Pleating for Mercy (11 page)

“I’m Will Flores.” When I stared at him blankly, he continued. “I came by to fix a few things?”

The surprise of finding him in the house had me in a New York state of mind. By that, I mean hyperwary. “By breaking and entering?”

A look of indignation formed on his face. “Uh, no.”

My eyes narrowed. “Then how’d you get in here? I know I locked the door.”

My body tensed, my grip tightening on the strap of my purse, as he reached into his jeans pocket. His hand reappeared a second later holding up a key.

I darted forward to snatch it out of his hand, but he palmed it. “How’d you get a key to my house?”

“Loretta Mae gave it to me.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Uh, yes, she did.”

I peered at him, trying to focus my vision. Who did he think he was? “She would
not
have given some stranger a key,” I said slowly. He could not pull the wool over my eyes.

He raised one irritated eyebrow. “First of all,” he said, “I wasn’t a stranger.”

I could feel the dark, scorching look he had trained on me and it sent a chill up my spine.

“And second of all, it’s not like you’ve been around here the last”—he made a show of counting on his fingers—“fifteen years to know whether or not your great-grandmother gave me a key.”

The words slashed the air between us, carving a hole right through my heart. How did he know how long I’d been gone, or that Loretta Mae was my great-grandmother? My temperature skyrocketed. I sputtered, speechless.

But he went on, cool as a cucumber. “She would be horrified to see you’ve lost every ounce of whatever Southern grace you once possessed.”

I gasped, recoiling like I’d been slapped across the face. How dare he stand in my house and hurl . . . The truth dawned on me. Oh. My. God. This guy was one of those scammers who duped the elderly. “Get out.”

He spun around, muttering something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like, “There you go, right there, damn Yankee.”

“I am
not
a Yankee,” I said, shooting daggers at him. Like my long-departed Uncle Jimmy used to say, “Once a Texan, always a Texan.”

Will Flores, whoever he was, had planted a seed, though. A fissure of doubt opened up inside me. Could I have lost some of my Southernness? And why did the mere idea of it fill me with such sadness?

He threw up his hands, the hammer still gripped in one. “Let’s start again, shall we?”

I shook my head. “We’re not starting anything until you drop your weapon.”

He glanced at the tool, then at me, one side of his mouth curving up.
“Por supuesto,”
he said, then quickly added, “Sure.”

As he turned to set it down on the antique desk next to the workroom, I scrounged for my glasses, finding them on the seat of the settee.

When he turned, I got a clearer look at him. Still tall, maybe six feet one. Still wearing a rear-facing ball cap. A Longhorns cap, which meant he couldn’t be
all
bad. Still swarthy. Puerto Rican, maybe? No, Mexican. And a goatee.

One thing was for sure. He was handsome as all getout, but in an arrogant, Rhett Butler kind of way.

“I’m Will Flores,” he said again. “Your great-grandmother arranged a standing handyman appointment with me. Every Tuesday, I come by to do whatever repairs are needed.”

Right. Like I was going to buy
that
. I kept my purse at the ready. “I’ve been here for almost two months. That’s eight Tuesdays. So, where’ve you been?”

Before he could answer, I continued. “You’re pretty unreliable. Loretta Mae wouldn’t have tolerated that.”

“I’ve been out of town on business. Happens every now and then. Loretta Mae didn’t have a problem with it.”

“Handyman business? Uh-uh. Loretta Mae expected people to be dependable.”

“No, not handyman business, and I am dependable.”

“When it suits you.”

“All the time.”

We went back and forth until steam was ready to come out my ears. Why would Meemaw have agreed to some half-cocked arrangement with this guy—

And then it hit me. I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Oh, no, Meemaw. No, no, no.”

The sheers on either side of the front window fluttered. God almighty, this was a fix-up from the great beyond. Meemaw wanted me back home and here
I
was. She wanted this handyman to come around weekly and here
he
was. Now, lo and behold, here
we
were, together.

Somewhere, Loretta Mae was nodding her head in complete satisfaction.

 

Will gave the windows a quick examination. He shook his head. “There’s no place a draft could be coming from. I sealed those windows myself.” He turned back to me, the right side of his mouth quirking up. “Looks like you have a ghost in the house, Cassidy.”

With those ten words, my world came to a staggering halt. My mind raced. The gathering room had been Loretta Mae’s favorite spot. I spun, taking a careful look around, absorbing every detail and comparing them to the details of the past. Even with the addition of my things, the room maintained the same feeling it had when Meemaw was right here.

Dappled sunlight shone through the front window. The warm mustard color of the walls and the antique furniture made it cozy. The magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table and two pairs of flip-flops, one black, one brown, sat side by side right next to the front door. The pictures hanging on the display board were perfectly aligned. Everything was just as it should be. As it always had been.

Will said something and I registered him going from window to window, but I was too distracted now to pay attention. Loretta Mae always said she’d wanted me home in Bliss so she could spend more time with me. Recently I’d felt drafts of air and heard doors slam when all the windows were closed. Could it be . . . could she really still be here in the house?

It was an impossible idea. Goat-whispering and a bionic green thumb were a far cry from haunting. Even for a Cassidy woman. And yet . . .

I could test the theory, couldn’t I? If she was really here, would she materialize if I asked her to?

The idea stuck with me. I dug in my purse until I found my little portable sewing kit, something I carried at all times. Inside was a mini pincushion with a needle, a tape measure, and spools of white and black thread, all for emergency clothing repair. Grabbing the black thread, I set it next to Will’s hammer on the antique desk.

“Meemaw,” I whispered, feeling more than a little ridiculous. “If you can hear me, move the thread.”

I held my breath and waited, my eyes glued on the spool. It didn’t budge. I forced a little laugh, but tears pricked behind my eyelids. I’d
wanted
it to move. I wanted Loretta Mae to be here with me.

There was a slight disturbance in the air behind me. “Meemaw?” I whirled around and saw . . . Will.

My shoulders sagged and my hopes deflated.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

“Nobody.”

His left eyebrow angled down as he peered at me. He looked like he thought I belonged in the loony bin. Maybe I did. I eyed the thread again. It was exactly where I’d placed it. I had to face that Meemaw was gone.

I blinked away the tears that threatened and regrouped, directing my emotions at Will. This stranger was still in my house, and was apparently accustomed to coming and going as he pleased.
That
was a habit that needed to be broken. “About whatever deal you had with Meemaw—I don’t need a handyman.”

Which was a complete lie. I needed a handyman, bad, but not one Meemaw picked out for me.

“I’m not—”

He stopped when I held my hand out. Then, as understanding dawned, he dug the house key out of his pocket and set it on my palm.

As I wrapped my hand around the key, what he’d started to say sunk in. “You’re not what?”

He turned his hat around. “A handyman.”

Not what I’d expected. “You’re not a . . . Then why did Loretta Mae hire you to come repair things?”

His eyes had darkened and his smile faded. “I got the impression you and she were close.”

I bristled. Who
was
he to pass some sort of judgment on my relationship with Meemaw? I could almost hear her laughing, but it was just the sheers fluttering again.

My heart stopped. The sheers . . . again. And it
did
sound like laughter. “We
were
close,” I said as I moved stealthily toward the window.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Then I’m surprised you don’t know about our arrangement, since it involves you.”

I whipped around. “It involves me how?”

“Loretta Mae didn’t
hire
me, Cassidy. We negotiated.”

The sheers had fallen still again. The room was full of anticipation, as if it were holding its breath, waiting to hear the bomb he was about to drop.

He folded his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, looking like he was enjoying this showdown a little too much. “We agreed that I’d do repair work around here in return for you giving my daughter sewing lessons.”

I stumbled back, not because Will Flores had a daughter, which meant he also had a wife, which was good. I had other things to think about. And not because he’d told me about the sneaky deal he and Meemaw had made behind my back.

No, my knees buckled because the shoes that had been neatly lined up next to the front door were now staggered in a footprint pattern.

Oh, my God. Meemaw hadn’t moved the thread. She’d moved the shoes.

Will ran his hands around the window frame one last time. “No draft,” he pronounced with finality.

“That’s a relief.”

“She’s itching to get back at it,” he said over his shoulder.

I’d lost the thread of the conversation. “Who’s itching to get back at what?”

“Gracie. My daughter?” He felt my forehead with the back of his hand. “You doin’ okay there, Cassidy?”

I batted his hand away. “Right. Of course. I’m fine.”

He picked up his hammer and went up the three steps to the kitchen. “She started with an apron. She’s made a couple skirts and a vest. I’ve been holding her back, giving you time to get settled, but she’s itching to get started. She’s coming by this after—”

A shrill holler came from the workroom. No! My heart seized and I ran toward the noise. I knew that sound all too well. Thelma Louise.

The Geena Davis/Susan Sarandon movie was Nana’s favorite. When naming the grand dam of her goat herd she hadn’t been able to decide: Thelma or Louise? In true Texas tradition, she settled on both.

The doe whacked her flat, Romanesque nose against the window in the workroom between her ear-piercing bleats. I charged forward. “Stop it, Thelma Louise!” I scolded, wagging my finger at her. “Shoo!”

The ornery Nubian dairy goat ignored me. Her floppy white ears swung back and forth on either side of her black-and-brown face as she shook her head. I stared her down. She never blinked, but just as suddenly as she’d started banging on the window, she stopped, ducked her head, and vanished.

There was plenty of grass for the goats to graze on Nana’s farm, especially after Mama paid a visit and her charm made it grow extra lush, but
my
yard, which Meemaw had tended to so carefully, was full of flowers. And now Thelma Louise had scampered off to wreak havoc.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, dodging the cutting table and a dress form as I raced out of the workroom.

Will leaned against the back of the couch, watching the scene unfold as if it were dinner theater and he wasn’t sure what his part was or when to step in. “You need help, Cassidy?” he asked as I zoomed to the kitchen door to cut Thelma off at the pass.

He’d already helped me enough by bargaining with Meemaw. I flung my hand up in a dismissive wave. “Nope, I’m good.”

First order of business: Stop Thelma from destroying the flowers.

Second order of business: Figure out how to postpone sewing lessons for Gracie Flores.

Third order of business: Make Josie’s wedding gown, and the bridesmaids’ dresses.

The screen door banged behind me as I ran across the back porch and took the steps in a single bound. Nana and Granddaddy had five acres behind my lot and their land stretched the entire block behind the square. I had a little less than a third of an acre, which was more than plenty. I caught a glimpse of the gate between my property and my grandparents’ farm. Wide open. Easy to see how Thelma Louise had escaped.

Maybe Will would fix
that
. We could renegotiate and I could pay him cash for the repair work. And then he could find a different sewing teacher for his little girl.

Scratch that. I didn’t have any money to spare.

I scanned the yard. “Here, Thelma Louise,” I called, clucking my tongue. I followed the flagstone steps to the front. As I rounded the corner, my stomach dropped. The doe stood, nose to the ground, just a few feet from where Nell had died. “Thelma Louise!”

I dashed over to her, grabbed her by the pale green collar Nana put on all her goats, and yanked her away from the scene of the crime and the leftover crime scene tape. It all felt very ominous in my yard. Any evidence had already been taken, but what if they’d missed something? Goats were notorious for eating anything and everything. I didn’t want Thelma to digest something that could lead to Nell’s killer.

“Come on,” I said to her.

She dug her hooves into the ground, rooting herself there. “Ornery” was an understatement. She was downright defiant.

“Thelma, come on. Let’s go.” I stroked her neck and side, trying to coax her forward, but she wouldn’t budge. Instead she let out a long, mournful sound that settled over the yard like a light dusting of snowflakes.

Nana’s Nubians, as well as her LaManchas, couldn’t bear to be away from her. She was like their mother. They connected on some deep, inexplicable level. The goat-whisperer. All she had to do was touch them, or coo, and they calmed and obeyed.