“Thank you so very much, Alejo.” And here came the apologies and gratitude that he’d hoped to stave off. “I really, really appreciate the ride. And the fact that you stayed. But we will not take up any more of your evening.”
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” he said. “I really enjoyed it.”
She gave him a crooked smile of total disbelief that struck right at his heart, and he had to let them go, with small Sam crowding on her heels.
They closed themselves in the other wing of the house, and he didn’t see them again that night.
The next morning, he postponed his usual early-to-work schedule, remembering that Wendy’s car was dead. This was Friday, which meant a school day for Sam. He could offer to drive, and maybe take Wendy out to breakfast?
He raced through a shower and shave, pulled on some decent clothes instead of work jeans and tee—and heard a car come up the driveway. When he looked out the guest room window, he saw Sam and his backpack and lunch pail climbing into a car driven by a woman. Wendy hurried into the front passenger’s seat.
Fighting disappointment, he changed back to his work clothes, and he decided to check the car, assuming it was unlocked.
It was. He opened the hood, and saw what he expected to see, a fifty-year-old engine that was pretty much worn out. Luckily he has some spare parts in his truck, and after some tinkering, he got it running again. It was still cranky—it was past retirement age for cars—and he had to firmly squash the intense urge to go right out and buy her a new one.
There was one thing he could do. He set out through the garden. If he took the truck to Wendy’s house, he’d be driving for ten minutes out along one road, then back in along the lower one below the palisade. It was faster, and nicer, to walk through Godiva’s garden, and take the path down to Wendy’s house. If he shifted and flew, it was a matter of seconds.
He’d brought all his supplies on the first day. Soon he was lost in the rhythm of work that he enjoyed. There was something deeply satisfying in taking a worn, broken item, especially one that showed all the signs of having been loved, and furbishing it up to new again.
Once Wendy was more used to him, he’d ask for the key to the house. He could tell just by a walk-around that the window frames had warped from the constant salt air from the sea, and no doubt there were other issues inside. First, he would reinforce the porch, which sagged dangerously. Someone had done a slapdash job, not long ago. One good storm—or, earthquake, more likely in these parts—and that porch would be a pile of splinters.
He began sanding down the rails. He’d figured out that the house had originally been Cape Cod blue and white, and he had the paint ready to go.
As he worked, he imagined what it must have been like for Wendy to grow up here. He could almost bring her into focus, but not quite. Godiva hadn’t said much about Wendy’s situation, other than that her ex had lingered in the house, claiming to fix it, found it too much trouble, and dumped it back on her in worse shape than it had been.
When Alejo finished the railing, he debated buying a phone now so he could call and ask her, except he knew that Godiva would only tell him, “Find out for yourself.”
That, he muttered inwardly as he finished sawing the new bottom step to replace the broken one, would be his privilege and his pleasure.
And with that in mind, he worked with one eye to his watch. When he’d learned that Wendy came home from her job each day at two-thirty, he decided to take a break at that time. He could offer to help with dinner preparation.
It took him a while to put away all his tools. It was almost three. He was going to shift and fly up, but he looked around, and discovered a car parked at the cul-de-sac, some fifty feet from the house. A very expensive car. That was odd. The car was on the other side of Wendy’s house, but no driver had come around. Maybe it belonged to one of the neighbors. Godiva had said most of those little houses were now beach rentals.
He could always shift and turn invisible, but then he caught voices on the wind.
High voices. Wendy? No, instinctively he knew that was not her voice, which was so easy on the ear. This was a woman’s voice, pitched to a false note. Then he heard a shrill little-boy’s voice, “Let go!”
Alejo flew up, shifted back to human, and closed the distance in three fast steps. He bolted past a flowering honeysuckle bush to discover a woman holding Sam by the wrist.
He had no idea who she was, and this was not his property, or strictly speaking his kid, but the frustration in Sam’s face caused him to say sharply, “The boy said to let him go.”
The woman snatched her hand away at once. “I only wanted to ask a simple question,” she said with cordiality as false as her smile. Her eyes were cold and watchful underneath their expert makeup. “Kids these days aresorude. No one teaches them basic manners anymore.”
Alejo turned to Sam. “You can take off if you want.” He was careful not to say Sam’s name, though the woman did not look like any kind of criminal. But he did not like the way she’d grabbed him, as if she had the right.
Like the car below, she was well put-together, wearing expensive clothes, her nails manicured and painted a complementary color. The discreet glitter of a diamond winked from a gold necklace at the collar of her fine dress, and on her right hand.
While Alejo looked her over, she did the same to him. “Who are you? My understanding is that a Ms. Hidalgo owns this property. Though she has been very difficult to get hold of.”
“She’s my mother,” Alejo said. “I’m caretaker of the property. You can state your business to me.”
The woman arranged her expression to one of sympathy. “Oh, she’s elderly, is she? I wouldn’t wish to add to any mental burdens,” the woman said sweetly, and Alejo felt his serpent stirring. A spurt of humor shot through him at the idea of this woman approaching Godiva, hinting that she might be having mental issues—and how Godiva was likely to respond.
“Please state your business,” Alejo said, keeping his voice even. He remembered Sam’s alarm, and tamped down on his temper. And both his beasts, protector and defender.
“I am the agent of a consortium of private investors,” she said, opening the tiny and expensive purse hanging at her side. “They are very interested in the possibilities of the area. Everything to be environmentally sound, of course, fully in compliance with all local laws. Preserving the natural beauty of the coast.” She unrolled those expressions as if she’d practiced them in front of a mirror. “But before my clients invest—and I might add here that we are talking offers well over market value—there are a few questions that need resolution.”
“Like?”
