The cat turned its head toward the living room door and did its best to ignore him.
“That’s Handyman Stan.”
He looked up to find Leah on the stairs, her face soft in the half-light. She lowered herself onto one of the treads, resting her chin on her knees.
“Esther named him. He visits every now and then, and looks around as if he’s checking out all the work that needs doing.”
Jackson grunted but didn’t stand up. “Probably has fleas.”
“I guess so. He’s never let me get close enough to check.”
As if determined to be contrary, the cat stood with a languid stretch and sauntered toward Jackson’s hand, allowing his knuckles to slide gently along one flank.
“Huh. A misogynist then, like so many in the building trade.” Leah’s tone was wry.
They sat in silence for a while, Jackson’s fingers running slowly over Stan’s head, the cat arching into his touch. It was incredibly relaxing. He was suddenly so tired that standing up seemed too much effort. The grandfather clock chimed once for the half hour.
“Good couple of weeks?” Leah asked.
“Not bad.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wriggle her bare toes against the carpeted stairs. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah.” He hadn’t.
With the ability to string words together short-circuiting in his brain, his natural defense mechanism had stuck on asshole mode. Sometimes, Jackson wondered if the lack of warmth and nurturing from his parents had turned him into an ice sculpture instead of a man. Frozen splinters for feelings and unyielding rigidity beneath his clothes.
The desire to be amenable for once beat inside his chest. Even though Leah’s presence was a complication, he found himself glad he hadn’t come back to an empty house. Jackson opened his mouth.
“I’ll leave you in peace.” Leah stood and turned in one fluid movement. “Sleep well.”
Peace. That word again. If only he could hold onto it for more than a moment at a time.
Jackson sat on the floor in the dark, stroking the cat and wishing he’d thought of just one damn thing to say in time to make her stay.
The bulb in the bathroom blew when he pulled the light cord, giving Jackson his first job of the weekend. He found a spare by rummaging through one of the cavernous cupboards in the basement. Leah walked into the kitchen as he was scowling at the recycling bin and the trash can.
“Where do dead light bulbs go?” he muttered in place of a greeting.
“Who really knows, Jackson? Who really knows?” She leaned on her hands and fixed him with sorrow-filled, dark eyes.
He smothered the smile for a minute but lost the battle. Dammit, she was funny sometimes. Leah saw his struggle and her laugh was instant and delighted. The kitchen felt immediately sunnier.
She took the light bulb from his hand, dropping it into the trash.
“What’s your plan today?” She eyed his worn jeans and old t-shirt with speculation.
“I’m taking a look at what’s underneath that ancient carpet in the living room.”
“It’s really grim. Esther wanted to replace it but the quote was too high, and it does make the room warmer underfoot.”
“It’s a damn health hazard.” Jackson reached for a mug. He was overdue a coffee.
They moved around each other, Leah lifting a glass from the drainer and opening the fridge in search of orange juice, Jackson reaching above her to take a new pack of sugar from an overhead cabinet. It was a few short steps shy of familiar, but there was a blossoming ease in the air which allowed him to take his first relaxed breath in days.
“Need a hand?” she asked him. “With the carpet, I mean.”
“No, I’ve got it.”
