Two Family Home Page 2

  “And how did you get to the bottom of that situation?”

  “I just asked Mary Beth.”

  “So conventional. You’re losing your touch, Linds.”

  “Well, I thought about pulling up the floors to make sure there wasn’t a body buried underneath the house, but asking seemed more eff icient.”

  “You really are growing up, aren’t you?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “I just think it’s odd that you haven’t met this Walker fellow, that’s all.”

  “He’s just quiet. And he’s busy. He’s an artist. He probably has a show coming up.”

  “And you’re not the least bit curious? You?”

  Lindsey knew her mother was teasing, but also that she was not. She would be uneasy until she had confirmation that her daughter was not living next to a convicted serial killer, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d used Lindsey’s nosiness to get the scoop for herself.

  It was bad enough that, the night before her parents left to fly back to Phoenix, they sat her down and had a Serious Conversation about how they were proud of her and they knew she wanted to spread her wings a little, but wouldn’t she prefer if they put a down payment on a condo in Phoenix to tide her over until she could find a job a little closer to home?

  She didn’t. She expressed her gratitude—again—after they helped her unload all the stuff stuffed in her hatchback into her new, cute apartment, and she got them safely to the airport. Then she went home to the fireplace and the shabby garden and the mysterious neighbor.

  It wasn’t that Lindsey wasn’t curious. That was why she had Googled Walker Smith before she had even unpacked her underwear. And, of course, went right to the images.

  There were a lot of Walker Smiths, none of whom fit the criteria she got from Mary Beth. So Lindsey used skills honed by years of insatiable curiosity (not stalking) and searched for “Walker Smith, Kentucky.” The search results didn’t include any people at all. Instead, there were pictures of metal sculptures, harsh-looking landscapes jutting from gallery walls. Kind of cool. But not really an insight into the guy next door.

  “I don’t know about this, Linds . . .”

  Lindsey could sense that her mother was about to go into one of her here’s-how-I’d-handle-the-situation speeches, which were really this-is-what-I-expect-you-to-do speeches. Logic was no match for her mother’s well-meaning paranoia, as Lindsey knew. She tried for redirection.

  “Hey, remember that church across the street?”

  “Are they snake handlers? I knew it.”

  Oh my god, Lindsey thought. I am never letting her back to Kentucky. She’ll offend everyone.

  Or she should come here more often to get rid of some of those ridiculous stereotypes she was harboring.

  No, probably better just to keep her out of the state.

  “It’s not a church at all. It’s an antique store.”

  That was a little generous, but “junk shop” didn’t sound like the kind of thing that would calm her mother down.

  “I found the cutest couch. It’s blue! Blue velvet!”

  “What? Lindsey! We told you we would buy you furniture!”

  “Okay, well, you can send me fifty bucks.”

  Her mother sighed. Again. “Well, at least it was a bargain.”

  “Delivery included.”

  “That’s big of them. Across the street. Are you sure you can trust those delivery people?”

  “Mom!”

  “Fine. I just worry about you being murdered in your sleep.”

  The thought had crossed Lindsey’s mind—however much she did not want to admit it, she was her mother’s daughter. But Lindsey had checked and double checked the locks, used the chains on both the front and the back doors, and even went over the shared wall, looking for holes.

  She was definitely her mother’s daughter.

  But she was confident that this place was safe, and that if it wasn’t, she could take care of herself. She had mace, she knew self-defense, and she had the wife of the chief of police on speed dial.

  “Anyway, I called to tell you about my first day at work.”

  “Oh, yes!” her mother said with suspicious nonchalance. “I forgot that was today! How did it go? What did you wear?”

  Lindsey laughed. “It was great. I wore scrubs.”

  “I hope nobody there is too old.”

  “Well, Mom, it’s a nursing home, so there are a few senior citizens.”

  “I don’t know how you can work in a place like that. It’s so depressing.”

  “This place is nice. There are only about two dozen residents, and the two nurses I’m overseeing have a lot of experience. Besides, when you’re old and decrepit, don’t you want someone like me taking care of you?”

  “I better have you taking care of me when I’m old and decrepit. And you better not move me to Kentucky.”

  Lindsey lay back on the floor and put her feet up on the plastic tote she was using as a temporary coffee table. Despite her sensible nurse shoes, spending all day on her feet yesterday was catching up to her. That, and moving halfway across the country, apartment hunting, and then sleeping on an air mattress. Her bed, supposedly, was being delivered this afternoon. A gift from her parents.

  Lindsey was not too independent to turn down some of their generosity. Not yet, at least.

  She said good-bye to her mother, then let her arms fall out wide on the floor and listened to the sound of the rain pattering outside. And in about five seconds, she was asleep.

  Walker pulled up the long drive to the Shady Grove Nursing Home, cursing the rain. He had hoped it would clear up enough for Myron and him to take a walk. He knew the man didn’t get enough exercise, but he also knew walking on slick sidewalks was not a great idea.

  So he’d sit with Myron in the sunroom and watch all the old ladies flirt with him and listen to all the gossip. For a small nursing home, a surprising amount of drama went down. Last week, Eugene May had staked his claim on Dolores Harper, even though he knew Myron had his eye on her. Walker wasn’t really sure what kind of claim a man in his mid-eighties could stake, and he was fairly certain he didn’t want to know. He just knew Dolores was a sweet woman, and deaf, which was probably why she liked Eugene so much. And Walker didn’t say that just because he was Myron’s arch-rival. The guy was pretty annoying.

  He just hoped it wasn’t arts and crafts day. He still had a Popsicle stick-and-pom–pom crucifix that Gladys Kilburn had made for him a few months ago, and he felt too guilty to throw it out. Then Eugene had to open his big mouth and tell the volunteer leading the class that Walker was an artist (“big-time artist” was the phrase he’d used), and the poor woman wouldn’t stop deferring to Walker for his opinion on her methodology. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but his medium was metal, not pom-poms.

  The whole thing was just all-around awkward, and Walker kind of wanted to turn around and go home to avoid it. But his new tenant was home, and he was avoiding Pollyanna too. So far she had knocked on his door at least once a day, and on the garage door just as often. She left him a plate of brownies on the porch, which an animal must have gotten into. That, or she left him a plate of half-eaten brownies.

  It was too bad. They looked really good.

  Who was he kidding? He just ripped off any part that looked chewed, and had himself brownie for dinner.

  He should just meet her and get it over with. She had signed a one-year lease, so it was unlikely that she was going anywhere. But the more he didn’t meet her, the bigger a deal it seemed, and even though it had only been a few days, he felt too much pressure, like his image as a landlord must have gotten so built up in her mind that there was no way he could live up to it. And what would he say to her, anyway? “Hi, I’m Walker, and I hope to talk to you as little as possible. Welcome to Kentucky.”

  That might get her to stop knocking on his door.

  Or he could just move in with Myron. Walker was starting to get gray hair. Maybe they w
ould relax the age requirement. He could teach art.

  A knock on his window made him jump.

  “Hi, Walker!” Gladys shouted through the glass. Evan, one of the nurses, waved to him meekly from beside her where he held a large golf umbrella over both of their heads.

  Walker rolled his window down. “Hi, Miss Gladys.”

  “I was just thinking the other day—do you remember that crucifix I made you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, do you think you could bring it back the next time you come visit Myron? I want to send it to my great niece. She’s getting married.”

  “Oh, that will be very nice.”

  “Okay, come on, Miss Gladys. Let’s get you in out of the rain,” said Evan. “Walker, Myron will be glad to see you. He’s feeling a little down.”

  Crap. Walker rolled up his window, then climbed out of the truck. He pulled his collar up, as if that would keep him dry, and sprinted through the parking lot. He held the door open for Gladys and Evan, receiving a pinch on his cheek for his trouble.

  He didn’t like to think that Myron was down. Myron was his friend, and a damn good man. Plus, it made Walker feel guilty. Sure, it wasn’t Walker’s fault that Myron needed assisted living. Even though Walker knew he would not have been able to take care of Myron like he needed to be taken care of, even though Walker knew that Myron sometimes got down before he moved into Shady Grove, Walker still felt like there was something he should be doing to make it better.

  Short of actually stopping time, Walker didn’t think there was really anything he could do.

  Well, he could make sure Myron didn’t throw the computer out the window.

  “This goddamn piece of junk!” Myron shouted, slamming the mouse down on the desk.

  “What did that thing ever do to you?”

  Myron looked up at Walker and his eyes softened. But just for a second. “This damn thing is eating my homework.”

  That was new.

  “Tommy’s having trouble with his Pinewood Derby car. He’s sending me a picture, but the damn thing won’t open!”

  “Are you sure? Let me see—”

  “I’m following the exact instructions that librarian gave me. What’s the point of a class about email if we can’t even get our emails?”

  Walker clicked on the attachment. It didn’t open.

  “Oh, look. It doesn’t open for you, either.”

  “Hey Myron. You almost done with that computer?” Eugene approached them. Great, Walker thought. Just what we need.

  “Why, you got a hot date on the internet?”

  “None of your business!”

  “You can have it as soon as I get this damn file open.”

  “Let me see.” For an old guy, Eugene was pretty strong, and he managed to push Walker out of the way and Myron out of his seat. He took the mouse and, with several deft clicks, had the image of a child’s plan for a racecar on the screen.

  “How did you—” Walker started.

  “Now, see if you can print it, Einstein,” Myron said.

  The printer whirred.

  Walker fetched the page. It was perfect.

  “You’re welcome!” said Eugene to Myron’s back.

  “So,” said Walker, following Myron to a large table in the sunroom. “What’s going on?”

  “No, this is all wrong,” said Myron to the paper. “No wonder this thing won’t run. Look at those wheels.” Walker looked. Looked like wooden wheels. “He’s hardly sanded them at all. And he must have used the coarse stuff. Dammit, I told him he needed to use fine grade if he wants to get any speed on those wheels! I gotta call him. Give me your phone.”

  Walker patted his pockets. “Phone’s in the car.”

  “Dammit.” Myron slapped the table. “What am I gonna do with this kid?”

  “Myron,” Walker started. But then he didn’t know how to finish. He thought Myron’s temper was about more than the car, and that the conversation would require some emotional sensitivity and insight.

  Walker had left that in the car, too.

  “Ah, sorry, kid.” Myron took pity on him. He slapped Walker on the back. “I just get upset when I see kids messing up real simple stuff.”

  “I remember.” Walker had, once or twice, been on the receiving end of Myron’s “upset.” When he was the shop teacher at Willow Springs High, Myron’s temper was legendary. But Walker found that, beneath all that bluster, there was a lot to learn from him.

  Afternoons after school in the classroom with Myron Harris were one of his few fond memories of adolescence. Myron would be grading projects or giving detention and Walker would just tinker. That shop was where he first worked with metal. He would work, and Myron would work, occasionally offering tips or criticism, but never making him feel like he wasn’t supposed to be there. It was a refuge for a skinny kid with no friends and a relief to find a creative outlet that had nothing to do with his crappy dad. But the time was far too brief. He was only in Willow Springs for a year, and then it was time to move on again.

  But later, when Walker had saved enough to buy a house, he knew where he wanted to go. Willow Springs was affordable, the people were nice, and he had kept in touch with Myron, even after he retired. It seemed as good a place as any.

  Myron had actually lived in the duplex next door before he bought the house. In fact, Walker was convinced that he got a good price to make up for having to deal with such a cranky tenant. But he and Myron got along great, like they always had. They left each other alone, until they didn’t.

  And now Myron lived in a nursing home, and Walker had rented the apartment out to Pollyanna.

  He ran out to the car for his phone, brought it back into the home, and listened as Myron taught his grandson the proper way to make a wooden speed racer.

  It was so quiet in the house. For the past few days, there had been only two people—the big one and the small one. The small one sure made a lot of noise. And she was outside a lot, playing in his garden. She didn’t even use her paws, just a sharp, shiny thing that flung dirt everywhere. At least now it was raining, which meant she would stay inside. He huddled in his spot under the porch, where it was nice and dry. Except the spot seemed to be getting smaller. So were the holes in the fence. If they got too small, he wouldn’t be able to sneak in and out. He’d be stuck in this yard, with just these two people.

  Oh, well. The dirt smelled good, and it was dry. He listened to the rain fall, and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 3

  Weather!

  So far that was Lindsey’s favorite thing about Kentucky, after the really nice people, the total lack of traffic, and the biscuits. Yesterday had been overcast and rainy, and she was stiff from falling asleep on the floor (which she blamed on the nap-inducing gloomy weather). Today was hot and sunny, like she was used to, but it was also humid, which she was not. Like, inside someone’s mouth humid. Her hair was a frizzy mess that no ponytail could contain, and she was afraid to get up from the plastic chair on her front porch, lest she leave half of the back of her thigh on it.

  Even as she sweated—just from sitting! And it wasn’t even really that hot out!—she appreciated the variety. Arizona was hot and dry all the time. And even though her parents’ friends told her she would hate the humidity, Lindsey wasn’t there yet. Probably by the end of the summer, but for now, she was still loving it.

  It was just the right amount of change, just what she’d been looking for. She didn’t want to climb mountains or shave her head. She just wanted something . . . different. Different from the life she’d always had: nice weather, great parents, lovely friends she’d known forever. It was all nice. Nothing to complain about.

  But it wasn’t enough. And Lindsey thought that if she just shook things up a little, she’d get out of the rut she was feeling.

  If that didn’t work, she’d shave her head.

  That would solve the frizz problem, at least.

  For now, she had to be satisfied with sitting on her porch
, sticking to her chair and thinking about how, in a few months, she’d be shoveling snow. She’d never shoveled snow before. She propped her flip-flopped feet on the porch rail and sipped her iced tea.

  She felt like a real Southerner, sipping tea on the porch. Not sweet tea, though—that had been a real surprise yesterday when she went to the diner for lunch. When they called it sweet tea, they really meant it. She’d had to chase it with about a gallon of water, it was so sugary. Now she was rocking her favorite decaf blend, brewed in the sun. Her fancy artisanal iced tea, at least, was one holdover from her old life she wasn’t going to get rid of any time soon. She was about to call her mom to tell her that, but then she remembered it was two hours earlier in Arizona and Mom never got up before nine on the weekend unless it was an emergency.

  So Lindsey took a non-emergency selfie and sent it to her. Not murdered. Awaiting couch. Drinking tea. Much love.

  “Tea that good?”

  She dropped her phone, embarrassed, to see Josh McGuire from the junk store pull into the driveway with his van windows down. He slowed, and the van backfired, sending Lindsey’s tea all over the porch.

  “Yup.” She smiled, wiping her hand on her shorts. “Want some?”

  “Sure.” She ran inside to get him a glass, and when she came out, he’d taken up residence on the other plastic chair. “Nothing like tea on a hot day, huh?” he asked, taking the glass from her.

  He took a sip. Then sputtered all over the porch.

  “Sorry,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I was expecting sweet tea.”

  “I’m working up to it. This is just regular old perfect sun tea.”

  He gamely took another sip. “Mmm.” He raised his glass to her, then set it on the porch. “Dad and I loaded the van last night. I’m just waiting for him so we can unload it. I don’t suppose you’ve seen his truck, have you?” Dad was Sam McGuire, who allegedly ran the junk store. From what Lindsey had seen, Josh did most of the running.

  “No, although to be fair, I’m not sure I would recognize it.”

  “It’s red with green flames on the side.”

  “Ah. No, I haven’t seen that one.”