A too cheerful and trusting mail carrier accepted the untouched cup of coffee on my way to the car.
Eliza is home, hunkered in the armchair she dragged next to the window with a drawing notebook in her lap, erasing half of what I’m guessing are ideas for her tiny house.
“I ran into Quinn.” My voice startles her. “She strong-armed me into delivering you this.”
“Are we talking about the same blonde pixie who owns a coffee shop?”
“One and only. She’s freakishly strong.”
Confusion and suspicion dance along her features but she accepts the bag and pierces my eardrums with a delighted squeal after sniffing its content.
Sugar-filled and more alert, Eliza finally notices the large bag with the store logo on the front. She shifts on the armchair and stares at me, trying to read my mind. Usually, I’d let her stew and mess about, but she’s still too fragile.
“I happened to park right next to the store. They’re having a big sale. Today only.” I place the box in her armsand the jitters keep me talking. “Clearing out the shop. They’re retiring to Florida. It was practically free.”
Eliza gawks between the box and me. “Ethan and his wife had a baby three months ago. They’re in their thirties.”
“Silly me.” I run a hand over the back of my head. “I guess I’ve been bamboozled.”
The wooden box opens with a soft click and her fingers caress the rows of pencils and ink pens, murmuring something to herself. I’m nervous like a kid handing out his first Valentine’s Day cards.
She pierces me with those red-rimmed brown eyes and I’m afraid she’ll see right through me and throw the heavy set at my head. Or worse. She’ll start crying again.
Instead, the corners of her lips tug up for the first time in three days and my stomach flips over.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
I’m still thinking about it that night when I lie awake and listen to the sounds of the pencils on the toothy drawing paper.
Boredom is wasted time. Successful people squeeze the most out of every second. It’s something my father drilled into our heads from an early age.
It’s time for the fence challenge. Eliza is not home. She’s off pestering the construction crew for the next half a day. She showed me where she keeps the key to her precious shed and warned me not to touch her works in progress. Using the white paint for the fence did not fall under that category. I skimmed through a YouTube tutorial and got to it.
The problem with learning a new skill on fast forward is it gave me the false impression it would be a walk in the park. It’s not. Especially since I didn’t read the instructions on the lid and I can’t lie to myself and pretend it looks OK.
Two hours down the drain and I have to start over. My muscles ache and the T-shirt clings to my back, when the gravel crunches under the large tires of her truck from hell.
Hiding the evidence of my stupidity as quickly as possible, I sense her coming to a halt around the corner. Sweat is dripping down my forehead and I get to my feet to wipe it with the shoulder of my T-shirt just in time to catch her shamelessly checking me out.
“It’ll look better when I’m done.” I crack a smile.
She looks excited but unsure. “You actually did it. You didn’t have to bother. It’s something I should take care of.”
I never back away from a challenge and I’m not going to be defeated by a stupid fence.
“I’d like to finish it. If you don’t mind. I’ve never painted a fence before. It’s…calming.”
“Then I’ll get on with cooking. It’s the least I can do.”
“Please stop,” I shout after her. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Yes, I did it because she said I couldn’t, and I had nothing else to do. Never crossed my mind to gain something from her. It sounds so hypocritical to tell her not to suspect ulterior motives when I’m always on the lookout.
Bonus point, her surprise and delight warms my solar plexus again.
Sliding the brush over the last picket I sit up straight to admire the past few hours’ worth of sweat and back pain. Working out is not the same thing as hard manual labor. I hate to agree with my mother but I’m not 100% recovered.
I have to drag myself to the back steps and rest my head back on the porch railing, sweat sliding down my neck. The blood is whooshing in my ears and my head’s spinning.
