Somewhere Along the Way (7 page)

“You just move in?” she asked as she passed him her load.

“No,” he answered, tossing the mail into the box before crossing back for his remaining deliveries.

“You remodeling?” Maybe he’d moved everything out so he could paint.

“No.”

“I get it. You’re a minimalist. I knew a girl in college who was one. She only owned one pair of shoes, can you imagine that? One pair and they were SAS’s. Now that just goes against nature, if you ask me.”

He finally looked at her. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, lady.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We haven’t really met. I’m Elizabeth Matheson. I just rented the office across the hall. I’m a lawyer. What kind of work are you in?”

He frowned, or at least she thought he did. It was hard to tell with all that brown hair covering his face. “Look, lady, I just want my mail. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Liz considered herself an excellent communicator. She got along with everyone in her dorm and sorority house and even in the one job she had before coming home. Therefore something was majorly wrong with this guy. Maybe he had some kind of conversation disability.

She straightened, up for the challenge. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that, twice.” He watched her like she was a windup toy he was waiting to run down. “Thanks again.”

He closed the door in her face.

She fought the urge to stomp her foot. “There was no
again
to your thanks.” She nodded as if she’d scored the last point and walked back to her office.

The next morning, a trash bag of empty boxes and padded mailing envelopes sat in the hallway. Liz couldn’t resist trying the door. It was unlocked and empty except for the cardboard box that had
Mail
scratched on it with a pencil.

As the days passed, Mr. Smith became her project. She checked his office every morning. Mail piled up in the box and a large delivery came overnighted, but he didn’t return to pick anything up.

She asked the lady in the dry cleaners about Mr. Smith, but the woman just shrugged, saying she’d never seen him, but she liked him. Nice and quiet. The bookstore owner, a man who read even as he rang up customers, had nothing to add. However, he did give Liz a half-off coupon to have her palm read any Thursday night or Saturday morning. “We got some wannabe writers who meet in the store, and one of them can read your palm better than I’ve ever seen.”

“You seen a lot?” she asked, trying to be friendly.

The old man raised an eyebrow and went back to his book.

Liz shrugged and walked up the stairs. Reading palms in this town wouldn’t be hard. Everyone pretty much knew everyone’s life story. She knew what folks said about her.
Smart when it comes to school but no sense at much else. Left a man for no good reason.
Liz even heard a woman whisper once when she thought Liz wasn’t listening, “Someone said she left her husband because there was no passion in the marriage. A woman who’s holding out for that is destined to sleep in a cold bed.”

Liz reached the top of the stairs and turned to look out at the winter gray of town. She’d sleep alone for the rest of her life if she had to. She wouldn’t settle—or worse, she wouldn’t stop dreaming that somewhere in this world caring mattered . . .
she
mattered.

She walked inside and stared at the second-floor office across from her.

Mr. Smith, the invisible man, had rented the office for years and never met anyone but her. She didn’t know if she should consider herself lucky or cursed. Maybe she’d consult the palm reader.

Liz tried to stay busy, but only one client came in all day. A woman who wanted to adopt her sister’s seventh child. It seemed she couldn’t get pregnant and her sister managed to get in that condition every time she was let out of the house. Liz thought the group meeting might be touchy, but when the sisters showed up, six other children in tow, it appeared to be the perfect answer for them both. Even the husband of the childless sister agreed. The husband of the mother of seven hadn’t been seen in two pregnancies. Apparently his presence wasn’t needed for her to procreate.

Liz drew up the papers with the help of one of her textbooks and filed the proper forms at the courthouse.

Then she went back to her office and thought about Mr. Smith. Short of putting flypaper down, she couldn’t think of how to catch him checking his mail again. The man must move silently down the hallway. He looked to be about her age, but she didn’t remember anyone like him in school, and she knew most of the names of boys two grades above and below her.

He didn’t seem an outsider either. She thought of going through his mail trying to pick up a clue to what he did, but even she knew that was illegal. Somehow having her first trial case be herself didn’t sound too appealing.

Frustrated, she crossed the hall, opened his office door, and pushed the lock button. Now, eventually, she’d see him again.

Three days later Liz finished her nightly shower at the gym and drove back to her office. She’d signed on for a month’s free membership and, after almost two weeks, no one had noticed she was using it as her bathroom and never exercising. If she didn’t have enough income for an apartment next month, she could buy a six-month club membership and survive.

Everything was working out as planned. She’d managed to live on almost nothing the second week, thanks to the family checking on her. Hank took her to lunch twice; her mother, Joyce Matheson, insisted she have dinner out one night with the aunts; and her sister, Claire, dropped by with homemade bread. Plus, she’d made a hundred fifty dollars drawing up a will for a young couple.

The guy reminded her of her ex-husband, Eddie. The couple didn’t have much of anything, but he’d read that all married people need a will, so he was checking it off his to-do list.

Liz used to swear that number fourteen on Eddie’s list was
Make love to wife once a week
. If she suggested twice in seven days, he’d look at her like she was oversexed. If it had been seven days, nothing put him off his clock. Once she’d had the flu and he’d complained that she wasn’t participating, so she shared her flu.

The wind whipped Liz’s still damp blond curls as she darted from her car and ran up the back stairs. Once inside her office, she pulled the bag from the hardware store out of her storage closet and looked at what the clerk claimed was “all she’d need” to caulk the windows. Liz forgot to mention that she’d be making the repairs by only the streetlight because she couldn’t very well let anyone see what she was doing. If anyone noticed her making repairs, they’d ask why she didn’t go home to her apartment after the heating unit went off in Kaufman’s building at ten.

After unwrapping everything, Liz slipped into black leggings and a black T-shirt she used to sleep in during her years at the dorm. The thought crossed her mind that she might need to smear coal on her face and wear a black cape to be impossible to see, but if someone did spot her she’d be shot as a burglar. Sleeping in her office was far more complicated than she’d thought it would be, but it was time to get the job done so she could sleep without a draft.

Just as she wished she’d asked for more directions from the clerk, someone knocked on her door.

Liz panicked. She darted around for a moment, then forced a deep breath out and headed for the door, her caulking gun behind her back. As she walked through the reception area she told herself it was probably just the young couple dropping by with one more question. They’d been adding little points to the will for two days. Yesterday, they’d willed their dog to a cousin.

As she touched the knob, logic reminded her that it was after nine. Both doors to the outside were locked. Mr. Kaufman was probably checking on her, making sure she wasn’t using too much electricity or something. The man at the bookstore said the landlord liked to drop in on his holdings at odd hours.

She thought about it for a few seconds, then opened the door.

Mr. Smith stood in the hallway dressed as before, like the Harmony Mugger in all black and looking none too happy. He’d be perfect to work for the Unwelcome New Neighbor group if there were one.

“My door was locked again,” he said, glancing toward his mail.

Liz almost said,
I’m sorry
, but reconsidered. “No problem. Your mail is safe.” She pointed with the caulking gun.

He raised an eyebrow. “Planning a raid or remodeling?”

Liz measured her attire and realized she was dressed as the mugger’s twin. The truth seemed her only defense. “I’m tired of the draft from my crummy windows. I thought I could do it myself and save money. Of course, I had to pick night so none of my potential clients would think I can’t afford to pay someone. ...”

“I get the picture.” He stopped her rambling confession. “You know how to do this?”

“Not a clue.”

He dropped the mail back in the chair, shrugged out of his coat, and took the gun. “How about I give it a shot? This could be a real mess if you’ve never done it before.”

“So
you’ve
done it before?” She raised an eyebrow as she noticed the muscles along his arms as he rolled up his sleeves. The town mugger worked out.

“Are you kidding?” he said, moving to the window. “Duct tape and caulk are all that hold my house up.”

Liz had no idea what to say. She just watched as he crossed her office and pulled the curtains wide. He had the lean body of a runner and, beneath all that hair and beard, might be passable. Too bad his attitude was so unfriendly. He had
raised by wolves
written all over him.

Mr. Smith looked back at her, and she was glad she couldn’t read his face. He was probably considering turning her in as a nutcase to be studied. Those blue eyes seemed to take in every detail.

Realizing they could be seen from the street, she snapped off the desk light.

“Got a flashlight?” he whispered, as if they were smugglers. “The streetlight isn’t bright enough for this kind of work.”

“On my key chain,” she answered, and pulled it out of her purse.

When she moved to his side and pointed the light at the corner of the frame, he asked her to move closer. She took a step.

“Closer,” he said, again and again, until she was brushing his arm and the tiny beam of light lit where he needed to work. He’d grabbed all the supplies from the desk and seemed to know what he was doing.

They progressed along the windowsill, with him guiding the caulking and her holding the light just over his shoulder. After a few awkward bumps, she calmed down to the nearness of him. If she didn’t stay close, he didn’t have enough light to work. It was as simple as that.

Liz wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to smell like—dirt maybe, or campfires and cigarettes, but he didn’t smell that way at all. He was more soap and leather blended with a hint of the outdoors. Not bad, she decided, not bad at all. She even liked the brush of his flannel shirt against her arm.

She watched his hands smoothing out the caulking with long, strong fingers. The kind of fingers that would play a piano, or be an artist, but the scars left no doubt that the work he’d done with his hands was hard.

She tried to think of something to say, but for once, nothing came to mind. When she didn’t follow him closely enough, he’d cover her hand and point the flashlight where it was needed. Each time, his hand rested over hers a few seconds longer than it had the time before.

Liz had dated a lot of guys, been friends with a few, worked well with several, but she’d never felt quite the way she did tonight. She knew nothing about this man. He could be married with ten kids out on the farm, or have sworn off all females for life. He could be a good guy or dumb as a rock. The only thing she knew for sure was he was not her type. She liked men in expensive suits. Men who carried briefcases, not tattered backpacks.

Rolling her eyes, she thought of one other thing she knew for sure about this man. She was attracted to him. Probably some kind of basic animal attraction left over in memory cells from cave-dwelling ancestors, because it certainly wasn’t logical.

He tugged her hand. “Pay attention, Elizabeth. We’re almost finished.”

“My hand is getting tired,” she complained, then added, “Mr. Smith.”

“You want to stay warm in here? Stop complaining.” He worked a few inches and added, “Gabriel, not Mr. Smith.”

“Do people call you Gabe?”

“People don’t usually call me, but it doesn’t matter. Now, if you’ll keep quiet we can get this done.”

She huffed out a breath. This man didn’t even know her and he was bossing her around. She thought of slugging his arm, but he was helping her, and after all, he did have a gun, though she doubted anyone had ever been caulked to death.

Slowly less and less cold air came in. The room would now grow slowly colder when the heat was turned off. She should be able to sleep the night without freezing.

Finally, he straightened and wiped his hands on a paper towel. It had taken an hour, but the job was finished. She clicked off her flashlight while he closed the curtains, smothering the streetlight’s glow and leaving only a thin sliver of light coming from the hallway.

“You should be able to sleep a little warmer.”

She started to correct him, but decided not to lie. “Thanks, Gabe.”

“You’re welcome, Elizabeth.”

“Everyone calls me Liz.” She moved toward the hallway and knew he followed. “How can I repay you?” He had to know she didn’t have any money or she wouldn’t have tried to do the job herself. “Maybe dinner at an inexpensive place?”

“Forget it.” He bent, picked up his mail, and shoved it into the old backpack he’d left by the door. “Tell Kaufman, if you see him, to stop locking my office.”

Without thinking, she leaned close and kissed the small spot on his cheek that wasn’t covered with whiskers. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He straightened slightly and kissed her back, a touch of his lips on hers, no more.

All reason told her to back away, but reason had never ruled her. Liz moved closer, brushing her body against his, wanting the kiss to continue. She knew when a man wanted her, and she knew how to respond.