“It’s a Christmas movie.”
“That’snota Christmas movie. There’s a Christmas scene.” My favorite part of the movie, but that’s beside the point.
“You still watched it. I’m beginning to suspect these letters that you think you’re so coy about hiding have actually put that nonsmile on your face.”
She caught me writing a letter one night when she was visiting and asked what it was all about. Of course, she’d connect my happiness to the letters. She may be old, but she’s still very sharp.
“I will not dignify that comment with a response,” I reply just as there’s a knock at the door. “Oh good, that’s Arden with the paint.”
“Ah, that’s my cue to go take a nap upstairs in your bed.” She smirks, knowing I would let her do anything at this point. “I fear if I stay down here, you’d put me to work.”
Very accurate.
As she makes her way upstairs, I walk over to the entryway and open the front door. “Hey, Ar ...” My voice falls as I am greeted by Caleb, paint-free and freshly showered, holding a bucket of paint. “Oh, you’re not Arden.”
“No, I’m not. It’s reassuring to me that you can spot the difference.” Was that a lighthearted joke? That seems odd after the two interactions we’ve had since I’ve been back.
“I thought he was delivering the paint.”
“He had some other things to do, so you get me.”
“Oh, well, thanks for delivering it. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says as he nods toward the inside of the house. “Let me set this down for you.”
Don’t worry about it?
Wanting to set the paint down for me?
What happened to the man who was huffing and puffing about his paint can opener?
“Not necessary, I can handle it,” I say, feeling rather unsteady.
“Nope, I got it,” he says, walking past me and right into my living room.
Uh, what’s going on?
I shut the door and spin around to find Caleb, one knee on the ground, other leg propped up as he opens the can of paint and then plops a stir stick in it to give it a good blend.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Helping you.”
Okay, now Iknowsomething weird is happening.
“Don’t you have a hardware store to take care of?”
“Jimmy came in when I told him I had a paint accident. He’s watching over everything.”
“Okay, well, I don’t really need help.”
“Didn’t ask you if you did or not.” He holds up a paintbrush and a roller. “Do you want to roll or cut in the edges?”
“Both, because I can do this alone.”
“Fine, I’ll cut in,” he says, ignoring me completely.
I watch in confusion as he pours the paint into the paint pan and then in a little cup for himself. He takes a paintbrush and moves toward the wall, where he starts dabbing paint, cutting in the edge of the doorframe.
