Man With A Miracle. Muriel Jensen
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were behind bars, it wouldn’t be safe to return home.
“Now that I’ve answered your questions,” she said, leaning slightly toward him, “can I ask again where you served as a policeman?”
He considered her, evidently as suspicious of her as she was of him. “Boston,” he replied.
She straightened. Could there be some connection between him and Gordon? “Did you know…Gordon Hathaway?”
He frowned again. “I ran across a lot of people, perps and victims, in twelve years. But that name doesn’t mean anything special.”
She sagged against the couch again, suddenly very aware of her exhaustion. But where could she go? All she could think to ask was, “Is there a homeless shelter in town?”
“There’s a new one opening December twenty-third,” he said, putting his cup aside.
A familiar bleak despair threatened to overwhelm her. That always happened when something reminded her of how absolutely alone she was in this world. “But…none now?”
“There are some homeless families staying on cots in the basement of the Catholic church.”
She angled her chin and asked, “Would you take me there?”
He studied her, those eyes roving her completely disreputable appearance, then lingering on her face. It was impossible to tell what he thought, until he leaned forward to take her cup from her and drop it with a bang on his desk.
“No,” he said simply.
EVAN LOOKED into a pair of blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and suspected he would hate himself later, but he couldn’t take her to the basement of the church and still live with himself.
He knew many homeless people had once lived productive lives and were victims of fate and circumstance, but there were always those few among them who preyed upon each other and anyone else small or weak enough to be vulnerable.
“I live in a cottage on the other side of town.” He reached toward a wooden coat rack in the corner and grabbed an old down jacket he wore when working outside. It was smeared with paint, but warm. “It has a spare bedroom and a reliable furnace.” He held the jacket out to her. “You can stay with me until you find this Evans guy.”
She stared at him, evaluating the offer. She was desperate for shelter, but not sure she could trust him.
“I have no money,” she said finally, and took the jacket.
“The offer doesn’t require money.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then she asked quietly, carefully, “What does it require?”
He understood her reluctance, but gave her a scolding look, anyway. “Trust,” he replied. “And I can use another hand on a paint roller.”
Her eyes widened slightly, and he guessed he’d surprised her. “Never painted anything?” he asked.
She smiled for the first time since he’d opened the door and found her wielding a bat at him. “My bedroom, a couple of times when I was a teenager, and my friend Horie’s first apartment. Does that count?”
He ignored her question. “Horie?”
She smiled again. It made her even prettier, despite her disheveled appearance. Her teeth were square and very white, the top right one overlapping the front tooth slightly.
“Horatia Metcalf. Her father teaches Greek in a divinity school, hence her name. She’s a little off-the-wall herself. We painted every room a different bright color.”
“Did you do a good job?”
“We thought so. Her landlord wasn’t quite as pleased.”
“Then, you’re hired,” he said. “But I’ll take you home. You can have a couple of days to catch up on your sleep before I put you to work. I, however, have to get with it.”
The suggestion that she was holding up his working day galvanized her into action. She got to her feet and let him help her into the jacket.
As she snapped it closed, he remembered the watch cap in the side pocket and reached in to hand it to her. She pulled it on and stuffed her hair into it.
He looked down worriedly at her holey stockings and low-heeled dress shoes. “Wish I had a spare pair of socks, but I’ll get you some at home.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, then wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to be warm.”
He stood the collar up for her. “The lesson to be learned here is, never run away in December without your coat.”
She nodded wryly. “Or your purse.” She smiled again as he pulled the door open for her. “Of course, that lesson doesn’t apply to you, does it?”
He concentrated on locking the door behind him, afraid of getting hooked on that smile. “No,” he said, pretending to be serious. “It’s hard to decide what color purse to wear with coveralls.”
She laughed as he pointed toward the Jeep. Her smile…with sound. Intriguing. “It’s easy. Just remember that they should match your shoes.”
By the time they reached his cottage on the other side of Maple Hill, he was grateful that he had to leave her for the day. It was as though something had turned her on and she’d acquired a sparkle he hadn’t noticed when they’d interrogated each other over coffee.
A long, tree-lined drive led to his cottage. Snow covered the trees and crunched under the tires as he drove up to the porch. He parked and came around to help her out, sure that the height of the van and dress shoes would make it difficult for her to get down onto the packed and slippery snow.
She’d swung her legs over the side and appeared to be considering how best to approach the leap, when he bracketed her waist and lifted her to the ground. He felt the smallness of her waist even under the thickness of his jacket, and wondered why that should impress itself upon him. He’d known small-waisted women before.
Of course, they weren’t coming to live with him.
“Thank you,” she said cheerfully. “What a pretty place. What grows on that arbor by the garden?” She pointed to a square-topped pergola at the side of the house.
“Clematis,” he replied.
“Pink?”
“Purple.”
“Ah.” She sighed, smiling as though she could envision it. “I love purple. We painted Horie’s kitchen a sort of pale grape color.”
He wondered what that did for guests’ digestion, as he led the way up the porch steps and unlocked the door.
THE FIRST THING Evan did was crank up the thermostat.
Beazie listened attentively as he showed her how to turn it up or down, explaining that he usually lowered it when he left for work.
“I don’t want to waste your oil,” she protested, trying to think about the numbers rather than the herbal fragrance of his cologne. “The thermostat says sixty-two, but that’s still warmer than the back of the moving truck.”
He ignored her and bumped it up to seventy.
“Kitchen’s in here.”
She followed as he led the way through the soft, coffee-with-cream color of the living room and its dark blue and red furniture to an old-fashioned kitchen painted yellow. The appliances were old, but new butcher-block counters had been installed, and a small nook that looked out onto the front of the house had yellow-and-blue curtains patterned with teapots and cups.
“I’ve been slowly buffing up the house,” he said with a disparaging wave at the curtains, “but I haven’t gotten to this room yet. I don’t eat at home that much, so I’ve left it to last.”