House of Strangers. Carolyn McSparren
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“You don’t need fixing up.”
“Oh, yes, I do.” Ann laughed. “So are you game?”
“Yes, and thank you.” He pulled himself out of the chair and followed Ann and Dante. His mattress sat in the middle of the bedroom floor. Ann sidestepped it neatly and went ahead down the stairs.
They walked the short distance across the square and around the three row houses to the short alley in back. The alleyway was pitch-dark. The anemic illumination of the wrought-iron streetlights around the square didn’t reach over the tops of the buildings, but Ann took a small flashlight from her back pocket and switched it on. Something moved in the bushes on the far side of the alley.
Dante gave a low woof.
“Hush. It’s just a cat,” she said.
Something, probably the cat, banged against one of the large garbage cans at the far end, then disappeared in a streak of fur. Dante looked up at Ann beseechingly, but she grasped his collar. “No. No chasing cats.”
They came to an old wooden staircase at the back of the second building. It looked as though it was ready to collapse into the small parking lot across the alley.
Paul followed Ann up to the little landing at the top and waited while she unlocked and opened her door. She turned on the lights.
Paul was no stranger to lofts. Several of his friends had invested in and restored lofts in lower Manhattan. They usually wound up modern, austere, cold and expensive.
This loft across two of the buildings was still very much a loft. Their footsteps and the click of Dante’s toenails echoed on the bare hardwood floors. The doorway opened into the half that Ann used as an apartment.
Beyond it, a broad archway led into the workshop half. Since the lights came on in both at the same time, Paul could see a large worktable in the center and cabinets along the back wall.
There was also a table saw, router table, a lathe, industrial shelving with molds, brushes and all sorts of equipment Paul couldn’t identify.
To the left of the door they’d come in was a galley kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a high breakfast bar with stools. A harvest table and two benches constituted the dining room, and a heavily carved Victorian credenza served as a room divider from the living area, which was delineated with a soft, worn Oriental rug. To the right white duck curtains obviously divided the public space from bedroom and bath. The walls were the original rose brick, and overhead naked trusses held up the roof.
“Take a seat.” Ann pointed to one of the steel stools in front of the counter. She rummaged in a stainless-steel refrigerator and came out with bacon, green onions, sweet bell peppers and a carton of eggs.
“May I help?”
“Nope. I’m used to juggling stuff.” She set everything on the counter. “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Wine?”
“White wine if you have it.”
“Sure.” She reached into the refrigerator, brought out a bottle and poured them each a glass. “Salut.”
He looked up into those wonderful gray-blue eyes of hers. Their glances locked and held for too long. He felt his body tighten and knew that she felt the same pull he did.
He should never have come up here, never have allowed himself to see her in her own habitat. Not if he intended to keep his promise to keep her at arm’s length.
She broke eye contact first with a tiny gasp. The tips of her ears were red, and she sounded brusque. “Okay, now, you can help me chop the bell pepper.” She seemed to skitter away from him. The reluctant female, aware of him but not certain she wanted to go any further.
Nor was he.
His gaze lighted on a pencil drawing in a simple black frame hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. He was instantly certain it must be one of the caricatures his father was noted for. He wanted to leap over the counter, rip it down and stare at it for any revelation of the hand behind it. Instead, he said casually, “The drawing. Is that Buddy?”
She laughed. “Look closely.” She reached up, took it down and handed it to him.
He’d have known Buddy anywhere. The big bullet head with only a fuzz of hair, the black sunglasses. He wore his police uniform, but instead of a Sam Browne belt, he wore a tool belt, and instead of aiming a revolver, he pointed an electric drill. His fierce expression said he was definitely going to “drill” somebody.
In spite of himself, Paul laughed. “I’d know him anywhere. It’s really good.”
“Kinder than a lot of Uncle David’s sketches. If he didn’t like somebody or thought they needed taking down a peg, he could be really wicked. I like that one. It’s Buddy to a T.”
“I guess he didn’t want it hanging in the police station.”
“Actually, I had to beg him for it. He gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. He couldn’t very well refuse his own kid, now could he?”
Paul turned slowly toward her. “His kid?”
“Yeah. Buddy’s my father. Didn’t you know?”
“I had no idea. How come you call him Buddy?”
“I started when I was a teenager because I knew it got his goat. Then when we started working together, it seemed an easier way to maintain a professional relationship and reassure the clients. It’s better for me to yell ‘Hey, Buddy,’ than ‘Hey, Daddy.’ Would you trust a contractor who hired his own daughter to restore your woodwork?”
“I would if the contractor were Buddy. But I understand clients might feel uncomfortable, especially if they had a complaint about your work.”
“Never happens. I’m too good.”
“Do you work with your father—Buddy—exclusively?”
“I try to give him first dibs, is all.” She began to break eggs into a glass bowl with one-handed expertise. “He has to bid for me just like everybody else. I’ve just gotten back from three months in Buffalo restoring the proscenium arch of an old movie theater that’s being converted into a community theater. Before that I spent a couple of months in Colorado Springs redoing woodwork for a prairie mansion that’s being restored. This is actually the first job I’ve had this close to home since I moved back to Rossiter.”
All the time she talked, she was constructing the omelet. He was impressed. He knew the way good cooks maneuvered in the kitchen.
“There are some fresh bagels in the bread box. Split us a couple, would you, and stick them in the toaster.”
Paul did as she asked, then returned to his place at the counter.
He enjoyed watching her. She worked efficiently, and before long was ready to pour the omelet mixture into a hot frying pan.
“Okay. While I’m doing this, you can set the table,” she said. “Place mats and silverware are in the top drawer of the Welsh dresser. I’ll bring the rest. Honey all right for your bagel?”
Ten minutes later he sat down to an omelet, green salad and hot buttered bagels. He was growing mellow from his second glass of wine.
His small sojourn on his porch had begun the job of relaxing him. Sitting opposite Ann in this pleasant place completed the job. Even the ache in his shoulder had subsided. He felt Dante’s heavy head against his ankle and looked down to see hungry eyes.
She noticed and said, “Don’t you dare. Dante doesn’t eat at the table. He’d be impossible if he ever started.”
“The omelet is as good as I’ve ever eaten. Thanks for taking me in tonight. I promise you dinner in return.” He wasn’t flattering her. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until his first bite. After a moment he said, “Tell me about the