by Sandra Brown
Although Ledge wanted to deck him for touching him, he did nothing except fix a hard stare on him. “And same as I have on you. Buddy.”
Across the short distance separating them, the two adversaries glared at each other and, in that moment, came to a meeting of the minds: The gloves were coming off. For all these years, the two of them had waged a silent war. As of now, it had been officially declared.
Don, seeming to sense the volatility of the moment, ambled over and asked Rusty if he wanted a refill.
“No thanks.” Without breaking eye contact with Ledge, Rusty pushed himself off the stool. “Like I said, I just dropped in to see what Ledge has been up to.” Then he flashed his crocodile grin and ambled out.
He was clear of the exit and the door had closed behind him before Don released his held breath. “You two look at each other, and smoke comes out of all four ears. Are you ever going to tell me the origin of this longstanding animosity?”
“No. But you didn’t have to keep fingering that sawed-off shotgun under the bar.”
Smiling wryly, Don said, “How’d you know?”
“I know.”
“I probably wouldn’t ever use it,” Don said, “but looking at that bastard’s back just now, it did cross my mind what a prime target it would make, and I don’t think many in the county would mourn the passing of our illustrious DA.”
Ledge continued to stare at the door through which District Attorney Rusty Dyle had exited. “One of these days I’ll probably have to kill him.” Then turning to Don, he added, “But when I do, I’ll be looking him in the eye.”
Chapter 5
Fresh from the shower, Arden had just finished dressing when someone knocked on her front door. Looking out the window of her temporary bedroom, she was astonished to see the enormous black pickup in her driveway.
She considered not going to the door, but he would know that she was at home because her car was there. Besides, avoidance would make her look cowardly. She pushed her feet into a pair of flats. On her way out of the room, she gave herself a quick check in the mirror above the dresser and resented herself for caring about her appearance even to that extent. Her hair hadn’t completely dried, and because she hadn’t slept well, she looked peaked. But there was nothing to be done about it now.
As silently as possible, she approached the front door, peered through the small diamond-shaped window in its center, and was startled to be met by her own reflection looking back at her from the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He was looking straight into the window as though he’d been waiting for her face to appear.
Coolly, and with a dash of spite, she repeated the question he’d asked her yesterday. “What can I do for you?”
“Let’s talk about your overhaul.”
“You said discussing it would be a waste of time.”
He pulled off the sunglasses. “I’ve rethought that.”
She stepped away from the window and out of the view of those piercing eyes. She extended his wait overlong before flipping the lock.
When she opened the door, his head was tilted back. He was looking at the eaves and lightly tapping the sunglasses against his thigh. “You’ve got wood rot.”
“That much I could have told you.”
“Your doorbell doesn’t work.”
“Again. I already know that.”
He lowered his head and looked at her; she looked back, hoping that her stare was as steady and held as much challenge as his. Neither moved or said anything, and she was beginning to think that this standoff would continue indefinitely when he folded the stems of his glasses and slid them into the breast pocket of his plain white oxford-cloth shirt.
“I’ve reconsidered taking the job.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My bank statement. I balanced my checking account this morning.”
She didn’t know if he was joking, or trying to be charming, or if he was telling the bald truth. His expression gave away no clues.
With indecision, she caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. Her sleepless night had been the result of worrying over what her next step should be, since his flat refusal yesterday had left her with no remaining prospects. None that she could afford. He had made this conciliatory move, and that counted for something. Each still had the option of saying no thanks to the other.
Hoping that she wouldn’t live to regret it, she opened the door wider and motioned him in.
The empty living area seemed to shrink the instant he stepped inside. His cuffs had been rolled back almost to his elbows. His shirttail was tucked into a pair of jeans, which, like yesterday’s, had been softened and faded from many washings. They were worn with a belt of tooled brown leather. The antiqued brass buckle had a military insignia. But he no longer had a military haircut. In back, his dark hair was long enough to brush against his collar.
Boot heels thumping on the hardwood floor, he advanced into the room and took a slow look around. “You play the piano?”
She had anticipated a comment, not a question, and it took her off guard. “No. Well, a little. I was taking lessons when—”
At her abrupt stop, he turned his head and looked at her expectantly.
Amending what she’d been about to say, she said, “I gave up music lessons when my sister and I moved away.”
“Hmm. Too bad you didn’t pick back up after you got resettled.”
“I regret now that I didn’t continue, but other things had to be given priority.”
He went over to the staircase and stepped up on the first tread with only one foot. It squeaked. So did the second step. As he backed down, he ran his palm over the bannister. “This is nice wood. Worth salvaging, I think. It could be sanded and revarnished. Maybe a lighter stain?”
She gave a noncommittal “Umm.”
Returning to the center of the room, he turned in a tight circle as he surveyed the ceiling. “The crown molding has possibilities, but I won’t know if it’s worth keeping until I get a closer look at it, and I didn’t bring a ladder today.”
“I’m not particularly attached to it.”
“What about that chandelier?” He pointed to the fixture in the dining area. “Does it have any sentimental value?”
“None.”
“Good. I’d pitch it. It’s too large for the space.”
He gave the fireplace mantel the same rubdown he’d given the bannister. Stepping back and assessing the fireplace as a whole, he said, “The brick is boring. Another material would add some character.”
He went over to the row of front windows and inspected the sills. Sliding a pocketknife from his back jeans pocket, he picked at the splintered wood with the tip of the blade. “All these window frames need to be replaced. If you go with wood again, it’s more labor intensive and therefore more expensive. Or you could go with prefab, but that still requires some carpentry. I’ll figure it both ways. How many windows in the house?”
“I’ve never had cause to count them.”
“I’ll need that number before I can give you an estimate.” He closed the knife and pushed it back into his pocket. He flipped all the light switches on the wall plate, matching them to the fixtures they controlled. “What took priority?”
“Pardon me?”
“You said you quit music lessons because other things had to be given priority. Like what?”
“Like food and shelter.”
Her curt reply brought him around to look at her. “When your dad skipped out, nobody stepped up and took you in? A relative? Foster parents?”
“No.”
“Weren’t you too young to fare for yourself?”
“I was ten, but my sister was already in her second year of college. She’d been commuting to and from Commerce, but had to drop out when she became my legal guardian.”
“Tall order for a college coed.”
“Yes.”
“She must be one tough cookie.”
Arden laughed lightly. “To say
the least.”
“Always an overachiever, I guess.”
That comment took her by surprise. “You knew Lisa?”
“She was several classes ahead of me, and I was far beneath her notice, but I knew who she was. Everybody did. Hard not to know the homecoming queen.”
Arden smiled. “That was her senior year. I think everybody in town went to the parade.”
“Not me.”
“Oh?”
“No, I wasn’t into all that.”
“What about the football game when she was crowned?”
“Missed that, too.” He opened the door to the storage area beneath the stairs and poked his head inside.
“You weren’t into football, either?”
He backed out of the closet. When he went to shut the door, he tested the squealing hinges. “Love football. Playing and watching.”
“They why did you skip the homecoming game?” She shot him a teasing grin. “Couldn’t get a date?”
“Couldn’t get out of juvenile detention.”
He stopped fanning the door and turned to face her. She gaped at him and waited for a punch line that never came. “You were in jail?”
Appearing rather blasé, he raised a shoulder.
“What did you do?”
“Got caught smoking weed. Back then, it was a big no-no.”
She nodded absently. “Was that your only offense?”
Not so blasé, he said, “At the time.”
She was digging herself in deeper, but she couldn’t help but ask, “How long were you in for?”
“Long enough.” He stayed still, looking directly into her eyes, then abruptly turned away. “I notice you don’t have a security system.”
“No.”
He went over to the front door and fiddled with the lock. “This dead bolt is ancient. It wouldn’t keep out anybody who wanted in. You learn about these things in juvie.”
It disturbed her that he could refer to his criminal past so nonchalantly. Could she trust his reference? For all she knew, the man she had spoken with was a former cellmate.
As had happened yesterday when she realized that he knew who she was and where she lived, her thoughts went to the car that drove past each night. Including last night. And here this stranger, who looked like he could split a board in half without a saw, was testing the strength of her lock.
She blurted out, “I’m thinking of getting a dog.”
He crouched near a wall, ran his fingers along the cracked baseboard, scraped at its peeling paint with his thumbnail. “You don’t have an alarm system; if all your locks are like this one, they’re useless; and you live out here by yourself. Do you have a weapon?”
“Weapon?”
“A gun.”
“No.”
“Then I’d say a guard dog is a good idea.”
“I don’t want a guard dog. I want a pet to keep me company.”
He stood up slowly and started walking toward her, dusting his hands together as he came. When he got to within a couple of feet of her, he stopped. “I wouldn’t think you’d lack for company.” Then, “Let’s go upstairs.”
A sensation purled through her midsection.
But if she’d read a hidden invitation into his statement, she was mistaken. There wasn’t any guile in his eyes, nor a trace of suggestiveness in his tone when he added, “I need to see the layout of the rooms.”
“Of course.” She turned away and started up the stairs, him following. She wished she’d dressed in her baggy jeans.
But if he’d taken notice of any aspect of her appearance, he didn’t act as though he had. As she showed him from one room to the next, he was scrupulously professional and businesslike. He asked pertinent questions, pointed out problem spots, and offered suggestions on how to remedy them.
“See how the floor is buckled? You have a roof leak. Rain’s getting in and running down inside the walls.”
He frowned as he assessed the fixtures in both bathrooms. “I’d bet these look good compared to the pipes.”
“One of the other contractors I interviewed foretold of a plumbing disaster.”
“No argument from me.”
In her old bedroom, he surveyed the ceiling. “Careful. That light fixture is barely holding on.” He curved his hand around the side of her waist and moved her from beneath it.
“Thanks,” she said, trying not to sound flustered.
He removed his hand a bit more slowly than necessary to save her from potential injury. Still looking down at her, he said, “I think I’ve seen all I need to.”
When they returned to the landing, he paused and, with his hands on his hips, looked back down the long hallway. He studied it for a time, then, as though talking to himself, said, “It has possibilities.”
He pondered for a moment longer, then turned and motioned that she should precede him downstairs. When they got to the first floor, he struck off for the kitchen. Once there, he took only a cursory look around, as though the outmoded appliances and cabinetry didn’t warrant a more thorough inspection.
“What’s in here?”
“That’s where I—”
She stopped because he had already drawn up short on the threshold of the catch-all room. She hadn’t yet tidied up when he arrived. The unmade bed and her nightgown, which she’d left lying on it when she went to shower, made it evident that this was where she’d slept. It was a private space, not intended for anyone else’s eyes.
Especially not his.
Feeling as though more of her had been exposed than her bed, she wanted to edge around him and jerk the bedspread up for concealment. Instead, she pretended to be unaffected and offered him coffee, hoping he would decline.
Still looking into the room, his back to her, he said, “Yeah. Thanks.”
The one modern appliance she had bought since moving in was a coffee machine that made various brews. Sensing that he had turned back into the kitchen, she asked if he had a preference.
“Nothing fancy. Just black coffee.”
She tipped her head toward the table. “Have a seat.”
He didn’t sit. He crowded in beside her at the counter to look out the window above the sink. He had to duck slightly. “That cypress grove blocks any view of the lake. Ever thought of thinning it out?”
“It’s so far from the house, I hadn’t given it any thought at all.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. How much acreage do you have?”
“Nothing significant. Twenty maybe?”
“Some would consider that significant.”
She didn’t see that the size of the property had relevance, but he seemed to make a mental note of it, then walked over to the back door and tested the lock as he had on the front door. It rattled when he jiggled it. He muttered something, but Arden didn’t catch what he said. He pulled open the door and looked out.
“Anything in the garage?”
It was detached from the house. A few days after moving back, she’d looked inside it, but, as remembered, it had been cleaned out. “Lisa and I had no use for tools, the lawn mower, and such. She either sold or donated everything.” She didn’t say, Including Dad’s car. Arden had cried when the new owner drove away in it.
She carried two mugs of coffee to the table. He joined her there. She had never considered the chairs around the table as being too small until he sat down in the one across from her. She remembered being struck by the proportions of the rocking chair on his front porch.
He didn’t use the handle on the coffee mug, but picked it up by placing his fingers around the rim. He sipped from it between his thumb and index finger. All this without taking his eyes off her.
“Who owns this place?”
“What do you mean?”
“Whose name is on the deed? Yours or your sister’s?”
“Both. We own it fifty-fifty. After our mother died, Dad had a local attorney draw up a will. He told us it was only a precaution. Should
anything happen to him, Lisa and I would be provided for.”
“So this will has been executed?”
She nodded.
“He’s dead, then?”
“Declared to be. Wallace had—”
“Who’s Wallace?”
“My late brother-in-law. He kept a regiment of lawyers on retainer. Now Lisa does.”
“The lawyers had your father declared dead?”
“We waited for ten years before petitioning the court. It’s a process, but at the end of it, his estate was probated. Lisa and I got clear title to the house, which we needed in order to sell it.”
“But you haven’t. How come? Did you always plan to come back?”
“No. Lisa certainly didn’t. But she stalled on selling it for sentimental reasons. I didn’t give it much thought while I was trying to establish myself.”
“As what?”
“As anything,” she said on a light laugh.
“Such as?”
“Well, let’s see. My first job out of college was in public relations. I wrote press releases for a promising new record label in Nashville. It folded. I worked as an assistant to the curator of a New Orleans art gallery. She ran afoul of the IRS. I and a friend invested in a cupcake bakery. It went bankrupt, and so did the friendship.” She stopped ticking off her failed attempts at a career and gave him a wan smile.
“You get the idea. Anyway, every once in a while, Lisa would circle back to the subject of putting the house up for sale, but she never acted on it. It had no priority. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. Anyway, here it’s sat for all this time.”
“Going to seed.” He looked around the kitchen, but eventually his gaze returned to her. “Why now? Why come back and take this on?”
“None of your business.”
He snuffled at her sharp rebuke. “Actually it is. If I start this project for you, and it turns out that the house doesn’t even belong to you, and I get sued by somebody, I’ll be up shit creek. See, I don’t have a regiment of lawyers on retainer.”