece’s hair. “See? It’s not your fault, kiddo. You inherited it.”
She smiled uncertainly up at him. Ryan kissed Emma’s forehead, gave his sister a passing hug and let his gaze linger on Jo with a certain deliberation as he said, “Good night, all. Kathleen’s right. I’m always here, butting my nose in. Call me on it if I’m a nuisance.” With a last nod, he left. A moment later, they heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.
Kathleen laughed, the sound wry. “That’s my brother.”
And wouldn’t he make life here more interesting, Jo thought, more conscious in his absence than she’d been in his presence of the way he’d seemed to charge the room with energy. Oh, be honest, she told herself: with the way she had responded to him.
What’s more—miracle of miracles—she had a feeling he’d been attracted to her, too.
Maybe she wouldn’t regret moving in here after all.
She cleared her throat. “I have a proposal. What do you say we show that brother of yours what we’re made of? Let’s tackle a job next weekend. Maybe the upstairs bathroom? Isn’t that one of the projects you had in mind, Kathleen?”
“But…plumbing…” Helen protested, in her soft, uncertain voice.
“We’re smart women.” Jo looked from one to the other. “I’ll find a how-to book. How hard can it be?”
Kathleen’s smile was the most genuine Jo had seen from her. “Those sound like famous last words. But you’re right. We can learn. I’m game. Helen, what do you say?”
“It might be fun,” Helen agreed tentatively.
“Emma?” Jo asked, when her mother didn’t.
The teenager shrugged with a hint of sullenness. “I don’t know how to do anything.”
“You can learn,” Jo said.
Her mother gave a decisive nod. “Then let’s go shopping tomorrow night. We can pick out a new vanity and sink and what-have-you together. Home Depot, here we come!”
CHAPTER TWO
“UH-OH,” JO WAS the first to say.
She knelt with one strip of the ancient, cracked linoleum in her gloved hands. Beside her, Kathleen gaped in horror at the rotting floorboards beneath where the toilet had been pulled up.
“What’s ‘uh-oh’?” Helen asked from the hall behind them. Ginny peered around her.
Hovering outside the bathroom door, Emma asked eagerly, “Did you do something bad?”
“Great. Wonderful,” Kathleen muttered.
“It’s okay.” Jo was already envisioning the work to be done. Way more than she’d signed up for, considering this wasn’t her house, but she wasn’t the quitting type. Besides, she wanted to take a shower again someday. With false confidence, she said, “We’ll tear the boards up and lay down plywood.”
“What if the beams underneath are rotting?”
Brutality was sometimes necessary. “We call your brother.”
Kathleen’s jaw hardened. “Then let’s pray,” she said, and began yanking up the linoleum again.
Jo couldn’t quite figure out why Kathleen was so determined not to accept Ryan’s help. Pride—sure. She’d been a dependent wife, now she wanted to show the world she could manage very nicely on her own, thank you. But her determination also struck Jo as a sort of competition—I can do it better than you can. A childish game. When you got right down to it, wasn’t it a little silly that three women who knew nothing about construction were refusing to let a willing contractor help gut the bathroom, just so they could prove…what? That they could do it, too? Could do it better?
Yeah, right, Jo thought with humorous derision. Do it? Maybe. Make a dozen mistakes? That, too.
“Well,” she decided, while Helen was carrying the tattered roll of linoleum out, “we’ll definitely need the circular saw. But let’s pry a few boards up and see how bad it is.”
The first board splintered—well, disintegrated was probably closer to the truth. Squished into pieces. But under it, the thick, rough-hewn beam looked solid. Jo pulled out nails and moved on to the next board. Somehow, as the only one with any know-how whatsoever, she was ending up doing most of the work. But she’d always enjoyed doing simple projects like building a floor-to-ceiling bookcase in her last condo. She’d been proud of the results. This was more than she’d bargained for when she had shrugged and said, “Sure, I don’t mind helping,” during that interview/visit this summer. But it wasn’t as if she had any friends with whom to spend a sunny Saturday, and she liked a challenge.
“It looks okay,” she announced, after the second board shattered with a soggy sound. “These boards weren’t rotted quite through.”
Kathleen sank back on her heels and sighed. “Thank goodness for small favors. Okay. Tell me what to buy, and I’ll go back to the lumberyard while you and Helen pull up the floor.”
Jo measured the dimensions of the bathroom floor. “Ask somebody what kind of plywood you should buy. Tell them we’re tiling on top of it. Oh, and what kind of nails. Get a circular saw…”
“But we already bought a saw,” Helen protested.
“That was a jigsaw. We can’t cut big pieces of plywood with it, not and make straight lines.”
“Oh.”
Kathleen was busy writing notes. “We’ll probably need the tools when we work on other projects anyway. We should have bought one in the first place.”
“The thing is,” Jo paused, the hammer suspended in her hand, “we really need to get a plumber.”
Kathleen looked dismayed. “A plumber? Why?”
Jo put it i
n simple language. “Something was leaking. I don’t know what.”
“But you know we’ll never get anyone out here on Saturday or Sunday. And that’ll leave us without a bathtub or shower, never mind a toilet upstairs, until next weekend at least, when we have time to tile.”
“Uncle Ryan could fix it,” Emma said. “If you’d let him.”
“He’ll promise to come and then not show up until tomorrow evening.” Kathleen sounded waspish.
Jo raised a brow, but didn’t comment on this assessment of Ryan Grant. Instead she pointed out, “Tomorrow evening would be better than Monday, when one of us would have to be home to let a plumber in.”
“That’s not true anyway!” Emma’s face flushed red. “He always comes when he says he will!”
“You haven’t known him as long as I have,” her mother said crisply. “If he were more ambitious, he wouldn’t still be working with his own hands. He’d be running the business instead of driving nails.”
“He likes working on houses!” the teenager cried.
“If he wanted to be successful…”
Apparently he didn’t, at least to his sister’s standards. Maybe he didn’t like wearing a white shirt and tie and spending his day sending emails and talking on a cell phone.
On the other hand, Jo amended, maybe he was one of those irresponsible men who’d rather go fishing on a nice day than show up to do the work he’d promised to. Just this summer, when she put her condo up for sale and needed to lay a new vinyl floor in the kitchen, the first two days she’d stayed home from work to let workmen in, they had neither come nor called.
Her interest in Kathleen’s brother waned. Not much for lazing around herself, she liked workaholics, not playboys.
Still…
“You’d better call him,” she advised.
Kathleen made a face. “Oh, all right.” As she backed into the hall, she explained, “Emma, it’s not that I don’t like Ryan…”
“You don’t!” the teenager cried. The venom in her voice startled Jo into swiveling in time to see bitterness transform the fifteen-year-old’s expression as she finished, “Maybe he has dirt under his fingernails sometimes, or he smells sweaty, or he doesn’t know what to wear to one of your parties, but he’s nice!”
Built to Last (Harlequin Heartwarming) Page 2