by Susan Kirby
“The hot-water heater needs some adjusting. Comes out of the spigot hot enough to make coffee.”
“Convenient,” she said.
“Unless you forget and scald your hide stepping in the shower.”
“Duly noted.” As was the small scar at the cleft of his chin and the straight nose anchoring his hazy blue eyes. His cheekbones were prominent and freckled beneath a deep tan. She noticed the insignia on his work shirt. “You work at the car plant in Bloomington?”
“Second shift.” He started up the stairs.
“No wonder you asked about kids and dogs. You sleep days.”
“Yes.”
“Me, too, since I started caring for Milt.”
“Are you out there every night?”
“I work for Picket Fence Private Nurses. It’s pretty much their call.”
Trace stopped on the landing. “The bathroom’s through the bedroom there. The other door is a walk-in closet.”
Thomasina sailed past him and flung her arms wide. “Bed here, dresser there, bookcases flanking the window. I wonder if I have enough furniture.”
A smile tugged at his mouth at her unbridled enthusiasm. He could have predicted that the dormer window would draw her.
“What a pretty view!” She turned as she spoke. “Are those train tracks I see cutting across open country?”
Trace nodded. The countryside as seen from the upstairs was old hat to him. She, on the other hand, was a fresh look. A cloud of dark bangs spilled over a wide forehead and ended at delicately arched brows. Her heart-shaped face ended with a dimpled chin. Her eyes were so dark, he had mistaken them for black. They weren’t. Bittersweet chocolate came closer. Her hair, loosely held at the back of her head with a butterfly clip, was equally dark and rich. One escaped wisp clung damply to her temple.
“Take your time.” Trace shoved a hand in his pocket and went downstairs to wait while Thomasina checked out the bathroom.
The walls were tiled in white. A modern shower had been installed inside a refurbished claw-foot tub. A window overlooked the town if you cared to peer out while you bathed. The closet was deep and spacious. Delighted with everything about the place, she decided to give small-town life a whirl.
Trace was waiting for her in the laundry room. She looked past the porch and over the green lawn. “You have central air, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“July. That’s a little late for planting flowers, I suppose.”
“Then you’re taking it?”
“I believe I will. Do you need references?”
“Milt and Mary speak well of you. That’s good enough for me.”
“Is it all right if I move in right away? The air-conditioning has been broken in my third-floor flat for a week and a half,” she added. “I’d pitch a tent under a tree for some cool air.”
“It’s ready to go. No reason you shouldn’t move in.”
“Where do I sign?”
“The lease? There isn’t one.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. I don’t want a piece of paper keeping someone longer than they want to stay.”
Or vice versa, thought Thomasina. She’d wager by the set of that long upper lip, that he knew how to put an out-of-favor tenant on the road without much trouble, too.
“One key going to be enough?” he asked.
“Unless I lock myself out.”
Trace saw her safely over the plank and to her car at the curb, wondering idly if she had a significant other. She wrote the first month’s rent, then tallied the balance while he took a final appraisal from a landlord’s point of view. Just a nice honest down-to-earth working girl.
He’d have bet his bottom dollar she wouldn’t give him a moment’s trouble.
It was too early to go to Milt and Mary’s and too late to drive back to Bloomington. Thomasina killed a little time driving around Liberty Flats. It was an eclectic collection of homes with everything from refurbished Victorians to modest bungalows to ranch-style homes with a few upperscale dwellings sprinkled in.
Trees canopied the streets leading to a square in the center of town. There was a park with a baseball diamond, an old-fashioned bandstand, a few picnic tables and some playground equipment. A couple of old-timers sat on a bench in front of the post office watching her brake for a dog. They raised their hands, so she waved, too, then made a second pass through town just in case she’d missed something.
She hadn’t. There was no fast food, not even a mom-and-pop café. Wishing she’d picked up a sandwich before leaving Bloomington, Thomasina stopped at the only light in town, then followed Main Street to the country.
There was a roadside vegetable stand on the way to Milt and Mary’s. The proprietor was having a yard sale. She chatted amicably while Thomasina stocked up on fresh vegetables, picked through the paperback books, then deliberated over window coverings.
The middle-aged lady got up from the card table and came over to shake the wrinkles out of the curtains. “I can knock a couple of dollars off, if you’re interested.”
“I like them, but I’m not sure they’ll fit,” Thomasina admitted. “I’m moving, and I haven’t had a chance to measure the windows.”
“Hereabouts?”
“Liberty Flats. I’m renting from Trace Austin.” Thomasina spread the curtains out on the table. They were good-quality drapery and in excellent condition. But she had no idea if they’d fit the windows.
Watching Thomasina fold and return the drapes to the table, the woman said, “If you’re interested, I’ll see if I can catch Trace at home and have him measure the windows for you.”
“Oh, no! Don’t bother him,” said Thomasina.
“Pooh! He won’t mind for a worthy cause,” said the woman. She hurried inside and was back in less than five minutes with the measurements and a measuring tape.
“Just right! See there! And Trace couldn’t have been nicer about it once he heard the proceeds from the sale are going to Deidre’s mission. Which reminds me, would you like to buy a ticket to the soup supper? It’ll be at the church Sunday night.”
“Sure, I’ll take a couple,” agreed Thomasina. “Where is it again?”
“Liberty Flat’s church. On Church Street,” the lady added, and chuckled as she gave her the tickets. She tallied her purchases and counted back her change. “Enjoy your new home.”
Thomasina thanked her and drove on out to Milt and Mary’s. Fixing supper wasn’t part of her job. But both Mary and Milt had been to the doctor that day, and Mary was worn-out. She perked up a bit when Thomasina told her about her forthcoming move to Liberty Flats.
“What a happy coincidence!” exclaimed Mary. “You’ll like Trace.”
“Take it easy on him, rose lips,” said Milt.
“Oh, Milt! Don’t start that foolishness,” scolded Mary.
“All I said was—”
“You couldn’t want a more responsible landlord than Trace.” Mary talked right over him.
“All I said—”
“Respectable, too.”
“All I—”
“Not one word!”
Milt gave a rusty laugh. “Simmer down, Mary, and leave the matchmakin’ to me. Right, Tommy Rose?”
“So long as you leave me out of it,” said Thomasina. She smiled at Mary and whispered loudly, “Why don’t you see if you can get his meddling under control while I do the dishes?”
Mary stood by as Thomasina helped Milt to the battery-powered scooter the family had purchased when he became too weak to get from one end of the house to the other without stopping to rest. Once to the living room, Milt settled on the sofa beside Mary. He turned on the television, but soon had it on mute.
Bits of conversation drifted in from the living room as Thomasina cleared the dining room table. She saw Milt patting Mary’s knee, and Mary wiping her eyes. The words living will tugged at her heartstrings. She retreated to the kitchen, closed the door and winged silent petitions on their behalf to the One wh
o had filled them with so many good years.
Chapter Five
At the end of her shift at Milt and Mary’s, Thomasina returned to her apartment and began packing boxes for the move. The heat soon zapped her. She filled her white sedan with boxes and sofa cushions, and drove south to Liberty Flats.
Taking a few necessities to the upstairs bedroom, Thomasina made a bed for herself on the cushions, and slept better than she had in days. She awakened at two in the afternoon, showered and dressed in shorts and a pink oversize shirt. Ready to tackle unloading the car, she tied her hair back with a neon pink scarf and let herself out the front door.
Two towheaded, chocolate-smudged youngsters darted across Thomasina’s path and around the side of the house to where Trace was trimming bushes. The little boy kicked through the clippings as they fell to the ground. The little girl, half a head taller, tripped over the extension cord trying to copy his capers. The hedge clippers went dead.
“What’re you two doing back?” asked Trace, unaware of Thomasina’s approach.
“Momma said we didn’t have to come in yet,” said the little boy. His voice was nearly as raspy as old Milt’s.
“Well, you’re in my way, so scram,” said Trace, reaching for the rake.
“Cut our bushes,” said the little girl. Getting no response from Trace, she turned to her brother. “They’re tall as a house. Aren’t they, Pauly?”
The boy bobbed his head and sucked his thumb.
“Hear that, Win?” said Trace. He paused in raking clippings to cup a hand to his ear. “Cartoons are on.”
“Who’s on?” asked the girl.
“Magnet-Man. He’s the guy who’s going to clean house on those toy heroes you two have been collecting.”
“Nuh-uh!” said Winny, jutting out her lip.
Trace shrugged and tossed a pile of clippings into the wheelbarrow. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“You’re fibbing,” accused Winny. But the seed of planted doubt bunched her face into a pout. “Come on, Pauly. We’ll tell Momma.”
Trace leaned down to reconnect the trimmers, then straightened to find Thomasina standing a few feet away. Her gaze followed the children cross the yard where they disappeared through a narrow path in the hedge.
“Hi,” said Trace. “How’s the move going?”
“So far so good.” Her mouth tipped in response to his smile. “Who do I call about getting the paper delivered?”
He gave her the paperboy’s name, and offered to let her use his phone.
“Thanks. But I’ve got one in the car. By the way, I saw the tree at Mary and Milt’s is still standing. I’m glad. Mary’s partial to it.”
“Milt didn’t mention that to me.”
“She didn’t tell him. She doesn’t want to be the fly in the ointment.”
“That so?” he said.
Leaving well enough alone, Thomasina crossed to the curb for the sack of doughnuts she had left in the car. Someone had beat her to it. It was no mystery who. There were chocolate child-size fingerprints all over the seats, on her moving boxes and even on her cellular phone. She wiped the phone off only to find a dead line. On closer inspection she found the battery was missing.
Thomasina retraced her steps to where Trace was rolling up the extension chord. “On second thought, I’ll take you up on the phone offer. Mine’s not working.”
“If you’re going to leave your car out, you might want to lock your doors,” he said.
“I thought leaving doors unlocked was one of the perks in small towns.”
“Maybe in Mayberry. But the Penn kids are loose in Liberty Flats.”
She folded her arms. “Fine way to talk about your little helpers.”
“Helpers?” He laughed, his face shiny damp. “Good argument for staying single, don’t you mean?”
“Shame on you.”
Unrepentant, Trace dragged a brown forearm across his brow, then tossed the coiled extension cord on top of the hedge trimmings. “Anything else I can do to make moving day less of a hassle?”
“I noticed there isn’t a restaurant in town. What do people around here do for eating out?”
“You can get a sandwich made to order at Newt’s Market on the square. Pretty good one at that.”
“Great. The cupboards are bare.”
“Your doughnut sack, too,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get it away from them before they made such a mess of your car.”
“You caught them in the act, huh?”
“Chocolate-fisted.” At Thomasina’s smile, he added, “They live in the little yellow house on the other side of the hedge if you want to take it up with their mother.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
“I was planning on grabbing a sandwich before work myself,” said Trace on impulse. “You want to come along?”
“That’s nice of you. Sure,” said Thomasina, appreciating the welcoming gesture.
“Let me put this stuff away. You can make your phone call while I shower, and then we’ll go.” He collected his remaining yard tools. “The phone’s this way.”
Thomasina trailed after him as he trundled the wheelbarrow to a shady old two-story stone carriage house. It had been converted to a two-car garage and a shop. There were windows. But the trees diffused the sunlight. It was shadowy inside, and several degrees cooler.
“There’s room in here if you want to park out of the weather,” he said as he led her past his pickup truck. “I keep the doors locked, so you won’t have to worry about the kids playing road trip in your car.”
“So that’s what they were doing.” Thomasina chuckled. “Creative of them. Thanks for the offer. I’ll take you up on it, come winter.”
“I’ll have an extra key made, then.” Trace led her to his workshop at the back of the carriage house and switched on a light. “Phone’s on the wall over there.”
“Thanks,” said Thomasina. “I’ll call about getting a phone, too. What’s the address again, in case they ask?”
Trace wrote it on a matchbook, then left. Thomasina picked her way to the phone through a maze of toolboxes, free-standing cabinets, saws, drills and other power tools. She phoned her supervisor first and got her work schedule for the following week, then called about having the phone line turned on.
The blended scent of sawdust, drying wood and oiled tools stirred poignant memories of her foster parents. Much of their nurturing had been done in a shop similar to this. Thomasina picked up curled wood shavings and held them to her face, her thoughts reaching back in time. Flo loved flowers and Nathan, and Nathan loved Flo and woodworking, and together they loved Thomasina after abandonment by her own mother and a winding road of short-term foster homes had placed her with a family next door to them.
“Thomasina Rose. What a beautiful name,” Florence had called when Thomasina dropped over the fence that first day. “A name to grow into. Do you like roses? I’ve got aphids on mine. Have you ever seen aphids? They’re like fear in a human heart—hard to see, but oh, my! What a lot of damage they’re capable of doing. Don’t be shy! Come have a look, dear.”
That summer, over lemonade and cookies and Bible stories, Florence introduced Thomasina to much more than aphids and gardening. She had introduced her to God.
“The world is His garden, my dear,” she had said one day, a trowel in one hand, a young plant in the other. “Sometimes He transplants His flowers. No one knows why. But I’m thankful He’s sent such a sweet rose to ramble over our back fence!”
After getting to know them, Thomasina was scared she’d get shuffled again and lose Nathan and Flo. Her social worker saw the change in her. She convinced Flo that she and Nathan were the very kind of people so desperately needed in the foster care system.
Soon thereafter, the switch was made. Nathan and Flo were walking talking funnels from heaven to earth, spilling all the love God gave them into restoring Thomasina’s lost childhood just as most teens were relinquishing theirs. But Thomasina’s t
hirsty heart was in no hurry for independence. She stayed with Nathan and Flo through two years of junior college and nurse’s training. More than foster parents, they became her heart-parents, her model for good neighboring, and at the core of her wish to establish a camp where wounded, broken children could be led to God, and find help.
Hearing children’s hushed voices in the carriage house, Thomasina snapped out the light in the shop. “Hello.”
The twosome who had made such havoc of her car stopped short at the sight of her, and traded wary glances.
“I’ve got boxes to carry inside and not enough hands. I wonder where I could get some good help,” said Thomasina.
“Are you moving in with Trace?” asked the little girl.
“No, I’m moving into Mr. Austin’s apartment.”
“What’s a ’partment?”
“It’s more than one home under a single roof. When I get moved in, will you visit me?”
“Is your ’partment like a playhouse?”
“Something like that,” said Thomasina, smiling. “Perhaps your mother would come, as well. It’s lonesome when you move, and nice to make new friends.”
“Momma’s already got a friend,” the little boy said. “His name’s Red.”
“Fred,” corrected Winny.
“Nuh-uh. It’s Red ’cause his hair’s red.”
“His hair’s red, but his name’s Fred,” argued Winny.
“Wanna bet? We’ll go ask Momma.”
The little boy dropped something on his way out. It was the battery to Thomasina’s phone. She put it in her pocket, locked the carriage house behind her and unloaded boxes until Trace returned. His hair was still damp from the shower. His work shirt, tucked neatly into his trousers emphasized his lean waist and narrow hips.
“This belongs to you?” he asked as she climbed into the truck.
Thomasina took the blue barrette from his open hand. “Winny’s, I think. They were here a moment ago. Curious fingers and power tools can’t be a good combination,” she added, seeing his frown.
“You wouldn’t think so.” Trace backed the truck out of the carriage house, then climbed out to slide the track door closed.