Two Family Home (2 page)

M
aybe it was crazy to sign a lease and move in without seeing the landlord with whom she would be sharing walls. It was almost definitely crazy, but the fact that her mother was telling her that was not helping.

“You still haven't met him? Honey, it's been almost a week.”

Lindsey thought about lying, telling her mother that, yes, she had met him and he was very nice and not a serial killer at all. But she was mature enough to tell her mother the truth, and she needed her mother to accept that Lindsey was mature enough to handle her own life.

“Technically, it has only been three days, which is less than half a week and so not really
almost
a week at all.”

Because Lindsey was totally mature.

“I just wonder what kind of guy rents half of his house to a single woman, that's all.”

“First of all, Mom, this house is a duplex. It's two apartments. It has separate entrances. I can't even hear him through the walls. Anyway, the previous tenant was an old man, not a hot and vulnerable idiot woman like me.”

“Lindsey.”

“I know, I know. You trust my judgment. Despite all evidence to the contrary.”

Her mother sighed. “What happened to the old man?” she asked, and Lindsey was impressed with how deftly she changed the subject.

“He had some health problems and moved in with his daughter in Ohio.”

“And how did you get to the bottom of that situation?”

“I just asked Mary Beth.”

“So conventional. You're losing your touch, Linds.”

“Well, I thought about pulling up the floors to make sure there wasn't a body buried underneath the house, but asking seemed more eff icient.”

“You really are growing up, aren't you?”

“Ha ha.”

“I just think it's odd that you haven't met this Walker fellow, that's all.”

“He's just quiet. And he's busy. He's an artist. He probably has a show coming up.”

“And you're not the least bit curious? You?”

Lindsey knew her mother was teasing, but also that she was not. She would be uneasy until she had confirmation that her daughter was not living next to a convicted serial killer, and this wouldn't be the first time she'd used Lindsey's nosiness to get the scoop for herself.

It was bad enough that, the night before her parents left to fly back to Phoenix, they sat her down and had a Serious Conversation about how they were proud of her and they knew she wanted to spread her wings a little, but wouldn't she prefer if they put a down payment on a condo in Phoenix to tide her over until she could find a job a little closer to home?

She didn't. She expressed her gratitude—again—after they helped her unload all the stuff stuffed in her hatchback into her new, cute apartment, and she got them safely to the airport. Then she went home to the fireplace and the shabby garden and the mysterious neighbor.

It wasn't that Lindsey wasn't curious. That was why she had Googled Walker Smith before she had even unpacked her underwear. And, of course, went right to the images.

There were a lot of Walker Smiths, none of whom fit the criteria she got from Mary Beth. So Lindsey used skills honed by years of insatiable curiosity (
not
stalking) and searched for “Walker Smith, Kentucky.” The search results didn't include any people at all. Instead, there were pictures of metal sculptures, harsh-looking landscapes jutting from gallery walls. Kind of cool. But not really an insight into the guy next door.

“I don't know about this, Linds . . .”

Lindsey could sense that her mother was about to go into one of her here's-how-I'd-handle-the-situation speeches, which were really this-is-what-I-expect-you-to-do speeches. Logic was no match for her mother's well-meaning paranoia, as Lindsey knew. She tried for redirection.

“Hey, remember that church across the street?”

“Are they snake handlers? I knew it.”

Oh my god, Lindsey thought. I am never letting her back to Kentucky. She'll offend everyone.

Or she should come here more often to get rid of some of those ridiculous stereotypes she was harboring.

No, probably better just to keep her out of the state.

“It's not a church at all. It's an antique store.”

That was a little generous, but “junk shop” didn't sound like the kind of thing that would calm her mother down.

“I found the cutest couch. It's blue! Blue velvet!”

“What? Lindsey! We told you we would buy you furniture!”

“Okay, well, you can send me fifty bucks.”

Her mother sighed. Again. “Well, at least it was a bargain.”

“Delivery included.”

“That's big of them. Across the street. Are you sure you can trust those delivery people?”

“Mom!”

“Fine. I just worry about you being murdered in your sleep.”

The thought had crossed Lindsey's mind—however much she did not want to admit it, she was her mother's daughter. But Lindsey had checked and double checked the locks, used the chains on both the front and the back doors, and even went over the shared wall, looking for holes.

She was definitely her mother's daughter.

But she was confident that this place was safe, and that if it wasn't, she could take care of herself. She had mace, she knew self-defense, and she had the wife of the chief of police on speed dial.

“Anyway, I called to tell you about my first day at work.”

“Oh, yes!” her mother said with suspicious nonchalance. “I forgot that was today! How did it go? What did you wear?”

Lindsey laughed. “It was great. I wore scrubs.”

“I hope nobody there is too old.”

“Well, Mom, it's a nursing home, so there are a few senior citizens.”

“I don't know how you can work in a place like that. It's so depressing.”

“This place is nice. There are only about two dozen residents, and the two nurses I'm overseeing have a lot of experience. Besides, when you're old and decrepit, don't you want someone like me taking care of you?”

“I better have
you
taking care of me when I'm old and decrepit. And you better not move me to Kentucky.”

Lindsey lay back on the floor and put her feet up on the plastic tote she was using as a temporary coffee table. Despite her sensible nurse shoes, spending all day on her feet yesterday was catching up to her. That, and moving halfway across the country, apartment hunting, and then sleeping on an air mattress. Her bed, supposedly, was being delivered this afternoon. A gift from her parents.

Lindsey was not too independent to turn down some of their generosity. Not yet, at least.

She said good-bye to her mother, then let her arms fall out wide on the floor and listened to the sound of the rain pattering outside. And in about five seconds, she was asleep.

 

Walker pulled up the long drive to the Shady Grove Nursing Home, cursing the rain. He had hoped it would clear up enough for Myron and him to take a walk. He knew the man didn't get enough exercise, but he also knew walking on slick sidewalks was not a great idea.

So he'd sit with Myron in the sunroom and watch all the old ladies flirt with him and listen to all the gossip. For a small nursing home, a surprising amount of drama went down. Last week, Eugene May had staked his claim on Dolores Harper, even though he knew Myron had his eye on her. Walker wasn't really sure what kind of claim a man in his mid-eighties could stake, and he was fairly certain he didn't want to know. He just knew Dolores was a sweet woman, and deaf, which was probably why she liked Eugene so much. And Walker didn't say that just because he was Myron's arch-rival. The guy was pretty annoying.

He just hoped it wasn't arts and crafts day. He still had a Popsicle stick-and-pom–pom crucifix that Gladys Kilburn had made for him a few months ago, and he felt too guilty to throw it out. Then Eugene had to open his big mouth and tell the volunteer leading the class that Walker was an artist (“big-time artist” was the phrase he'd used), and the poor woman wouldn't stop deferring to Walker for his opinion on her methodology. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but his medium was metal, not pom-poms.

The whole thing was just all-around awkward, and Walker kind of wanted to turn around and go home to avoid it. But his new tenant was home, and he was avoiding Pollyanna too. So far she had knocked on his door at least once a day, and on the garage door just as often. She left him a plate of brownies on the porch, which an animal must have gotten into. That, or she left him a plate of half-eaten brownies.

It was too bad. They looked really good.

Who was he kidding? He just ripped off any part that looked chewed, and had himself brownie for dinner.

He should just meet her and get it over with. She had signed a one-year lease, so it was unlikely that she was going anywhere. But the more he didn't meet her, the bigger a deal it seemed, and even though it had only been a few days, he felt too much pressure, like his image as a landlord must have gotten so built up in her mind that there was no way he could live up to it. And what would he say to her, anyway? “Hi, I'm Walker, and I hope to talk to you as little as possible. Welcome to Kentucky.”

That might get her to stop knocking on his door.

Or he could just move in with Myron. Walker was starting to get gray hair. Maybe they would relax the age requirement. He could teach art.

A knock on his window made him jump.

“Hi, Walker!” Gladys shouted through the glass. Evan, one of the nurses, waved to him meekly from beside her where he held a large golf umbrella over both of their heads.

Walker rolled his window down. “Hi, Miss Gladys.”

“I was just thinking the other day—do you remember that crucifix I made you?”

“Sure.”

“Well, do you think you could bring it back the next time you come visit Myron? I want to send it to my great niece. She's getting married.”

“Oh, that will be very nice.”

“Okay, come on, Miss Gladys. Let's get you in out of the rain,” said Evan. “Walker, Myron will be glad to see you. He's feeling a little down.”

Crap. Walker rolled up his window, then climbed out of the truck. He pulled his collar up, as if that would keep him dry, and sprinted through the parking lot. He held the door open for Gladys and Evan, receiving a pinch on his cheek for his trouble.

He didn't like to think that Myron was down. Myron was his friend, and a damn good man. Plus, it made Walker feel guilty. Sure, it wasn't Walker's fault that Myron needed assisted living. Even though Walker knew he would not have been able to take care of Myron like he needed to be taken care of, even though Walker knew that Myron sometimes got down before he moved into Shady Grove, Walker still felt like there was something he should be doing to make it better.

Short of actually stopping time, Walker didn't think there was really anything he could do.

Well, he could make sure Myron didn't throw the computer out the window.

“This goddamn piece of junk!” Myron shouted, slamming the mouse down on the desk.

“What did that thing ever do to you?”

Myron looked up at Walker and his eyes softened. But just for a second. “This damn thing is eating my homework.”

That was new.

“Tommy's having trouble with his Pinewood Derby car. He's sending me a picture, but the damn thing won't open!”

“Are you sure? Let me see—”

“I'm following the exact instructions that librarian gave me. What's the point of a class about email if we can't even get our emails?”

Walker clicked on the attachment. It didn't open.

“Oh, look. It doesn't open for you, either.”

“Hey Myron. You almost done with that computer?” Eugene approached them. Great, Walker thought. Just what we need.

“Why, you got a hot date on the internet?”

“None of your business!”

“You can have it as soon as I get this damn file open.”

“Let me see.” For an old guy, Eugene was pretty strong, and he managed to push Walker out of the way and Myron out of his seat. He took the mouse and, with several deft clicks, had the image of a child's plan for a racecar on the screen.

“How did you—” Walker started.

“Now, see if you can print it, Einstein,” Myron said.

The printer whirred.

Walker fetched the page. It was perfect.

“You're welcome!” said Eugene to Myron's back.

“So,” said Walker, following Myron to a large table in the sunroom. “What's going on?”

“No, this is all wrong,” said Myron to the paper. “No wonder this thing won't run. Look at those wheels.” Walker looked. Looked like wooden wheels. “He's hardly sanded them at all. And he must have used the coarse stuff. Dammit, I told him he needed to use fine grade if he wants to get any speed on those wheels! I gotta call him. Give me your phone.”

Walker patted his pockets. “Phone's in the car.”

“Dammit.” Myron slapped the table. “What am I gonna do with this kid?”

“Myron,” Walker started. But then he didn't know how to finish. He thought Myron's temper was about more than the car, and that the conversation would require some emotional sensitivity and insight.

Walker had left that in the car, too.

“Ah, sorry, kid.” Myron took pity on him. He slapped Walker on the back. “I just get upset when I see kids messing up real simple stuff.”