Husband Under Construction (3 page)

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 Nestled in a bed of yellowed, crumbling grout, the shell-pink tiles were so far out of date they were practically in again.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.”

“Well, of course you'd say that, wouldn't you? Since it's you standing to make money off me—”

“Charley,” Roxie said in a low voice, gripping his arm until, mouth agape, he swung his pale blue eyes to hers. “Listen to the man. The house needs work. A lot of work. And if you don't take care of it you're not going to be able to stay here.”

Her uncle slammed his hand against the banister railing.
Which was missing a couple of stiles, Noah noticed. “I'm not leaving my house, dammit! And you can't make me!”

“Then let's get it fixed,” she said gently but firmly, “or you may not have any choice in the matter, because no way am I letting you stay in a pit—”

“Choice?”
Her uncle yanked off his snow-frosted knit cap and slammed it to the floor, freeing a forest of thick, white hair. “What kind of
choice,
” he said, wetness sheening his eyes, “is railroading me into something before I'm r-ready?”

“Oh, Charley…” On a soft moan, she wrapped her arms around him, her tenderness in the face of his cantankerousness making Noah's breath hitch. Then she let go and said, “I know this is hard. And you
know
I know
how
hard.” She ducked slightly to peer up into his averted face, thin lips set in a creased pout. “But sticking your head in the sand isn't going to solve the problem. And we can't put it off much longer, since I have no idea when a job offer's going to come through. I'm trying to
help,
Charley. We all are.”

Several beats passed before her uncle finally swung his gaze back to Noah. “It's really that bad?”

Catching Roxie's exhausted sigh, Noah said, “Yes, sir. It is.”

Charley held Noah's gaze for another moment or two before shuffling over to a small bench on the landing, dropping onto it like his spirit had been plumb sucked right out of him—a phenomenon he'd seen before in older clients, his own grandparents. As somebody who wasn't crazy about people telling him what to do, either, he empathized with the old man a lot more than he might've expected.

“So what's this all gonna cost me?”

Noah walked over to crouch in front of him. “Until I run the figures, I can't give you an exact estimate. But to be honest, it's not gonna be cheap.” When Charley's mouth
pulled down at the corners, Noah laid a hand on his forearm. “Tell you what—how about I prioritize what should be done first, and what can maybe wait for a bit? Your niece is right, a lot of this really shouldn't be put off much longer. But nobody's trying to push you into doing anything you're not ready to do. Right, Roxie?”

When he looked at her, though, she had the oddest expression on her face. Not scared, exactly, but…shook up. Like she'd seen a ghost. At her uncle's, “What do you think, Rox?” she forced her gaze from Noah's to give Charley a shaky smile.

“Sounds more than fair to me.”

Nodding, Charley hoisted himself to his feet again and crossed the few steps to the bathroom, while Noah tried to snag Roxie's attention again, hoping she'd give him a clue as to what was going on. No such luck.

“Mae picked out that tile when we moved in,” Charley said, then gave a little laugh. “Said the pink was kind to her complexion…” He grasped the door frame, clearly trying to pull himself together. “She would've been beside herself, though, that I'd let the place slide so much, and that's the truth of it. Should've seen to at least some of it long ago. But…”

Noah came up behind him to clamp a hand on Charley's shoulder. “But change is scary, I know. Sometimes even when you want it—”

“Charley?”

Both men turned to look at Roxie, whose smile seemed a little too bright. “What's Mae saying about this?”

Charley sighed. “That I'm being a damn fool.”

“And…?” Roxie prompted.

Flummoxed, Noah watched Charley tilt his head, his eyes closed for several seconds before he opened them again. “She says to tell Noah to get going on that estimate.
So I guess, since I never refused my wife anything while she was alive, no sense in starting now.”

Dear Lord.

Roxie walked Noah downstairs and to the front door, her arms crossed like she was deep in thought.

“Hey. You okay?”

“What? Oh. Yes.” Finally her eyes lifted to his, but almost as if she was afraid of what she'd see there. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

She smiled slightly. “For blowing my preconceived notions all to hell.”

Noah mulled that over for a second or two, then said, “I guess I'll get back to you in a few days, then.”

“Sounds good,” she said, opening the front door to a landscape a whole lot whiter than it'd been a half hour ago. Noah stopped, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I take it you humor the old man about hearing his wife?”

That got a light laugh and a shrug. “Who am I to decide what he does and doesn't hear?” Stuffing her fists in her sweatshirt's front pouch, she squinted at the snow. “Be careful, it looks pretty slippery out there.”

The door closing behind him, Noah tromped down the steps, thinking the pair of them were crazy as loons, and that was the God's honest truth.

 

Through the leaky window, Charley watched until Noah was out of sight before turning to face his niece, up to her elbows in one of the moving boxes they'd hauled out of the garage he hadn't been able to park in since 1987. The way Mae's “collections” had clearly gotten out of hand was pretty hard to swallow. That he'd become an ornery old coot who'd hung on to his wife's stuff every bit as tenaciously as she had, just because, was even harder.

However, Noah's eyeing Roxie as if she was a new item on the menu at Chili's and he hadn't eaten in a week? That was seriously annoying him. Whether she returned his interest he couldn't tell—the girl never had been inclined to share her feelings with Charley, anyway, which he'd been more than okay with until now. But as close as he was to the boy's folks, and as much as he thought the world of Gene's and Donna's other boys, his Roxie deserved far better than Noah Garrett.

“I don't imagine I have to tell you to watch out for that one.”

Seated on the brick-colored, velvet sofa—definitely Mae's doing—Roxie glanced up, the space between her brows knotted. “That one?”

“Noah.”

With a dry, almost sad laugh, she shook her head and dived back into the box. “No, you certainly don't.”

“Because you know he's—”

“Not my type.”

“Well. Yeah. Exactly.”

She straightened, a tissue paper-wrapped lump in each hand and a weird half smile on her face. Her let's-pretend-everything's-fine-okay? look. “So, nothing to worry about, right?”

Charley yanked his sleeve hems down over his knuckles, the icy draft hiking up his back reminding him how much weight he'd lost this past year. Even he knew he looked like an underfed vulture, bony and stooped and sunken-cheeked. That seriously annoyed him, too.

“Glad we're on the same page, then,” he muttered, winding his way through the obstacle course into the kitchen for a cup of tea—what did he care if the color scheme was “out-dated,” whatever the heck that meant?—thinking maybe he should get a cat or something. Or a dog, he thought, waiting
for the microwave to ding. Lot to be said for a companion who didn't talk back. Besides, he'd read somewhere that pets were good for your blood pressure.

As opposed to busybody nieces, who most likely weren't.

Dunking his twice-used tea bag in the hot water, Charley watched her from the kitchen door. He loved the girl with all this heart, he really did, but being around her made him feel as if he was constantly treading in a stew of conflicting emotions. Some days, when the loneliness nearly choked him, he was actually grateful for her company; other days her energy and pushiness made him crazed.

More than that, though, he simply didn't know what to say to her, how to ease her pain while his own was still sharp enough to scrape. That'd been Mae's job, to soothe and heal. To act as a buffer between them. Not that Rox was a moper, thank goodness, but every time he looked at her, there it was, his own hurt mirrored in eyes nearly the same weird green as Mae's. And at this point the helplessness that came with that had about rubbed his nerves raw.

Especially compounded with her being constantly on his back to clear out Mae's stuff, to “move on” with his life. As if he had someplace to go. Even as a kid, Charley had never liked being told what to do, whether it was in his best interests or not. Like now. Because, truthfully? What earthly use did he have for all of Mae's collections? Yet part of him couldn't quite let go of the idea that getting rid of it all would be like saying the past forty years had never happened.

He turned back to the counter to dump three teaspoons of sugar in his tea, a squirt of juice from the plastic lemon in the fridge. Then, the mug cupped in his hands, he meandered back into the living room, where the glass-topped coffee table was practically buried underneath probably two
dozen of those anemic-looking ceramic figurines Mae'd loved so much. Things looked like ghosts, if you asked him. “What'd you say that stuff was again?”

“Lladro,” Roxie said, gently setting another piece on table, next to a half dozen others. “From Spain. Mostly from the sixties and seventies.” She sat back, giving him a bemused look, the spunk in those grass-colored eyes at such odds with the sadness. “Let me guess—you don't recognize them.”

“Sure I do,” he lied, sighing at his niece's chuckle. “I was putting in long hours at work back then, I didn't really pay much attention.”

“There's probably a hundred pieces altogether.”