Actions Speak Louder

by Rosemarie Naramore

  “Collette!” Angie cried this time.

  “Hey, Mom, Jay was a jerk to Marcia. You know that.”

  Angie gave Marcia an alarmed glance, fearful Collette had injured her with the comment.

  Marcia met her concerned gaze. “The truth is, I’ve come to the same conclusion,” she admitted with a sad smile. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking of late. Too bad I didn’t do more of that when I was married to him.”

  “Collette, go wait for Drew outside,” Angie commanded briskly. “Marcia and I have some grownup talking to do.”

  “I’m a junior in high school. I’ll be a grown up next year,” the girl groused.

  “Yeah, okay, you can take part in adult conversations then.”

  “Whatever.” She slid off the stool and flounced out of the store.

  “Marcia,” Angie began, “I’m really sorry about Collette…”

  “No, no, don’t be. She’s actually spot on in her assessment of Jay.” She frowned. “She’s probably right about his small head, too.”

  Angie made a guilty face. “John and I always called him ‘that pinhead’ behind his back,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, Marcia. I’m sorry you ever met the guy. He played the part of such a sweetheart when you were dating, but…”

  “He turned horrible pretty fast after we said our vows,” she interjected, attempting a smile.

  “You deserved, and still deserve better,” Angie said vehemently. “I’ll never know why he thought it was his job to…”

  “Humiliate me at every turn,” Marcia supplied, dropping onto the stool Collette had vacated. She met her friend’s gaze. “Like I said, I’ve spent quite a bit of time lately wondering…”

  “What, Marcia?”

  “Wondering why I let him treat me the way he did. Why didn’t I leave him?”

  “Because you’re no quitter,” she said. “You tried to make it work, that’s why. Frankly, Marcia, I think the guy left you shell-shocked from the get-go. I think he was very strategic in his mistreatment of you. He constantly caused you to second guess your own emotions.” She shook her head angrily. “The little pinhead!”

  Marcia laughed softly. “Well, he and his pinhead are a thing of the past,” she said too brightly. “I’m free of him and life will go on.”

  Angie measured her with a look. “Marcia, I know you’re probably not ready for a new relationship, but I hope that eventually you’ll be open to one. Jay was an anomaly. Please know there is a good guy out there—a good, loving, supportive man who would give his right arm for a woman like you. A man whose sole objective in life is to make you happy.”

  Marcia gave a dubious chuckle. “His sole purpose, huh?”

  “Hey, I’m telling you the truth.” She gave her friend a speculative glance. “You know your neighbor, Ethan?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Collette’s right. He likes you.”

  “Uh huh,” Marcia repeated, and then shook her head. “Jay professed to like me too. And look how that turned out.”

  Angie sighed. “At least you’ve learned what you don’t want in a man.”

  Marcia laughed, but sobered quickly. “Jay used to tell me that he loved me every day.” She cocked her head and gave a sad smile. “Every day. I mean, if he hadn’t said it so often…”

  Angie patted her arm. “Words!” she spat angrily. “It’s actions that count. Actions speak louder than words.”

  ***

  By late afternoon, Marcia was more than ready to flip the open sign in the front window to closed. Very few customers had visited the store, and of those who had stopped by, few made purchases. She uttered a silent prayer that the next day would be better.

  Just as she was intending to head to the back of the store, a woman began knocking furiously on the door. Marcia turned, her brows furrowed into a frown. It was Mrs. Dunneford, the woman who had ordered the mustard yellow paint before.

  Resisting the urge to simply turn her back on her, she realized she couldn’t risk alienating a potential customer—even an aggravating one. With a shoring sigh, she opened the door. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, aiming a glance at the closed sigh. “I was actually just closing up shop for the day.”

  “I need that paint I ordered,” she declared. She smoothed a hand through her windblown hair and forced a smile. “Remember? It was mustard yellow…”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have it anymore.”

  “You sold my paint?” the woman cried, incredulous.

  Counting to three before she spoke again, Marcia fixed her with a smile. “If you’ll remember, you changed your mind about the paint and told me you didn’t want it.”

  “Well, I do now,” she said curtly.

  Marcia sighed again. “I’m afraid it is sold.”

  “Well, you’ll have to order more for me.”

  Marcia took a deep breath. “I can do that, but you’ll have to pay for the paint in advance, since I’m afraid I can’t give you a refund on special orders.”

  “Marcia! I’m leaving in a minute,” called Stewart. He approached with a clipboard. “Can I get you to sign off on this purchase order first?”

  “Sure,” she said, scrawling her signature on the order form. “I’ll see you Friday then.”

  “Will you please order the paint for me?” the woman asked. “I need to get started on my studio.”

  “I can take the order,” Stewart volunteered, glancing at the woman. “What color did you need?”

  “Mustard yellow. The same as I ordered before.”

  “I have to reiterate that you must pay in advance and that I cannot offer you a refund if you change your mind,” Marcia told her.

  The woman nodded. “Fine. But I need the paint ASAP.”

  “I’ll place the order,” Marcia directed to Stewart. “You go ahead on home.”

  He nodded, but walked alongside her to the registers. “I wonder what changed her mind about the paint color?” he whispered, and then chuckled. “I wish I knew what Winslow Construction did with all that mustard yellow paint from before.”

  Marcia gave him an alarmed glance. “What? What do you mean?” She shook her head confusedly. “Are you talking about E.J. Winslow Construction?”

  He nodded. “One of his employees bought the paint.” He shrugged. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it was one of his guys. I volunteer with Habitat for Humanity, and I’ve worked with Ethan and the guy before. At least, I think it was him. I think his name is Thomas.”

  She nodded numbly. So Ethan had bought the paint? How had he even known about her dilemma? Wait, she had mentioned it to him. No, she hadn’t told him about the paint problems until after the paint had been sold.

  How did he know about the paint? And what would possess him to buy it from her?

  As she was ringing up the purchase for the woman, Marcia couldn’t help asking, “What made you change your mind about the paint color?”

  The woman smoothed a hand through her hair again. “Mustard yellow is all the rage,” she declared. “Gwen Mannington used it as the predominant color in a house she decorated for a spread in House Lovely magazine.” She gave a giddy laugh. “Turns out I was right about the color in the first place.”

  ***

  Ethan bought the paint.

  Ethan bought the paint.

  The words played over and over in Marcia’s mind like a bad song. Why had he purchased that paint? As she drove home, she felt a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. If he had purchased the paint, she owed him and she owed him big. How could she pay him back?

  She took a calming breath, in an attempt to slow her pulse rate. Think. First, she would need to find out if he had, indeed, bought that ugly paint. Once she had her answer, she would go from there. But if he had taken it off her hands, what could she possibly do to pay him back?

  As she pulled into her driveway, she spotted him outside his house, painting the side closest to her place. She half-expected to see the siding coated with that hideous ye
llow hue, but knew the mustard yellow had been interior paint and wouldn’t be suited to outside applications. He was actually painting the house a soft green sage that she decided she liked.

  As she pulled into her garage, Ethan turned and waved. She nodded in return, and then disappeared into the garage.

  Inside her house, she hurriedly checked her messages, freshened up in her bathroom, and then with a shoring breath, headed next door to Ethan’s. “I need to talk to you,” she said, startling him.

  He spun around and grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t hear you walk up.”

  “I have to ask you a question,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and praying his answer to her question would be no.

  “Go ahead,” he prompted, as he carefully propped his paintbrush on a can of paint on the ground nearby.

  She sighed, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Did you buy two hundred gallons of mustard yellow paint from my store?”

  His eyes widened in apparent surprise, but he rallied quickly and made his face impassive. “Uh, well, yeah. But actually, I had one of my guys buy the paint.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, uh, I needed paint.”

  “Uh huh. You needed two hundred gallons of one of the most hideous paint colors I personally have ever seen?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said without skipping a beat.

  “So you’re painting the inside of your place mustard yellow? Of course, you’ll have enough paint left over to paint the interior of that high-rise you’re currently building…”

  He shrugged. “You never know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” she demanded.

  He suddenly looked sick. He opened his mouth to speak, but apparently couldn’t form words. He gave a shrug of uncertainty, spreading his hands in front of him and shaking his head.

  Marcia sighed with resigned acceptance. “Do you have another paint brush?” she asked him brusquely.

  He gave her a puzzled look and cleared his throat. “Uh, why do you need a paint brush?”

  “Because I’m going to help you paint your house.”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay,” he said, waving off her offer.

  She would not be deterred. “Oh, yes, I am. And when we’re done painting the outside, I’m going to help you with the inside.”

  He laughed uncertainly. “No, no you’re not.”

  She reached for the paint brush he had been using and dipped it into the paint can. She paused. “Why aren’t you spraying on the paint?”

  “It’s a small job,” he told her. “And I can give the siding better coverage brushing the paint on.”

  “Okay,” she said, and began painting. To her surprise, he took the brush from her.

  “You just got off work. You have to be tired,” he said, watching her with concern.

  Having anyone, let alone her handsome neighbor, show concern for her caused a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach. “There’s no rest for the weary,” she quipped. “Particularly when the weary owes her neighbor over eight thousand dollars.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he assured her.

  “I always pay off my debts,” she told him, and turned her attention to the house. “Pretty color,” she commented. “Beats the heck out of mustard yellow.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Marcia, this is ridiculous,” Ethan declared. “I’m not going to do any painting today. I have somewhere I have to be.” He ran a hand through his hair and checked his watch. “You’re not going to paint my house for me. You spent enough time here last night.”

  “Five hours,” she said with a disgusted snort. “I figure, at what, ten dollars an hour?—I owe you seven hundred, ninety-five more hours of labor.”

  He gasped. “What? You do not.”

  “Yes, I do. So you’d better let me get to work.”

  “Can we talk about this later? I hate to leave, because I’d really like to straighten this out with you, but I have somewhere I need to be right now.”

  She waved him off with an impatient hand. “Yes, go. You’re cutting into my time. If I start now, I should be finished by…” She did a mental calculation in her mind. “Okay, so it’s May now. Maybe, if I focus, I can have you paid off by … October.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he scoffed. “Why aren’t you at your store?” He glanced at his watch again. It was a little after eight in the morning and he really needed to go.

  “Angie is holding down the fort, while I work for you.”

  “You don’t work for me!” he groaned in frustration. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Why’d you buy the paint?”

  He sighed heavily. “Okay, look, I happened to be in the store the day you received your big delivery and discovered Angie’s mistake…”

  “I didn’t see you,” she said, frowning.

  “I know. I made myself invisible. Anyway, I felt bad for you. I’ve been there—financially strapped and terrified—back when I started my business.”

  She pinned him with a look. “And did some Good Samaritan come along and fix your problem for you?”

  “Well, no,” he admitted, “but I wish they had.” He attempted a smile then, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

  “I appreciate the gesture,” she told him. “I get that you were trying to help me, but…”

  “What?”

  “I can’t help but feel indebted to you. I hate the feeling of owing someone—particularly when the debt is sizeable. I have to pay you back.”

  “No, you don’t!” he insisted. “You didn’t ask me for help, so you don’t owe me anything!”

  She nodded her head. “Oh, yes, I do.”

  Ethan scrubbed a hand across his jaw, and then checked his watch again. “I have to go. We’ll talk later.” To her surprise, he snatched up the gallon of paint Marcia had retrieved from his porch, and stored it inside the house, where she couldn’t get at it. “There,” he said smugly as he pulled the front door closed behind him. “Now, go to work. To your real work. You wouldn’t want anyone ordering more mustard yellow paint in your absence.”

  She stood on his porch, fuming. He chuckled, and then to her astonishment, kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll talk later,” he repeated, and then jogged to his truck.

  She watched him drive away, and then had an inspired idea. She knew the brand and color of the paint Ethan had chosen for the exterior of his home. She carried it at the hardware store. She placed a quick call to Angie, asked her to mix up a five gallon bucket, and in no time, she was back at work at Ethan’s place. He found her there hours later, when he returned home after a lengthy day of meetings with investors.

  Climbing out of his truck, his jaw dropped. The front of his house was beautifully painted, and he spied Marcia on a ladder, painting the north face. She was balanced precariously on an upper rung, stretching to reach to the eaves. He hurried to her and braced the ladder. “You need to come down,” he told her in no uncertain tones. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

  She waved off his concern. “Ah, I know what I’m doing.”

  “You know better than to reach that far with a paintbrush, when you’re unbalanced on a rickety ladder…”

  “Hey, this ladder isn’t rickety,” she protested. “I bought it at a garage sale, and it’s … fairly stable…”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said in a clipped voice. “Please come down.”

  Marcia climbed down slowly, trying to prevent herself from dropping paint on Ethan’s head. She knew he was right about the ladder, but she needed to get the job done and didn’t have the money to purchase a new ladder. If she borrowed one from the store, it would end up ruined by dripping paint, and thereby, be rendered unsellable later.

  When she reached the ground, Ethan took the small paint container from her hand, and then stared at her intently. “How long have you been painting?”

  She checked her watch. “Seven hours. Only seven hundred eighty-eight more to go,” she said brightly.

&
nbsp; “Look, this isn’t funny,” Ethan declared, and then tugged at the tie around his neck. Marcia hadn’t registered he was dressed in a suit and tie when she had seen him earlier. She frowned, trying to remember how he’d been dressed that morning. He apparently read her thoughts. “I stopped by my condo for the suit,” he explained. “Okay, so look, you’ve practically painted my whole house. We’re square.”

  “No, we’re not,” she insisted, and started up the ladder again. She gasped when she felt his hands spanning her waist and lifting her down off the ladder. “Hey!”

  “Hey, yourself,” he muttered, and then slid his jaw to the side in a gesture she recognized as frustration. Or, maybe he was deep in thought. “Look,” he said finally, “you’re calculating your wages all wrong. If you’re determined to pay me back, you don’t charge me by the hour—you charge me by the job. You’ve essentially painted my house for me…” He took a step back and studied her work. He gave an appreciative nod. “Looks good, but then, what else would I expect from you?”

  “Painting’s not difficult,” she told him. “Besides, it’s a small bungalow.”

  “Yes, but it is two stories, which adds to the price of the job.” He stood silently for a moment. “When you finish painting the back of the house, we’ll be even.”

  Marcia gave a loud guffaw. “Yeah, sure. It wouldn’t cost you eight grand to hire your house painted.”

  He nodded. “It costs whatever I’m willing to pay you, and I think the job is worth eight thousand dollars.”

  Marcia sighed. “I’m going to call a couple painting contractors, give them the dimensions of your place, and then we’ll know what the job costs. I’ll average the estimates, and deduct that amount from what I owe you, and … thanks, Ethan.”

  She was grateful to him. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she could charge him by the job, rather than by the hour. But he was right. In home repair, the experts often charged by the job.

  “Arrgghhh,” he groaned, drawing her from her thoughts. “You don’t owe me anything else.”

  “I beg to differ,” she said stubbornly. “So, what’s on the agenda after I finish painting the house? I’m fairly adept at finish carpentry. Hey, maybe I can install your flooring.” She perked up. “I can sure do all of your interior painting for you.”