Karen Templeton - Husband Under Construction

A warning he’d do well to heed.

This was just a job, he reminded himself. And she was just a client. A pretty client with big, sad eyes. And clearly more issues than probably his past six girlfriends—although he used the term loosely—combined.

Then they reached the landing, where, on a wall facing the stairs, Roxie and her parents—she must have been eleven or twelve—smiled out at him from what he guessed was an enlarged snapshot, taken at some beach or other. Her mother had been a knockout, her bright blue eyes sparkling underneath masses of dark, wavy hair. “You look like your mom.”

Roxie hmmphed through her nose. “Suck-up.”

“Not at all. You’ve got the same cheekbones.” He squinted at the fragrant cloud of curls a foot from his nose, and a series of little pings exploded in his brain. Like Pop Rocks. “And hair.”

“Unfortunately.”

“What’s wrong with your hair?”

“You could hide a family of prairie dogs in it?”

If he lived to be a hundred he’d never understand what was up with women and their hair. Although then she added, “But at least I have no issues with my breasts. Or butt. I like them just fine,” and the little pop-pop-pops become BOOM-BOOM-BOOMS .

Before the fireworks inside his head settled down, however, she said, “Mae and Charley really were like second parents to me. Even before…the accident. If it hadn’t been for them I honestly don’t know how I would’ve made it through that last year of school. All I wanted to do was hole myself up in my bedroom and never come out. Until Aunt Mae—she was Mom’s older sister—threatened to pry me out with the Jaws of Life. So I figure the least I can do for Charley is return the favor.”

“Whether he likes it or not,” Noah said, even as he thought, How do you live with that brain and not get dizzy? Because he sure as hell was.

“As I said. And the bathroom’s the second door on the right.”

To get there Noah had to pass a small extra bedroom that, while tidy to a fault, still bore the hallmarks of a room done up for a teenage girl, and a prissy one at that—purple walls, floral bedspread, a stenciled border of roses meandering at the top of wall. None of which jibed with the woman standing five feet away. Except the room made him slightly woozy, too.

“You like purple?”

She snorted. “Aunt Mae wanted pink. I wanted black. Purple was our compromise. Didn’t have the energy to fight about the roses.”

“Somehow not picturing you as a Goth chick.”

A humorless smile stretched across her mouth. “Honey, back then I made Marilyn Manson look like Shirley Temple. But…guess you didn’t notice, huh?”

A long-submerged memory smacked him between the eyes, of him and his friends making fun of the clot of inky-haired, funereal girls with their raccoon eyes and chewed, black fingernails, floating somberly through the school halls like a toxic cloud. One in particular, her pale green eyes startling, furious, against her pale skin, all that black.

“Holy crap—that was you?”

To his relief, Roxie laughed. “‘Twas a short-lived phase. In fact, I refuse to wear black now. Not even shoes.” Grimacing, Roxie walked to her bedroom doorway, her arms crossed. “I put poor Mae and Charley through an awful lot,” she said softly, looking inside. “I even covered up the roses with black construction paper. Mae never said a word. In fact, all she did was hug me. Can you imagine?”

His own childhood had been idyllic in comparison, Noah thought as a wave of shame washed over him. Man, had he been a butthead, or what? “What I can’t imagine, is what hell that must’ve been for you. I’m sorry. For what you went through, for…all of it.”

“Thanks,” she said after a too-long pause.

“So you gonna paint in there or what?” Noah said, after another one.

Roxie turned, bemusement and caution tangling in her eyes. “Why? Not gonna be around long enough for it to matter, God willing. So. The bathroom?”

Yeah, about that. Nestled in a bed of yellowed, crumbling grout, the shell-pink tiles were so far out of date they were practically in again. As were the dingy hexagonal floor tiles. And way too many vigorous scrubbings had taken their toll on the almost classic pedestal sink, the standard-issue tub bearing the telltale smudges where a temporary bar had been installed. And removed.

There was way too much pain in this house, like a fungus that had settled into the rotting wood, lurking behind the peeling wallpaper, between the loose tiles. Noah pressed two fingers into one pink square; it gave way—probably far more easily than the bad vibes clinging to the house’s inhabitants.

At least he could fix the house. The other…not his area of expertise.

“Since the tile’s crap, anyway—” He flicked another one off. “Why don’t we do one of those all-in-one tub surrounds? Although it wouldn’t be pink.”

Roxie leaned against the doorjamb. “I sincerely doubt Charley would miss the pink. Although…could we install grab bars at the same time?”

Noah got the message. “They’re code now, so no problem.”

“Oh. Good.” Roxie sighed. “Charley’s far from decrepit, heaven knows, but I know he wants to live on his own, in his own house, as long as possible. So I’d like to make sure he can do that.”

Noah looked at her. “Because you won’t be around.”

A dry laugh escaped her lips. “To be honest, when I was eighteen and stuck here…oh, Lord. I thought I’d been consigned to hell. It was one thing to come for vacations, but I couldn’t wait to get back to the city. I love the energy, the way there’s always something going on, the choices . Heck, I even like the noise. So no, I can’t see myself calling Tierra Rosa home for the long haul. Besides, I have to go where the work is. Work in my field, I mean. And so far, I haven’t even been able to find anything close by—”

“Roxie? You up there?”

Blanching, she whispered, “Crap. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another hour!”

“Should I hide in the closet?”

“Believe me, it’s tempting,” she muttered, then pushed past Noah to call from the landing, “Up here, Charley. With…Noah Garrett.”

“Noah? What the Sam Hill’s he doing here?” Charley said, huffing a little as he climbed the stairs, only to release a sigh when he saw the clipboard in Noah’s hand. “Ah.” A bundle of bones underneath badly fitting khaki coveralls and a navy peacoat probably older than Roxie, the older man turned his narrowed gaze on his niece. “Thought you’d pull a fast one on me, eh? Guess I fooled you. No offense, Noah. But it appears the gal was getting a little ahead of herself—”

“But you agreed to let me get an estimate—”

“I said I’d think about it. Honestly.” Again, his gaze swung to Noah, as if he expected to find an ally. “What is it with women always being in such a rush?” He glared at his niece. “Bad enough you act like you can’t get rid of Mae’s things fast enough, now you want to change everything in the house, too? And what’s up with you being here and not your daddy?” he said to Noah, who was beginning to feel as if he was watching a tennis match. “You sniffing around Roxie, like you do every other female in the county?”

“For heaven’s sake, Charley—!”

“I’m only here on business,” Noah said, getting a real clear picture of what Roxie must be going through, dealing with her uncle every day. If it was him he’d be looking for out-of-town jobs, too. At the same time the near panic in the old man’s eyes was so much like what he saw in his father’s—that threat of losing control, of everything changing on you whether you want it to or not—he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the guy. “Because Dad’s tied up. And Roxie only has your best interests at heart, sir. To be honest, I’m seeing a lot of safety issues here. And the longer you put off fixing them, the worse they’re going to get. And more expensive.”