She smiles a satisfied smile, handing each radio back to its owner.
Then she makes pointed eye contact with each one of us and, with a flourish of her hand, she says, “Just as I suspected. You see this here?” She points at the power button on the side of the handheld she’s still holding. “It’s called the power button. If you use it, there’s no need for the override.” She pauses, and with a mischievous glint in her eye, she says, “Rookie mistake, boys.”
Then, without another word, she turns back to the engine to finish checks.
We’re all quiet for a moment and then Dustin bursts into laughter. “We got you there for a minute, though!”
She smiles at him.
“You were about to stand on one leg!” he pushes. “I saw you lift your foot. We got you!”
“That’s what you think,” Hallie says.
And the smile she flashes at me nearly levels me.
The young woman I met in Munich swept me away with her free spirit, warmth and wide-eyed naivety. Hallie’s obviously lived a lot of life in the nine years since we first met. But that girl still lives and breathes within the woman.
The next day, I’m head and shoulders deep in a kitchen cabinet, refitting a gasket in the pipes beneath Mrs. Kinkaid’s leaky sink.
“It’s probably just old,” she says. “Old things leak. Trust me on that one, Greyson.”
I chuckle softly under my breath. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“There,” I say, tightening the coupling and emerging from the cabinet. “Hand me that pan, would you?”
She hands it down to me and I place it under the belly of the pipe.
“Okay, turn on the water,” I tell her.
She does. Nothing leaks.
“Good to go,” I announce, pulling my head out and standing to my full height.
“Let me make you lunch,” she offers.
I glance at the clock on the wall. “I have to run a few errands and pick up some groceries,” I tell her.
Her face falls.
“But,” I add, readjusting my plans. “I could eat.”
“A man has to eat,” she says, brightening.
“I’ll clean this up,” I tell her, gesturing at the towel and tools scattered around the floor.
“I’ve got ham and cheese. Do you want it grilled or cold?”
“Whatever’s easiest.”
“You know what?” she says, popping a hand on her hip.
“What?” I ask, bending to retrieve the wrench, screwdriver and towel.
“You’re as good as a son to me.” She turns and looks at me from her spot in front of the fridge where she’s pulling out meat and cheese and a bunch of bowls of things.
“Thank you?” I say, her tone giving me pause.
“And when I ask my son what he wants to eat,” she continues. “I want him to tell me.”
