I swallowed hard. This hurt. But Elijah was telling “his truth,” as they called it now. Blood-kin relationship and proper manners aside, this was his experience with his grandfather. And I had to agree: People who act like they don’t love you probably don’t.
Elijah deserved an offering basket for that sermon.
I rinsed the next juice glass, passed it to him. “I understand.”
Two hours later, the second handyman on the list, who’d offered the cheapest estimate and the earliest available slot, showed up with tools in tow.
“You related to Miss Jewel?” he asked. He was old enough to be my uncle, yet still clearly flirting, with his too-wide grin and his too-tight wedding band.
“Yes. She was my grandmother.”
“Whoo! You’re just as beautiful, sugar.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, because I wanted him to know he was at least ten years older than me and needed to watch it.
“Naw. Don’tsirme. Just call me Wardell,” he said with a wink. “A pretty woman like you ought to know—age is just a number.”
He must have meant to open a doorway for dating. I shut it closed. “I was taught to respect my elders.”
A flash of disdain crossed his face, but I guess he figured he’d better not get testy with me, seeing as we weren’t at some bar. Bottom line: He was at work and I was a customer. I’d called himover to fix a stove, and I don’t mix business with whatever it was he wanted to do on the side.
As I sat scrolling through the news on my phone, I wondered for a split second if I had been too harsh with Wardell. It was my nature to second-guess myself, to replay my words and actions to see if I had given the impression that I was remotely interested.
Bump that.
The better question: What on earth made men think that women were supposed to appreciate them for noticing us? By men, of course, I meant Eric Sr. mostly. But even Wardell, who was now waist-deep in the oven, seemed to think that it was perfectly appropriate to dangle his married bait and see if I would bite.
Elijah had run outside with the first child he saw walking down the street. The boy, named Roderick Everson—I remembered his people’s last name—had two bicycles. He let Elijah borrow the old one, and they were off. So there I was, inside my home, alone with a man I didn’t know. There’s an undercurrent of wariness that comes with a scenario like this. Not to mention, he was married.
Am I becoming a feminist?Isn’t that what happens to bitter, divorced women?
Am I bitter?
No. I’m not bitter.A bitter woman would have kicked Wardell out for leaning in too closely when he’d introduced himself.
My thumb stopped at a headline: Ex-Wife Sues Second Wife for Intellectual Theft of Signature Lasagna Recipe. Now,thatwoman was bitter.
“Welp,” Wardell announced as he stood up straight and wiped blackened hands on his overalls. “You’re gonna need a new stove.”
“What?” The math teacher in me saw a three-digit figure.
“I can install it, but there’s another issue. You’ll probably need new wiring.”
Four figures.
“Come again?” I asked.
His face was all business now, flat and brown and frowns. “This house is going on a hundred years old. A new stove has different power requirements. An electrician can upgrade the wiring so the new stove won’t overload your system. You’ve got two jobs up ahead.”
“Wow,” I whispered. “Wasn’t expecting all of this.” The air in the kitchen suddenly felt thick, as if the history of the house itself was pressing down on me, reminding me of just how old everything around me was. The walls, the floors—had they always been this fragile? Owning an older home came with its problems, though. I’d known this when I planned the move back to Robin Creek. I had hoped that the renovation, which had unearthed and resolved several issues already, meant I had at least a few years before I ran into trouble again. But trouble didn’t have the decency to wait until I was dressed and ready before barging in.
“I can remove this oven and install the new one, once the electrician finishes. I’ll email you an estimate, and you can let me know when you’d like to get started,” Wardell said matter-of-factly. His curt manner made the news sound even worse. “That will be $125 for today’s service visit.”
“Of course,” I said. We settled up through my phone.
“Like I said, let me know when.”
“I have to think through a few things,” I stalled, trying to calculate how much an electrician cost, wishing I had a friend in the handyman world. My mind raced, flipping through imaginaryinvoices and numbers that seemed to stack higher and higher, a mountain of expenses I wasn’t sure I could climb.
