Page 3 of My Favorite Hero

“But—”

She shook her head. “I’m early, but I wrote and told you I would be.”

“I expected a man,” I insisted, as if by saying it often enough, it would be true.

She snorted. “Sorry to disappoint.”

I was so confused. “And I didn’t get a letter.”

“I emailed one.”

“I never got that either. But wait—the paperwork says you’re supposed to be a guy.”

She shrugged. “Not my problem. I’m your new tenant.” She glanced behind me. “What the hell happened to Aunt Lou’s kitchen?”

I ran a hand through my hair in frustration. I had left the very feminine and early Casey in Lou’s place and came over to mine. I dug out the paperwork, reading through my emails, and dammit, she was right.

In no document or email did it mention that she was a he. Lou had said what sounded like KC, and I assumed the wrong gender. Given the field they were in and how male-dominated it was, I had drawn the incorrect conclusion. And that had been further cemented in my thick skull by Sims, who simply referred to KC as…KC.

I remembered the day I’d met with him regarding the sale of the house. He had pointed out the stipulation, smiling. “It’s not legally binding. Simply a request. One that Lou insists you will honor.”

Lou Doyle had been my landlady for over five years. We had developed a relationship that went beyond tenant and owner. I found her funny and droll. She was old-fashioned and, at seventy-eight, refused to change her ways. Her white hair was always up in a bun, but once I had seen it down and it was well past her waist. Her dark-brown eyes were still discerning, and she didn’t suffer fools well. Although she lived alone, she cooked for herself daily. Baked for the local food bank that she volunteered at as well. Drove a cool old Mustang she repaired herself. She wore overalls and boots most of the time. A big hat. She loved to garden and putter in the yard. She could build an engine and often helped the neighbors if they required auto assistance. She had worked in a garage with her father for years and knew more about cars than I could ever hope to. She was a hero to the teenage boys she worked with at the local school, teaching them about engines and automobiles in her spare time. She was independent and strong. Intelligent. I liked her a lot. The past couple of years, her memory had started failing, but she still insisted on looking after herself. I kept an eye on her, as did her other friends. She was well loved.

The house was an old Victorian that she had lived in for decades. The original owners had split it in two, and she lived in the larger part, renting out the smaller side on occasion.

“Only to people I knew,” she had informed me once.

When she decided it was too much space for her, she rented the bigger part to me and lived in the smaller section of the house. I had a kitchen and living room on the main floor, along with an unused room I’d turned into an office. Upstairs were two good-sized bedrooms and a bathroom. Her unit of the house had a living room, eat-in kitchen, and back stairs that led up to one bedroom and a bathroom that took up the entire floor. Each dwelling had a half bath on the main floor and a stackable laundry unit. The front porch was divided by a small partial wall, the doors to each unit side by side. Lou had used the front door as her main entrance, and I used the back door most of the time. She liked to sit on her porch and sip tea usually laced with brandy. I used the deck I built out back, although some days I joined her for tea. Some nights she joined me at the fire pit out back, and we sat in comfortable silence, neither of us needing to talk.

Over time, I started cutting the grass, helping with repairs, and general upkeep. I enjoyed using my hands, and as I was part of a firefighter squad, we helped each other out with various personal projects. We redid the front porch and the overhang that was sagging for her. Repaired the back door. Added a small deck to her back area, then a pergola for shade. Lou was always grateful, paid for the supplies, and thanked us with a great meal and baked goods.

One day about eight months ago, she fell down the staircase and broke her hip. It didn’t heal well, and she wasn’t able to look after herself or manage the steps anymore. It also affected her memory even more and killed her independence. She never returned to the house, going into a home instead. I visited her often, and one day, she’d looked at me over her cup of tea.

“I’m not able to come back to the house.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“I’m going to sell it.”

“I want to buy it,” I responded.

“I thought as much. I’ll sell it to you on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“I need you to keep the apartment empty for a while. I have someone who might need a place. I’ll take the costs of the upkeep on it out of the house sale price. You can charge them a fair rent.”

I paused. “So, a tenant.”

“You okay with that?”

“I had planned on reverting it back to a one-family place,” I admitted. “I don’t really want to be a landlord.”

“I need this, Jesse.”

I studied her, seeing her determination. She was a great lady and had been good to me. She had a few friends, no family I knew of, aside from a little girl she referred to as Pixie on occasion, who I gathered was the daughter of a friend she no longer kept in touch with. And a young man she spoke of on occasion lately. Some IT specialist who lived out west.

“KC might need a place,” she explained. “It’s only for a year or so. Maybe less.”