Two Family Home (4 page)

“How is there an angle that can make this work?” Lindsey didn't mean to sound petulant, but with every gut-busting shove, she felt her dream couch slip away.

Which at this point would have been a nice change from the way it was now stuck in the doorway.

“Okay, I got it. You go this way and I'll go that way. Go!”

Lindsey pulled, getting down low into a squat to get her legs more involved. She grunted and squealed and it moved, just a little, but she didn't hear Josh stop pushing and her squat went all wonky and before she knew it, she was going down in one of those slow motion disasters that you experience with enough clarity to realize what is going on, even though it's happening too fast to stop it. So she landed, butt on the porch, then gravity tipped her back and then her legs were over her head and she tumbled down the steps, landing on her back with a stunned
huff
.

“Holy crap! Lindsey!” Then Josh was in her face, looking ready to do CPR.

She waved him away. “I'm fine.” She coughed, and started to stand. He grabbed her under the elbow and started to help her up while she righted her clothes, causing even more of a tangle, and taking Josh down with her. She laughed, then looked sadly at her new front door/dream couch.

Before she could despair completely, though, there was a bang. And then: whoa.

Walker—she assumed it was Walker, since the man emerged from the apartment next door—looked pissed. Also, ripped. Two sides of her brain fought for attention. The first was wondering what kind of man sat around in just his boxer shorts in the middle of the day. The second, and the one that was frankly winning the fight, was admiring those boxer-clad thighs, and was just starting to move on to the perfect ratio of chest hair to muscle definition. But as quickly as the Angry Adonis had appeared, he was gone, leaving just the echo of a door slam in his wake.

Lindsey finished her scramble, realizing that gawping with her legs askew was probably not the most favorable first impression to make on a guy. By the time she was upright, Angry Adonis was back. This time he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt (boo, said her brain) (and other parts of her body), and she was just about to introduce herself and apologize for disturbing him when he glared at Josh, who apparently understood angry-man looks because he scrambled up and over the couch. Walker proceeded to lift the end of the couch that had so recently bested her, and with a series of grunts that apparently only men could understand, he and Josh had turned the couch sideways, then up, then down, then at more complicated angles that Lindsey could not keep up with (he was wearing a shirt, but she could still admire the muscles in his back—distracting!), and the couch was inside.

There was a “thank you” on the tip of her tongue, and an offer of coffee or tea or me, but Walker just looked at her, shook his head, and slammed back into his house.

This was going to be interesting, she thought as she climbed up the steps and into her living room. So much for a pleasant landlord /tenant relationship. First she woke him from apparent hibernation, then she ogled him, then she pressed him into manual labor.

Then she looked at the couch, which was the perfect touch of decadence and whimsy in her otherwise sensible living room, and she thought, forget it. She could deal with a hostile neighbor. She wasn't moving.

Too much work.

 

The noise woke him up from his nap, but that was okay. He shouldn't have been sleeping anyway. He thought about coming out from under the porch, barking and announcing his intentions, which were to receive love and snacks. But then there was another noise, and it reminded him of the place he'd left, where doors slammed and, if he wasn't fast, his tail got caught. But he was still curious, so he snuck out to the front where he watched the people fight with something big and soft that he wanted to sleep on. They looked like they were having fun, and he wanted to join in, especially when the lady tumbled on the ground. She was so close to him! He wanted to run over and lick her face!

But then the door slammed again and he didn't stick around to hear what it was.

“Y
ou got a burr under your tail?”

Myron barely looked at Walker as he reached for the paper bag on Walker's lap. Walker held on to it and handed Myron his turkey-on-wheat-no-mayo. Walker knew from experience that if he didn't hold on to his own double-stacked roast beef, he'd lose it. Myron was quick for an old guy, as he liked to say, and Walker wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders this morning.

“No. I came to see you, didn't I?”

“Yeah, this has been a real blast. You barely say two words when you come to pick me up, and then you insist on signing me out like a wimp.”

“You're supposed to sign out when you leave.”

“Rules! Rules were meant to be broken! You're too young to forget about that.”

“Last time we broke out, you lost your Bingo privileges.”

“Oh, yeah. Broke my heart. I lost my chance to win a bag of sugar-free hard candies. Those things aren't worth putting in my dentures for.”

Walker just shrugged and bit into his sandwich. It was salty and juicy, which was just what he needed after a night of no sleep. He was getting old. He used to be able to stay up all night, no problem. Now he felt like he had a hangover.

“So who pissed in your Cheerios?”

Walker almost choked on his sandwich. “Colorful,” he said around a mouthful of beef.

“You've had that assy face on since you came to pick me up. Now, I know I ain't always the greatest company, but usually you at least pretend to be glad to see me.”

“It's nothing. I just didn't get a lot of sleep last night.” He stuffed his now empty sandwich wrapper back into the bag, dug out the homemade pickle.

Myron's eyes lit up. “New project?”

Walker thought about Lindsey smiling, and struggling with the couch, and laughing with Josh. “Something like that.”

“Well, good.” Myron wrapped the uneaten half of his sandwich and put it in his coat pocket. Walker made a mental note to take it out when they got back to Shady Grove.

Walker smiled. Myron was the only exception to his rule about keeping works in progress under wraps. Although he'd never admit it, Myron had a really good artistic eye. He could spot problems in perspective or composition, things that would sometimes plague Walker that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

When Myron lived next door, he'd also done a good job of keeping an eye on Walker's schedule. If Walker was still working when Myron woke up in the morning, there would be hell to pay. And then there'd be scrambled eggs.

“Can't wait to get a look at it. Fix all of your problems for you.”

“That'll be nice,” Walker said, before he remembered that if Myron came over, he'd probably meet Lindsey, and Lindsey was the reason he had a burr under his tail. “Ready?”

Myron nodded, then got slowly to his feet. They started their first lap around the Duck Puddle, as the folks in Willow Springs called it. This time of year it was more geese than ducks, but the path around the pond was paved and dotted with benches, so it was perfect for getting Myron some exercise.

Or “taking his old man for a walk,” as Myron called it.

“But we both know that's not what you're cranky about. Out with it, son.”

Once, a few months after Walker had bought the house, he had tried to hide the fact that a journalist was constantly calling, after getting his number out of an impressionable young intern at the Madison Kelly Gallery. The
New Yorker
had run a small piece about a group exhibit he had been a part of, and apparently this guy's life would not be complete without invading Walker's privacy. Or “writing an exclusive profile,” as he called it. Walker called it putting him under a microscope, where everything mattered but the art.

That gave Walker major assy face.

He had tried to go about his business, fix Myron's wonky toilet and change his light bulbs without letting on that anything was bothering him. His problem had nothing to do with Myron. Myron, unlike pushy New York journalists, understood privacy and boundaries and personal space. At least, Myron acted like he understood those things.

It took about two days of gentle, but constant, prodding before Myron coaxed it out of him. Then the next time the guy called, Myron grabbed the phone (he was pretty quick for an old man, especially when Walker was caught off guard) and gave him what-for.

Actually, Myron told the guy that he had the wrong number, but while he had him on the phone, had he accepted Jesus as his personal lord and savior? And would he trust in the goodness of God to save him from the fiery sting of the rattler's venom?

The reporter never called again.

And Walker learned that it was not worth the energy trying to keep secrets from Myron. It was not the most normal way to form a friendship, going from shop teacher to guardian angel, but then what did Walker know about normal friendships?

But that didn't mean he had to like it. Not all the time, anyway.

“I have a new neighbor,” he admitted as he helped Myron the rest of the way off the bench while pretending not to.

Myron pretended not to lean on Walker's arm. “What's he like? Is he cuter than me?”

Walker thought about shorts and scowls. “Yeah.”

“Ah, so no chance of getting my old room back?”

Myron smiled like he was joking, but Walker knew better. He knew it killed the old man to be in a home, to have to rely on other people to take care of him. Walker hated that. Even if Lindsey were a perfect tenant—which she was not—Walker would give anything to give Myron his independence back. But the house had too many stairs, and Myron was too stubborn to see that leaving the lights on overnight was one thing, but leaving the oven on all day was another.

Shady Grove was for the best.

The best sucked.

“She's driving me crazy,” he told the old man.

“She?” Myron's eyes lit up with interest.

Walker ignored the eyebrows. “She makes a lot of noise.”

“With those paper-thin walls? What'd she do, sneeze?”

“And she's nosy. She keeps asking people about me.”

“Probably wants to make sure you're not a serial killer. You do tend to give that first impression.” Myron put a hand on Walker's arm and they stopped and sat on the next bench. “He was so quiet, they always say. We never would have guessed he was secretly chopping people up.” Myron pulled the second half of his sandwich out of his pocket and began unwrapping it.

“Is she cute?” asked Myron.

“Cuter than you.”

“So, very cute.”

Walker sighed. “Yeah, she's cute.”

Myron ripped off a corner of mayo-free bread and threw it to the ducks. “And you don't like that.”

Walker didn't say anything to that.

“She married?”

Walker shook his head. At least, he didn't think she was married. If she was, she sure didn't live with her husband.

“Boyfriend?”

Walker shrugged, although he was pretty sure the answer was no, if the way she was flirting with Josh was any indication. If she did have a boyfriend, he didn't live around here. There was no way a man from around here would live in a house with a couch like that.

They got up and started walking again.

“So, you've got a cute, probably single woman living next door. She's loud and nosy, which, coming from you probably means she said ‘hello' once or twice.”

Walker watched the Duck Puddle. Really interesting place, the Duck Puddle.

“Does she ask you to fix things?”

“Not yet.”

“So she's cute, single, polite, and so far she hasn't asked you to do your job as her landlord. Sounds terrible.”

“You don't get it.”

Myron reached for Walker's arm again and sat on the bench behind them. Walker sat next to him, watched him closely.

“I'm fine,” said Myron, waving off Walker's concern. “But I want to make sure you're paying attention.” He squeezed Walker's forearm. “I know you need to be alone to work. But you've convinced yourself that you need to be alone all the time.”

“I'm not dating my tenant.”

“I'm not saying you date her.”

Walker raised his eyebrows at Myron's dirty mind, then quickly blinked the expression away when he realized that was not what Myron meant. He should definitely not just sleep with Lindsey. That was a ridiculous idea. Totally inappropriate.

His mind was filled with a sudden image of those shorts.

“It's not gonna kill you to be nice to her, that's all.”

Walker grunted. She seemed like a nice girl. If he were nice to her, she'd be nice to him. Then she'd see that his house was a mess and his sleep was irregular and his diet was a joke and she'd try to take care of him. He didn't need a mother. Hell, he didn't even need a girlfriend. He just needed a nice, quiet tenant who left him alone and had liver spots.

His phone beeped with the alarm Walker had set so they would get back to Shady Grove on time. Good. Now Walker wouldn't have to talk about Pollyanna and her shorts. That thought immediately sent a jolt of guilt through him—what kind of guy wants to get rid of a friend because of an uncomfortable conversation?

Walker Smith: Stand-Up Guy.

“All right, all right,” Myron said before Walker got the chance to say the words forming in his mouth. “I know, it's time to get back so Nurse Ratched can take her attendance and give me my pills.”

Nurse Ratched was actually Molly Callahan, Shady Grove head nurse, who was in her late sixties and very nice.

“You're going to miss her when she's gone.” Walker stood behind Myron as he climbed into the truck.

“She's already gone. Retirement party was last week. With my luck, she'll move in next door.”

“Or the new Nurse Ratched will be even worse.”

“Don't think I haven't thought about that.”

Walker closed the door, shook his head, and drove Myron back to Shady Grove.

 

Lindsey snapped the lock shut on her new locker, reminding herself that she was an adult now. Adults sometimes had lockers. Shady Grove's owner, Ned Grubb, had told her with pride that the lockers had been salvaged from the old high school, and repainted Wildcat Blue, which was apparently the color of the University of Kentucky basketball team. Lindsey guessed that because this was the color Ned wore every day, usually in the form of a seemingly never-ending supply of polo shirts with the UK Wildcats logo emblazoned on it.

She wasn't known as Detective Lindsey for nothing.

There were still streamers up in the staff room from Molly Callahan's retirement party, but today was her first official day retired, and Lindsey's first official day as head nurse. She was a little nervous. She knew she was young, but she was qualified. She had her degree and professional experience, and she'd been working in nursing homes since she was in high school. She knew the lay of the land. She knew how to handle geriatric medicine, and how to handle geriatric emergencies. And, for extra comfort, because Kentuckians were pretty much the nicest people ever, Molly was on voluntary speed-dial for the next week until she left for her Caribbean cruise. Nothing to be nervous about. Just get briefed, then start making rounds.

Hope Neely, the overnight nurse, was at their shared desk. “It was pretty quiet last night, thank goodness,” she said, knocking on the wooden desk. “Mr. May didn't want to take his blood pressure medicine, but I was able to sneak it into his ice cream.”

“Clever.”

“Having two kids is good training for this job.”

Lindsey laughed.

“Okay. You have everyone's medical records, and I think Molly showed you the activity schedule, right?”

“The big calendar in the sunroom?”

“That's the public schedule.” Hope pulled a well-used desk calendar from a drawer. “This is ours. It's a little more informative.”

Lindsey thumbed through it. Today was a visit from therapy dogs, then arts and crafts later. Next week was the Bookmobile, then something she couldn't read, illustrated by what looked like dripping blood.

“What's this?” she asked, alarmed.

“That's Evan's sense of humor. Sorry about that. That day we have the middle school choir coming in to sing.”

“Are they that bad?”

“I say this as a woman who has two kids in that choir: yes. But they mean well, and most of the residents like it. Sometimes the kids get weird around old people, but other than that, you'll be fine. I suggest making yourself busy in another room.”

Hope grabbed her purse, and Lindsey walked with her through the common areas. Hope re-introduced her to the residents, most of whom declared that of course they remembered Lindsey, what a nice-looking young woman. There were a few jokes questioning whether or not she was old enough to administer medication, then Hope left her alone with her new charges.

“You have big shoes to fill, young lady,” said an old man, crocheting in front of the unlit fireplace.

“Leave the lady alone, Eugene,” said a woman playing bridge at a sunny card table. “I'm out.”

Okay. Maybe that wasn't bridge.

“Thanks, Mrs. Harper,” Lindsey told her. “I can handle Mr. May.”

“Oh, he'll behave,” said Dolores Harper. “If he knows what's good for him.”

Lindsey raised her eyebrows in alarm, but Mr. May just laughed into his afghan.

The front door beeped open and Lindsey turned to see Mr. Harris slowly amble toward the group. A car squealed out of the parking lot.