After ten minutes of debate, she decided, and took the swatch up to the counter. The shopkeeper eagerly mixed the paint for her, then helped her load up a basket of other supplies she would need, such as paint stirrers, brushes, and scrapers. She bought two gallons of dark green paint, all the other supplies, and a glass bottle of soda, and hauled all of her purchases to the front door. Two bags she carried in the crook of her left elbow, and the other two in her right hand. She heaved the door open. The bell jangled.
“Need help?” the shopkeeper called from behind the counter. Marina shook her head.
“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
“Okay,” he answered. “Nice to meet you, Miss…?”
“Feroe,” she answered, slipping out. “Marina Feroe.”
“Jim Fields,” he replied. “Have a good day!”
“Thanks,” Marina said, letting the door shut.
A crisp gust of wind blew through her clothes and hair as soon as she stepped down off the sidewalk, and she fumbled in her purse for her keys. She managed to dig them out, bite the side of her cheek and use the keyless entry to unlock the truck. It beeped. Grunting, she heaved the door open and swung her right hand bags up onto the passenger seat.
The bags on her other arm slipped.
She gasped. She scrambled to catch them, scrabbling around her swaying purse—
Her left hand wouldn’t obey.
One bag slipped and smashed onto the ground.
Her soda bottle shattered.
She wanted to scream something foul. Instead, she gritted her teeth hard, threw the remaining bag up into the truck, and got down to pick up the bag of paint brushes that was now filled with soda.
“Wait, wait—careful!” a voice called out. “Don’t cut yourself.”
She jerked, startled, and glanced up. At first, all she saw was a pair of work boots and jeans—then she saw the rest of him.
He wore a long-sleeved, blue shirt stained with dirt, as if he’d been working in a garden. He had collar-length blonde hair that lit up like gold in the sunlight. He hurried toward her, his boots thudding on the paving. Her face heated and she looked back down at the mess.
“I won’t,” she mumbled. “I’m just…stupid…” She twisted her left arm and pulled it toward herself, cursing her useless fingers. She reached out with her good hand and pulled the plastic back, trying to fish the brushes out.
“Wait a second—stop,” he urged—his voice sounded like an afternoon wind, warm and deep. It brought her head up again…
And she froze. He knelt right across from her, startlingly near. His face was flawless—pale but ruddy, with soft, strong features and jaw line. His fine hair hung like flax around his brow and ears, and his quiet mouth formed a small smile. But she saw all of this peripherally—for Marina was instantly captured by his eyes.
They were the color of the highest summer sky—pure blue, and brilliant as jewels, and fathomless. His dark right eyebrow quirked, and his smile broadened. He glanced down at the mess. His brown eyelashes were as long as a girl’s.
“I can get those,” he assured her, reaching down with both dirt-covered hands and swiftly pulling the brushes free of the tinkling glass. Marina’s mouth opened to protest, but nothing came out. Her face got even hotter.
“Here,” he said, holding the brushes out to her and giving her another bright grin. She managed to take them from him, and then he scooped the bag up and stood. Marina’s eyebrows raised. He was tall, his shoulders broad. He trotted over to a metal trash can and tossed the mess in. It clanged when it hit the bottom. Marina got to her feet, then realized she was staring at him. She turned quickly, leaned into the truck and stuffed the now-sticky brushes into the cup holder.
“Planning a project?” he asked, and she heard him come back toward her. She turned back around, wishing she wasn’t blushing so hard.
“Yeah,” she nodded, glancing up at him. He dusted his palms off on his jeans, his friendly look remaining.
“I’m painting some windows,” she added, shrugging, still keeping her arm close. He stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked his head.
“That’s a big job. Need any help?”
Marina’s eyes flashed and she frowned at him. He suddenly laughed.
“I’ve forgotten my manners,” he said. “My name is Bird Oldeson. I’m kind of the town’s handyman.” He met her eyes again, and inclined his head.
“Oh, I see,” Marina nodded. Absently, she noted that he had an accent—it sounded almost English, but with a gentle lilt that she couldn’t identify. She held out her right hand.
“Marina Feroe,” she said. “I just moved here.”
He gave her a look of startled pleasure, then took up her hand in a gentle hold. His fingers were warm.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. Marina allowed herself a little smile.
“Nice to meet you, too,” she answered. Then, she turned and climbed up into the truck.
“I meant what I asked you,” he said as she shut the door.
“What?” she asked, glancing out the open window as she turned the truck on.
“If you need any help.” He wasn’t really smiling now—he gazed at her with raised eyebrows. She shook her head.
“No, I think I’m okay,” she said. “Thank you, though.”
“You’re sure?” he pressed, his voice quieter. Marina paused, studying him, then nodded again.
“Yes,” she said. “But really—thank you.”
He gave her a half smile, then bowed his head again.
“I’m sure I will see you again.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she broadened her smile a little, then put the truck in reverse, pulled out and headed back alone to her old house.
Marina leaned the shaky ladder up against the north wall of the house. It rattled as it hit the sunlit siding. She took the heavy clippers in her hand and gazed straight up. Before she did anything with the paint, she had to get the ivy off the windows of the second story. Which was going to be tricky.
She clamped the handle of the clippers between her teeth, grabbed one of the rungs of the ladder and set her feet. Then, taking a breath, she started to climb, only occasionally using her left hand for balance. Once she reached the top, she wrapped her left arm around the ladder, took the clippers in her hand and began snapping at the ivy.
The long tendrils fell down in waves, but more and more lay beneath, like a thick carpet. Her arm got sore, and the ladder wobbled, but she worked for several hours without stopping.
Finally, her shoulder couldn’t take it anymore, and she sighed, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and started down.
She gathered up the trimmed ivy and hauled it around to the sagging mulch pile near the garden. Then, she came back around, put her hand on her narrow hip and gazed up…
To see that it hardly looked like she’d done anything. She gritted her teeth, frowned fiercely at the remaining ivy, snatched the clippers up from the grass and started up the ladder again.
Marina thrashed. Her sleeping bag tore. She jerked awake, sweating, her heart hammering. She stared at the dark ceiling of the study.
Jerking gasps caught in her chest and she shivered all over. Weakly, she lifted her head and glanced through the door. Gray light of dawn seeped in through the sitting room windows. She swallowed and eased her head back down onto her crooked pillow—and grimaced.
Clenching pain ran up and down her left side and shot through her shoulder, down her arm, twisted through her elbow and clamped down on her wrist. Her arm shuddered, and she pulled it against her chest. Her whole back ached, and she felt like she had a fever.
For an hour, she lay there, breathing deeply, forcing her muscles to loosen, mentally kicking herself. She’d overdone it today. She should have stopped after tearing the whole wall of ivy down, and not tried to tackle the rosebushes by the front walk. She’d known that when she started that last job, but she hadn’t listened to herself. Now she was paying for it.
> Tears leaked out and ran down her temples. She knew what it was like to wake up fully rested, without any pain. But she couldn’t remember the last time she had.
And the last time it hurt this much had been about a month after it happened.
She sat up, groaning and gritting her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. She stayed still a moment, regulating her breathing, trying to stop shivering. Then, she pushed her sleeping bag off herself and crawled to her feet. The ruffle of her long white nightgown tumbled to her ankles. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled.
“Such an idiot, Marina…” she muttered. She crossed the rug and left the study, turned down the hall and fumbled with the lock on the front door. If she could just get some fresh air, the ache in her head might go away, at least…
She pulled the thick, heavy black door open. Its hinges squeaked.
Fresh air gushed in to meet her, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the door go as it swung further open. She stepped up and leaned sideways against the wide doorframe, letting the breeze cool her hot forehead. Sighing, she finally opened her eyes, and gazed out at her gray front yard, hung with early-morning shadow. She lingered on the ragged rose bushes, whose branches still hung wild, disordered and tangled all over the other flower beds and the path.
Then, she caught sight of something on her front step. Frowning, she shuffled out, bent with a wince, and picked it up.
She fingered the flimsy sheets of a small newspaper of ads and coupons. Her mouth quirked as she straightened. The people in her new town didn’t waste any time trying to sell things to her…
Her eyes focused on the front page. She frowned.
Right in the middle sat an ad for Svenson’s Plumbing, Carpentry and Landscaping—and it listed its employees: Richard Smith, Harry Williams, and Bird Oldeson.
Marina absently pulled her left arm against her stomach, and stared at the name as her unsteady hand held the paper. Then, she clenched her jaw, muttered a Danish curse word under her breath, and turned and went back inside to find a light, hoping the ad listed Svenson’s hours.
Chapter Three
With each lap she made around the house, the aching in her muscles eased, and her left side relaxed. She wandered through the green, sunlit lawn, following a crooked brick path that led her between the overgrown rows of herbs, and beneath a leaning arbor laden with grape vines. Her heels tapped on the dull stone as she passed into the deep shadow behind the house, cast by three towering oaks. She glanced over the half-sunken benches and toppled bird bath, all swallowed by vines and weeds. A little robin alighted on the back of one of the benches and cocked his head at her. She paused, and watched his bright eyes. He chirped once, then fluttered up and away, darting into the forest and out of sight.
A chilly gust of wind issued from the reaches of the woods, and rustled through her hair and clothes and the boughs of the trees. She wrapped her arms around herself and narrowed her eyes at the deep, tangled green shadow beyond the benches, the line of pines and the sagging wrought iron fence. She turned, and resumed her walk.
On the other side of the house, she came again to the rose garden, all in disarray. Many bloomed—red, white, peach and maroon—but they snarled together like an evil fairy’s curse. One rosebush in particular made her frown: it bore no buds, and it leaned menacingly up against the house very close to the sitting-room window, just as the ivy had done on the opposite side. She paused and stepped closer to the plant, glancing it up and down. Thick, wicked thorns covered all its branches, and even its leaves. It needed to be cut back, or torn out—but she was afraid it would slice her to shreds if she tried.
Far off, a low rumbling arose through the silence, obscuring the twittering of the birds. Marina’s head came up, and she listened. Then, she took a breath and braced herself, and started back around to the front of the house. She picked through the border garden, kicked at a large weed, and halted in front of the steps, her arms still folded, gazing toward the road, toward town, at the approaching pickup truck.
The truck’s brown paint gleamed in the brilliant sun, and shovels, ladders and other tools rattled around in the bed. It pulled up in her driveway next to her own truck, and the throbbing engine cut out. The next moment, the door creaked open, and the tall, winsome form of Bird Oldeson hopped out onto the gravel.
He wore a tan t-shirt, worn jeans and boots, and gave her a smile that lit the day up even brighter. She reflexively returned it.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he called, striding toward her, his vivid blue eyes glancing all around at the sky, then the gardens and trees, as the light made a halo of his hair.
“Yes,” she nodded. “I think the rain did some good.”
“Oh, always,” he grinned, coming up to stop in front of her. He held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Miss Feroe.”
“Thanks,” she nodded, and barely took hold of his fingers. She let go right away, blushing, but he didn’t act like he noticed. He stuck both hands in his pockets, then looked her house up and down.
“Well, what is it you need done?” he asked, then met her eyes. She smiled crookedly and glanced behind her.
“The question is,” she said. “What do I not need done.”
He laughed. The ringing sound made the birds flutter.
“All right, let me rephrase,” he amended. “What do you need done first?”
“Well…” she sighed, frowning as she studied her house, then faced him again. “The windows. They leaked during the thunderstorm. The rest of the stuff in the garden can wait a while, but I don’t want my furniture ruined if it decides to rain again soon.”
“All right,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair as his brow furrowed. “You have the paint already, I assume—but the windows will probably need sealed, maybe even adjusted, since they’ve gotten crooked as the house shifts.”
“Okay, do whatever you need to do.” Marina folded her arms and cocked her head. “Are you paid by the hour?”
“Yes.”
“All right, go ahead,” she gestured toward the house. “Bring me any paperwork or questions or whatever—I’ll just be down here, trying to get this rose garden under control.”
He nodded again, catching her eye and giving her a soft, bright smile that warmed her to her core.
“I’ll get started right now,” he said, and turned and strode back to his truck, his boots crunching on the sand. Suppressing her own smile, Marina faced the house again and headed back toward the roses.
All day, Marina sat on a short stool with her back to the sun, letting it warm her, as she cut the overgrown roses back away from the path with a set of sturdy clippers. She had managed to find her work gloves, so she was able to thrust her hand into the thorny mess without tearing up her skin—though working with her left hand remained a challenge. Her long braid hung over her shoulder, and her jeans and loose shirt got dirty, but she didn’t care. Birds crooned and twittered in the bushes and in the branches of the bordering trees, and a quiet wind rustled the leaves.
Behind and above her, Bird Oldeson perched on a ladder, leaning up against the front of the house. His hammer clacked, the wood of the window frame creaked as he pried and pulled, and the ladder rungs squeaked with each step as he effortlessly ascended or descended to resume or go get a tool. She didn’t look at him—she just listened to the patter and tap of his rhythms, and the thud of his footsteps.
When she had gotten halfway down the row of roses, she paused a moment, sat back and winced at her stiff muscles, then wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Bird’s hammer tapped three times, rapidly. Then, he began to hum.
She froze, then twisted on her stool and glanced up at him.
The sunlight caught half of him as he leaned against the ladder and the wall, deepening the color of his clothes and skin, and blazing against his hair. His hands moved swiftly, deftly, over the loose windowsill as he secured it. He held two nails between his lips, his attention
fixed on his work. And he hummed a soft, strange tune that carried through the midmorning air like a breeze.
For a long moment, Marina didn’t move or even breathe as she listened, studying the way he moved, trying to remember if she had heard the song before. He used one nail, then the other, and then with his liberated mouth, he began to sing, quietly. She blinked. It was another language—something like Swedish or Danish…But she couldn’t tell.
Then he paused, turned his head and looked down at her.
For a moment, her eyes locked with his, and she saw nothing but the shade of the sky. Then he smiled, and Marina’s face flooded with heat. She quickly turned back around and began hacking at the bushes with a vengeance. For a few moments, he was silent behind her, and her blush started to hurt.
His hammer tap-tap-tapped again. He resumed his lilting hum. And she let herself start breathing—but she did not let herself turn around and stare at him any more.
“Ow! Crap!” Marina hissed, jerking her hand back and shaking it out, then prying her glove off. She sucked in air through her teeth as she rested her right hand on top of her left, watching a long line of blood bloom from her wrist to her forefinger knuckle.
A thud issued from around the corner of the house. Then, Bird came striding around into the shade, his brow furrowed, his eyes finding her hand.
“What happened?”
“Oh, this stupid rosebush,” Marina halfway gestured to the gnarled old plant leaning against the house. “It bit me.”
Bird put his hands on his hips and studied her, then the rosebush.
“What were you trying to do?”
“I want to cut it down and then pull it out,” she answered, wincing at the sting that darted up and down her hand now. Bird glanced at her, startled.
“Why?” he asked.
“Look at it. It’s not blooming, and it doesn’t look like it’s planning to,” she answered. “Plus, I think it’s trying to climb into my window.”
Bauldr's Tears Page 2