Rising (9 page)

“Wouldn’t it be
easie
r if your counters were lower?”

“I guess it would.” She shrugged. “But you can’t think to make such a drastic and expensive change for me.”

“I’ll have them switched out by next week.”

“But sir, wouldn’t that make this apartment difficult to rent in the future?”

“Miss Taylor, I own this building and I’ll do as I wish. I’d appreciate it if you would stop instructing me.”

Was she doing that?
Okay, maybe a little. “I’m sorry Mr.…” Oh shoot. She’d forgotten his name. It was his fault for having such an unusual name.

“
Dimitriou,” he said. “Now, you will stop worrying about me raising your rent or evicting you. I will make changes as I see fit and you will remain here as long as you desire, paying the same amount of rent you have been paying all along. Is that clear?”

Boy, what a change from when he’d first stepped through her door. She’d thought she was staring death in the eye. He was still a force to be reckoned with, but now he seemed to be looking out for her. She didn’t know what to think about that. Mr. Dimitriou didn’t even know her. What were his motives? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t about to trust him. Still, she answere
d him with a clear, “Yes, sir.”

“He said that?” Gretchen stood with her eyes wide as her newly sewn satin drapes slid off the curtain rod onto the slate-tile floor.

“Exactly like that
,” Sara said. “I mean, I’ll admit I was out of line telling him what he could and couldn’t do with the apartment he owned. But it just doesn’t make sense. Why would he pay for all these changes without expecting to raise the rent?”

“I’ll tell you why.” Gretchen picked the curtain off the floor and slid it back over the rod. “You flashed your baby blues at the man and he fell hopelessly in love with you.”

“Yeah, right. That reminds me. He freaked when he saw my eyes
were
blue. I tell you, the man is demented. I think I should be afraid.”

“
Sweetie, you just worded that wrong. The man freaked when he saw
your
blue eyes. They are an unusual color. I just think he’s smitten with you and you can’t recognize it because of the giant wall you’ve built around yourself to keep men out. Well, you can’t keep this man out. He owns your apartment. He has a key.”

“That’s a scary thought.”
Sara ran red thread through the sewing machine. She’d considered telling Gretchen about her date with Ron to counter her reference to her wall keeping men out, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to relive the ridiculous night with an ignorant, rude man. She didn’t even want to think about that night.

“I think
its destiny,” Gretchen said. “Now, tell me again what he looks like.”

“I
already told you. He and Shane Adams could be brothers, except Mr. Dimitriou is younger, much more handsome, and
way
taller. I swear his hair brushed dust streaks on my ceiling. Now, I ask you, how is a girl in a wheelchair supposed to scrub ceilings?” she asked, holding a straight pin in her mouth.

“Your ceilings
are
exceptionally low. But that still puts him at about seven feet tall. Wow.”

“Wow
—as in scary.”

Gretchen
climbed the step stool and hung her curtain. After adjusting the fabric, she smiled. “You’re in the wrong profession, girl. You should be a seamstress. This looks amazing. Now only one window to go.”

“
Yeah, yeah. So what do I do about the giant?”

“I think you should plant a big wet one on him next time you see him, but that’s just me.” Gretchen s
miled.

She
was not taking this seriously enough. “I don’t know why I try to have intelligent conversations with you. Oh shoot. Look at the time. I need to get going if I’m going to be back before dark.” Sara wheeled her chair around. She packed her sewing supplies up in a box and scooted it under the table.

“Al
l right, go. You’ve done your charity work for today. We can finish this tomorrow. Then we can go out and celebrate my new drapes. If you want to invite Shane Adams, I can find a date and we’ll double. I’d love to meet him.” Gretchen wriggled her eyebrows as she folded the last unfinished curtain panel and placed it in a box.

“It’s Mr.
Dimitriou, and no, a date with him is completely out of the question. Not only am I broke, but he’s my landlord, for heaven’s sake.”

“
Well, don’t worry about paying for it. It’ll be my payment for the curtains. And some of the best relationships start out between landlord and tenant.”

“Yea
h, right.”

“
I’m sorry my car is in the shop,” Gretchen said. “It should be ready tomorrow. Do you want me to walk you home?” She pulled the completed curtains closed over the darkening windows, and then smiled in appreciation.

“Oh
, sure, and then I could walk you back here,” Sara answered. “Then you could walk me home again, and then…”

“I get it.
” Gretchen dropped her hand on her hip and sighed. “But as strong and independent as you are, a woman in a wheelchair is less able to defend against attackers.”

“I know
. Believe me, I know, but, not to worry. I have my trusty pepper spray to defend for me,” she said, lifting it out of her purse and holding it up.

“Well
, keep it handy. I noticed some slimy looking perverts eyeing you the other day.” Gretchen grimaced.

Oh
, great. Maybe she should have Gretchen walk her home. Yeah and who would protect Gretchen?

Wheeling out the front door of
the apartment building, Sara wished she
could
hail a taxi, but she still had to go grocery shopping and she needed what was left of her money to pay for food.

S
ara wheeled down the sidewalk. Twilight had painted orange and purple streaks in the sky as she bumped over the curb to cross the intersection of Apohana Drive and Kaniki Way. She passed by a shop called Linens of Hawaii and then passed a corner garage. She paused before wheeling by the gas station. Drivers around here rarely watched for short, wheelchair-bound females.

As
Sara approached the first of several apartment buildings, she noticed a tall figure blanketed in the shadows. Through the darkness, she thought she saw the gleam of his teeth for a moment. As he was almost out of sight, she noticed he’d stepped away from the building.

Oh
, please, don’t let him be following me.
She rushed to the end of the block. She took a quick glance over her shoulder. She didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there behind the dumpster or the mountain of clutter by the road.

Sara’s
wheels spun over the sidewalk as she hurried. She had lived in this neighborhood for only two months—not enough time for a crippled recluse to meet the people who lived near her. She looked around to find some comfort. All she saw now were rundown apartment buildings with few lighted windows. She knew that if she needed help, she’d be lucky to find it. To survive here, people learned to avoid trouble.

S
ara chanced another glance behind her. The same tall figure bounded toward her, half a block away. She wheeled faster. She was going so fast, her arms should have been burning by now. She had to be running on pure adrenaline.

The next block was
hers. Her apartment was in the last building on the right, next to a grove of coconut trees riddled with beer cans, cigarette butts, and other discarded trash. Beyond that lay the ocean shore.

She
flew across the parking lot to the glass door that led to safety.

What
in the world? This wasn’t her door. The cracks were gone and the metal was shiny and new.

“What are you
doing…?” an angry male voice beat in her ear. Gretchen would have been proud of her knee-jerk reaction. Sara pulled the pepper spray out of her pocket and took aim, spraying the large figure in the face.

“
Awwwwww, Gromot.” If she thought the voice had sounded angry before, it was furious now. Funny, she had a flash of déjà vu, as if she’d heard that irate voice before.

S
ara fumbled with her keys. After several failed attempts, she finally grabbed the right key and tried to thrust it into the lock. It only went a quarter of the way. “Oh please, oh please, oh please,” she chanted as she tried again and again to get her key to work.

“Sara
Taylor.” The voice calmed, slightly less menacing, and then she recognized it.

“May I ask what I did to deserve getting sprayed in the eyes wi
th acid?” Mr. Dimitriou bent over and pressed hands on his face. He dabbed at his red eyes.

“Oh
, Mr. Dimitriou, I’m so sorry. I thought you were… Well I don’t know… but I… I thought someone was going to attack me. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I was about to scold you for being out
alone at dusk.” He sniffed. “But I see you brought protection and I must say it’s quite effective.”

He tried
to rub his eyes, “Uhg.”

“Oh, I’m
so
sorry. I can’t believe I did that to you. Come inside and you can rinse your eyes out.” She tried once again to unlock the door. “I can’t seem to get my key to work.”

“I know
you can’t. This is a new door with a new lock. I was just going to give you your key when you… uh.” He sighed. “Well, never mind.” He squinted at the lock, slipped in the key, and turned it.

“Oh.”
She was speechless. Feeling like an idiot often robbed her of her powers of speech.

Mr.
Dimitriou gave the door a gentle shove and it swung open on its own. “This new door should make it easier for you to get in and out of the building.”

“Oh
, um, thank you.”
And why is he spending so much money accommodating my needs?
Mr. Dimitriou followed her down the hall and stopped at her new steel door. It looked like the main door wasn’t the only one he’d replaced. Sara remembered her conversation with Gretchen.

Could he be infatuated with
her? She looked him over.

No way.

There was no possible way a man who looked like he stepped out of a Gladiator movie could be interested in a little, handicapped woman. She’d always thought Ron Hathaway was good looking, but compared to Mr. Dimitriou? Well, there was no competition. Mr. Dimitriou made Ron look like George McFly.

Mr. Dimitriou
took another key out of his pocket, put it in the lock, and held the door open for her. Warning bells rang in her head. He had a key to her apartment. He could come in here whenever he wanted. And she had doubts about this man’s sanity. He sure did a lot of things that seemed crazy, and despite his unreal level of hotness, she didn’t want to die at the hands of a lunatic.

Sara
wheeled past Mr. Dimitriou and was about to bid him farewell when he strolled in and shut the door like he owned the place. Well, technically, he did, but this was her apartment. She paid good money for it.

“Excuse
me, Mr. Dimitriou,” she began. He took three steps over to her sink, turned on the faucet, and washed out his eyes. Oh right. The eyes she’d sprayed with pepper spray. She
had
invited him in, hadn’t she? The man had turned her into an imbecile.

“Listen,
” he said, “I’m sorry I scared you. It’s not easy being nearly seven feet tall. People always think the worst of you. And with you being crippled, it has to be hard living on your own.”

“Excuse me? Crippled?
” Sara’s angst rose. “I know English isn’t your native language, so I’d better warn you. People in my condition don’t like to be called crippled. It’s not politically correct.” Sure, she called herself crippled all the time, but that was different.

He cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh no? So what’s the term I should use?” He leaned against her counter; it creaked under his weight.

“Well, those who don’t have the use of
their legs are called paraplegic. And those who don’t have the use of their arms and legs are called quadriplegic.”