Charlaine Harris - Day Shift

Though Fiji had had some experience as a babysitter while she was in her teens, it had been years since she had dealt with children of any age. But she realized now she would have to step forward.

She fell asleep that night with Mr. Snuggly curled against her, thinking of Bobo, thinking of adding green onions to the roast the next time she cooked one, thinking of the child.

Joe Strong, too, had watched the Rev walking back to his cottage with the child. He’d been so surprised that he’d called Chuy to their front window to see. Their apartment above the shop reflected their love of comfort and color, and Chuy heaved out of his easy chair with some reluctance. He’d been watching television, with a magazine at hand for the commercials.

But the sight was worth getting up for. “The Rev and a kid?” Chuy said. “Boy or girl?”

“I’m sure it’s a boy. I wonder where he came from,” Joe said after a moment of silent wonder. “Looks about four years old, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. The Rev didn’t steal him,” Chuy said, putting his arm around Joe.

Joe kissed the top of Chuy’s head. “Nope, that didn’t cross my mind. If the kid stays more than overnight, he’s going to need some help.”

“Who, the kid or the Rev?”

“Both of them.” Joe shook his head. “I have to say, I feel sorry for the kid.”

They both knew the Rev was a creature of habit, and a solitary one at that. Any man the Rev’s age, both silent and unsocial, was not going to be an ideal companion for a little boy — though the Reverend Emilio Sheehan was far from a typical elderly cleric, if such a person existed.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Chuy said. “To help.”

“And to fix antiques and fingernails,” Joe said, laughing. “I wish I didn’t love old furniture, and you didn’t love decorating women. I wish we were both accountants or bounty hunters. Something less predictable.”

“As long as we’re happy. And we take care of each other,” Chuy said, much more seriously.

“I try to take care of you,” Joe said, turning to take Chuy in his arms. “How’m I doing?”

“Pretty good,” Chuy said, and it was the last time he said anything sensible for a while.

The next morning, as they lay together in the old bed they’d restored, both of them reluctant to start the day, Joe said, “Lemuel went in the hotel a couple of nights ago.”

“Lemuel,” Chuy murmured, a note of exasperation — distaste? — in his voice. “What did he say?”

“He said it was almost finished. He couldn’t believe they’d accomplished it on schedule. He believes they’ve poured money into what should surely be a minor project for a big company like that.”

“That worries me.” Chuy snuggled closer. “And I was so relaxed.”

“Sorry, honey,” Joe said. “But I wanted to tell you… he thought people would be in the hotel by next week.”

“That soon. Damn.”

“Yeah, I know. Could be good, could be bad.”

“Why can’t things just stay the same?” Chuy asked plaintively.

“Good question. Boot that one upstairs.”

Chuy punched Joe in the shoulder and soon fell back to sleep.

But Joe forced himself to rise and pull on his running clothes. When he’d become conscious that the waist of his pants was getting a little tighter than he liked, he’d promised himself to resume running. This was his fourth morning in a row, and he was feeling really good about it.

He trotted down the outside stairs in the early-morning sun. The sky was clear as far as Joe could see, and a breeze was blowing steadily, for which he was grateful. Since the sidewalk (except around the hotel) was cracked and uneven, Joe ran on the road. This was normally quite safe, since vehicles on Witch Light Road were few and far between; the Davy highway was much busier. He went west out of town, waving at the only oncoming truck, driven by a local rancher named Mark Kolb. Mark lifted an index finger from the steering wheel in response.

Smiling to himself, Joe puffed along. When he’d run twenty minutes, he turned around to run back. His plan was to lengthen his run by five minutes every week. After he crossed the road to return, the sun was in his eyes, so Joe didn’t see the small crowd until he was much closer to home. Stunned, he slowed, ran in place for a moment until he could evaluate what he was seeing, and then bounded up the stairs to the apartment. “Chuy, come down!” he called, and returned to the sidewalk.

There were at least five nice cars and a television crew at the Midnight Hotel. There were concrete planters full of flowers outside the main door of the hotel, which was situated on the corner. There was a banner hanging over the entrance, which Joe couldn’t read until he’d walked to the corner opposite the hotel.

The banner read, NOW OPEN!

Chuy was beside him in five minutes, fresh and clean in khakis and an oxford-cloth shirt. His dark hair was carefully combed and styled, his mustache newly trimmed, and he smelled wonderful.

“Don’t hug, I’m sweaty,” Joe warned him.

“No kidding,” Chuy said. “Is this not crazy? How’d the Culhane woman get them to work so hard?”

“A spell?” Joe shrugged. “Plenty of money and lots of workers make for a quick completion.”

“But this is incredible. And how’d she get media coverage? This is an old hotel reopening in Midnight, not a casino in Vegas!”

“Let’s go listen,” Joe suggested, and they crossed the street to stand just behind the gaggle of people in front of the hotel.

Eva Culhane looked even sleeker and more powerful than she had the day the redo had begun. She was all glammed up in a formfitting gray herringbone skirt and a white sleeveless blouse. Ridiculous black high-heeled sandals made the most of her legs. Her hair was loose, rippling down her back.

“That’s a first,” Chuy said. “The hair.”

Joe nodded. “I’m trying not to worry about this. She did buy the sofa and the sideboard from us,” he said. “You can’t say she doesn’t shop locally.”

“She picked up a couple of pieces from Bobo, too.”

“Oh. What?”

“Vases, some old keys that she had framed, a couple of old weapons she had shadow-boxed. Family photographs that look interesting.”

“Stern woman with her hand on the shoulder of seated man with handlebar mustache?”

“Yeah, that kind of thing.” Chuy shrugged. “Let’s get closer.”

“MultiTier Living is experimenting with this mixed residence concept,” Eva Culhane was saying. “This is a small hotel, so it was one of the first on our list. We wanted to start small, to work out the bugs before we tried the concept on larger properties. We’re catering to the extended-stay people, but we’re including not only businesspeople who need to be close to Magic Portal for a few weeks, but the able elderly who — for one reason or another — need to have a minimum-care place to live until they can make more permanent arrangements.” She paused and smiled brilliantly. “Questions?”

A reporter from the Davy paper said, “How able do these elderly people have to be?”

“Good question! Don, they have to be able to dress themselves and manage their own toilet needs,” Eva Culhane said, so cozily that Joe thought she must have grown up with the reporter. “They’re certainly not required to do any cleaning — or furnishing — of their own rooms. Each unit has a bedroom, a sitting room, and a bathroom. In the eldercare-designated rooms, there are features you might expect: safety bars, a panic cord, and so on. Why don’t we go on the tour, and you can see for yourselves.” Culhane swept open the door of the hotel and ushered in all the media: two newspaper reporters, an area magazine editor, and the film reporter, who’d come from…