Chapter 15: : Chapter 15

Dean Cooper dropped in three times while they worked on his daughter’s bathroom. Nash figured he couldn’t help himself.

Dean also made clear he wanted whatever Sloan wanted, which, with Nash’s history, came as a novel parental stance.

He swung in twice at the Littlefields’ next door while the subs worked on the electric and plumbing. He even walked around with the inspector—another friend, no surprise to Nash at this point.

It took some juggling and a lot of long days, but they managed to keep the balls in the air.

Dean dropped by again as Nash and Theo finished up the bathroom job.

“It looks damn good. I wondered about the tile, but Sloan knows what she wants.”

“Clearly,” Nash agreed.

Pride showed as Dean looked around the bathroom.

“She got the design gene from her mother. Some of that’s rubbed off on me over the years, but she got it from Elsie. Good, quick work here, Fix-Its.”

“We were lucky we didn’t run into anything behind the walls.”

Nash installed a towel rod while Theo handled switch plates.

“She’s going to be happy with this. Where’s Robo?”

“I sent him to start a paint job. He can more than handle it solo, and it’s pretty tight in here.”

Tic bounced over to attack Nash’s bootlaces.

“Speaking of which. Theo, I can finish here. It’s just a little punch out and cleanup. Take this idiot dog home. Walk him over and you can start taping drywall.”

“Got the drywall up? I’ll give you and the pup a lift, Theo. Going your way.”

“Good deal. Come on, Tic, let’s go for a ride.”

The word ride always sent Tic into yips of joy. He rushed out toward the door before Theo edged out after him.

“You and Theo sure came along at the right moment,” Dean commented. “First time I’ve had breathing room since my contractor started making serious retirement noises.”

“We aim to please.”

“You’re hitting the mark.” He glanced around the bathroom again. “She’s going to be happy with this,” he said again. “See you around.”

No doubt of that, Nash thought.

He considered himself lucky that he sincerely liked Dean and Elsie Cooper—and it appeared to be mutual. On a personal level, because his brother was well and truly stuck on their younger daughter. Professionally, they did excellent work, and valued others who did the same. They’d given the business he and Theo began a good solid jump in Heron’s Rest.

He finished installing the rod, then the smaller one for hand towels by the sink. The robe hook. He took a good look around, making sure he’d missed nothing, that the paint didn’t need touching up anywhere.

He carted out the trash first, and noticed Theo had neglected to grab the dog’s chew toy. Picking it up, he stuck it in his pocket, then returned to pack up his tools.

He carried them out, then went back to wipe up.

He set her house key on the kitchen counter and had reached for his coat when the front door opened.

“You’re here early.”

“You’re here late.”

He glanced at the time. “Looks like we’re both right.” He picked up her key. “All done,” he said, and put it down again.

“Done? As in finished? I figured another day on it. I’ve gotta see!”

Still wearing coat and hat, she strode toward the bathroom. She’d seen the progress, he thought, but finished? A whole different ball game.

“Well, God. Yes!”

He strolled over to stand in the doorway while she touched everything.

“Good pick on the shower tiles,” he commented. “I wasn’t sure about that blue until it started going up. It’s got movement, variation in tone. Doing the subways horizonal, floor to ceiling, adds depth. Wasn’t sure about the wall color either, but that barest hint of blue in it works, and so does continuing it on the ceiling.

“Light wood on the vanity,” he continued, “that bit of blue veining on the white countertop, the other cabinet and shelves, those natural wood touches. Good choice on the penny tile, carrying it from the shower floor and out.”

“It’s beautiful. It’s really beautiful.” She ran her fingers over the top of the cabinet he’d built, imagined putting flowers on it, or candles. Or both!

“You were right about the cabinet. It’s perfect, and such good craftmanship.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s such good light now. I won’t look like a ghoul in the mirror.”

“That would take some doing.”

“I can’t believe how perfect … damn it!”

“Problem?”

“Yes, there’s a problem.” She waved him aside, marched out, then pointed at her fireplace. “How the hell am I supposed to have that perfect bathroom, and look at that?”

He only said, “Ah.”

“I’m supposed to wait at least two months—I planned it out. Three’s better, but I could do two, then hit this room. Then a few months later maybe—maybe—think about the kitchen. Or if the weather allows, start on the exterior, leave the kitchen for now. The bedroom can wait. I mostly only sleep there, and I sleep with my eyes closed.”

“Hey, me, too. That’s amazing.”

“Shut up. But I spend time out here in the evenings, and I’ll want a fire in that brick ugliness right into April. And if I cave and do something with that ugliness, I can’t leave the walls like this, or the trim, and that horrible popcorn ceiling must go.”

Nash glanced up. “Should be illegal anyway.”

“Yes!” She high-fived him. “And I can’t keep that hideous ceiling light up there. You know this!”

Diplomacy mattered in business, Nash thought. He decided on “Well, hmm.”

“And I can’t just paint over the ugly of that brick because all that brick is too heavy for the size of the room. Heavier yet with that stupid skinny mantel.”

She turned, stared at him.

Diplomacy and honesty mattered.

“I sense you might want me to disagree with that, but I can’t.”

“If you did, I’d know you lie.”

Studying, surveying, she pushed the brim of her hat up about an inch.

And he felt something stir inside him he recognized as pure and simple lust.

“Then if I do something with it,” she went on, “I’d need to bring out the hearth another couple inches because it’s too narrow, and replace the mantel because it’s too small and flimsy-looking, and the hearth frame is old, dated, stupid-looking.”

“I don’t lie, as a rule anyway.” Amused by her, Nash spread his hands and hoped the lust died down. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

“But I’m not tearing that brick out.”

“No need to. It’s sturdy, and they mortared well.”

“I’m going to go with stucco. A simple look, a chunkier mantel. I have to at least ask my dad on that. I can’t give him two hits in a row. But the rest.”

Now she pointed at Nash.

“Popcorn ceiling goes away. New trim, paint. New light.”

He glanced up at the close-to-ceiling trio of flute-edged amber glass. “Yeah, that’s an unfortunate ceiling light.”

“Recessed lighting. Four cans would do in this size space. Five,” she corrected. “One right as you come in the front door.”

“Cleaner look. On dimmer switch?”

“Yes. And shit, another down each hallway, on separate switches. Damn it, damn it. I’m getting a glass of wine. Do you want one?”

The offer surprised him, and he realized it shouldn’t have.

The Coopers had friendly in their DNA.

If he had to live with the lust, at least he could have a drink.

“I can handle one, considering my short commute. Do you want me to measure while I’m here?”

“I’ve already got the measurements.” She brought out the wine, what he recognized as a very nice Cab.

“Why don’t I pour that, and you can take off your coat? Hat’s optional.”

“Right.”

She walked to the closet, and to his mild disappointment, took off the hat, too.

“Well, damn it, this closet door has to go, too, doesn’t it?”

At this point, he couldn’t stop the grin.

“I didn’t want to mention it.”

“Single-panel Shaker style, same natural wood as the bathroom. And I am not replacing the rest now. Just the closet. Okay, fine, the closet and the bathroom door, but that’s it.”

She walked back, picked up her wine, drank deep. “If I’m doing this, the floors need to be sanded. The ones in the bedrooms are fine. They were protected under the ugly carpet. These, sanded, stained to match, sealed.”

She drank again. “This is going to cost me. I can’t even really blame you because I’m the one who decided to redo the bathroom ahead of schedule.”

Damn it, over and above the lust, he just liked her.

“We did have the nerve to do exceptional work. I can take part of the blame.”

This time when she sipped her wine, she smiled over it. “I guess I can’t hold it against you. I was perfectly happy just to have my own place. Thrilled, actually. And I love this spot. Now I have that perfect little bathroom, and the rest of the house is jealous.”

“I hear that.”

“Do you?”

“We redid the main-level powder room in our place. I figured we’d just get our hands in, get a simple—fairly simple—room done. Now we’ve torn out the kitchen, and there’s nothing simple about it.”

“Because the kitchen said: What about me?”

“What it said to me is: What the fuck? You’re just going to leave me like this?”

She laughed, quick and throaty. “It was pretty bad according to Drea. Worse than mine. Do you cook?”

“I didn’t until I moved here. Now it’s a very dubious event. Do you?”

“I’m not bad. Ranking in my family goes Mom, Dad, Drea, me, but my mother sets a high bar.”

She looked around again. “I’ll send you the measurements after I talk to Dad. And I’m not talking to him until tomorrow. I may still come to my senses.”

“You won’t.”

Now those eyes of hers gave him a measuring stare. “Won’t I?”

“No, because you already see it.”

She sighed once and sighed long. “I do already see it. And I know I’m going to spend too much time tonight looking through my paint fan, looking up fireplace fronts.”

“I’ll let you get started on that. I’ve got to get going. Somebody has to nuke dinner, and Theo’s worse than I am. Thanks for the wine.”

“You earned it. Let Theo and Robo know it’s exactly what I wanted.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

When he went out, she topped off her wine.

She supposed liking Theo’s brother was a positive thing. She liked his looks, sure—who wouldn’t?—but she liked his style just as much.

And she’d think about the little extra buzz she’d felt later.

Right now, she’d cart her things back to her pretty bathroom, hang her towels—which should probably be replaced with new now. She’d set candles on her new little cabinet, and enjoy a nice long shower surrounded by lovely blue tiles.

Then she’d get in her pj’s and make herself … something for dinner. And she’d look through her paint fan.

Sipping, she scowled at the brick wall of her fireplace.

“This is all on you.”

February ushered in a respiratory virus that knocked people down like bowling pins. Because she managed to dodge it, Sloan spent the next two weeks juggling schedules and covering for those who were laid flat.

Since she’d seen Drea’s misery, and heard Travis’s lingering cough when he returned to work, she pulled out all her gratitude. But even grateful, double shifts and covering weekends took their toll.

She knew her dad jumped right on the fireplace project, as she noted his progress whenever she managed to get home for some sleep, but she didn’t see him.

Or Nash—Drea had passed her clogged head, tender throat, and low-grade fever on to Theo. But she noted the despised popcorn ceiling was no more, and neither was the clunky, too-big, too-dark trim and baseboard.

But the fever—literally—began to break. The day she drove home under ten hours since she’d driven away, she vowed to make herself an actual meal.

Maybe catch up on the like-crimes research she’d had to set aside. Hell, she might even read a chapter of her book or watch a little TV before getting a regular night’s sleep instead of dropping into oblivion.

To add to the miracle, she had the whole weekend off. At last.

The brief February thaw had swung back hard to serious winter. Snow might have held off, but the frigid air winging down from Canada kept the lake frozen.

She had some regret she couldn’t light a fire, but the wait would be worth it.

When she pulled in, she saw both her father’s truck and Nash’s. So no silence and solitude, she thought as she squeezed in beside Nash, but she’d happily trade that for more progress on her living room.

She had to climb over the seat, get out the passenger side and into about a foot of snow.

Also worth it, as she wouldn’t need to come back out to move her truck to let the others out.

She knocked off her boots at the door, then just pulled them off before she went in.

And found her father, and her mother, standing in the living room with Nash. Elsie let out a peal of laughter, then turned.

“Sloan! We weren’t sure when you’d get home. I came over with your dad. I left you some chicken soup. I made a tanker full. Nash is taking some home, and we’re dropping off some for Drea. She’s doing much better—Theo, too—but chicken soup never hurts.”

“Yours especially. I— Oh!”

She’d started to take off her coat when the room itself rather than the people in it registered.

Instead of dreary, her walls now gleamed in the palest of pale green that reflected the last, lingering light of the day. Instead of an eyesore, her fireplace now stood as focal point, with its smooth stucco in a deeper, moodier green and chunky white oak mantel.

Dean grinned. “I think she likes it.”

“It’s wonderful. I don’t have enough wows. My dad’s a genius.”

“Well, yeah.” He laughed when she threw her arms around him.

“You’ve already got a fire set and ready to light.”

“That’s for you,” he told her. “You’ve been working such long hours, we didn’t want to start one before you got home. Go ahead, light her up.”

“I will. Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” Then the other.

“You’re welcome.” He kissed hers. “You’re welcome.” Then the other.

“And the walls look great, Littlefield,” she added as she walked over, then crouched to light the fire. “You got the lights in the popcorn-free ceiling. The crappy trim’s gone.”

“Robo’s a painting machine.”

“That may be,” Elsie said to Nash, “but he didn’t know it. He’s doing good work for you, and looks happy doing it.” She turned a half circle one way, then the other. “It’s starting to look like you, baby.”

“Not finished? Work still required?”

“Pretty,” Elsie corrected. “With easy style and the occasional flash.” She gestured to the red chair. “I want to know when you’re ready to tackle the kitchen. I’ve got ideas.”

“I’ll take them, but that’s going to wait awhile.”

“Do you have to work tomorrow?”

“I don’t.” She pumped both fists in the air. “The weekend is mine at last.”

“Terrific. Dinner Sunday then. You and Theo, too, Nash.”

“Oh, well—”

Elsie pointed at him. “Man does not live by microwave alone.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I am. Sunday dinner, six o’clock. Dean, we should get going. I want to get this soup to Drea.” As she spoke she stepped over to hug Sloan, slid the back of her hand under Sloan’s bangs to check for fever.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Just making sure. Oh, and I brought over some mirrors I had in storage,” she added as Dean got her coat, helped her on with it. “In the box on your counter. That wall there? Mirrors, if you like them. Enjoy your fireplace.”

“Believe me, I will.”

“See you and Theo Sunday, Nash.”

When they left, Nash began to pack up his tools as Sloan hung up her coat.

“You don’t know Elsie Cooper all that well yet,” she said casually. “I’m going to help you out. There’s no point in trying to think of an excuse for Sunday.”

“I don’t want to horn in on family.”

“She wouldn’t have asked if she considered it horning in. She likes to cook for people. Hence, you and Theo, and I, are having homemade chicken soup tonight. It won’t be fancy,” she added. “She’ll fuss a little because you’re company, but you’ll know what fork to use and can leave your tux at home.”

“But I look so good in it.”

Head tilted, she gave him a sweeping glance. Workingman’s jeans and flannel shirt, tool belt, Mets cap, boots. He looked good in it. And in a tux? Yeah, she could see it.

“Bet you do. How’s Theo?”

“He’s crawled out of the hole. He was still sitting on the edge of it this morning, so I told him I’d kick his ass if he came near me for another twenty-four.”

“Smart. Drea’s taken a few solid steps from the edge, but she caught it first. Being in love means sharing germs.”

“That’s one way to look at it. Is she?”

“What?”

“Stupid question.” He made a wiping away gesture. “One I shouldn’t ask.” She was too easy to talk to, he realized, and that made him forget the boundary lines. “Pretend I didn’t.”

“Oh, Drea. Why shouldn’t you ask? You’re his brother, I’m her sister. She’s crazy about him. I don’t have to ask the question in reverse because I have eyes. But you could let him know, if you so choose, if he screws this up, hurts her in any way—”

“You’ll kick his ass. I can’t make that statement in reverse for obvious reasons. I’ll just buy him the beer he can cry into.”

“It’ll be wine and ice cream on this end. But I don’t think they will. Screw it up.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ve got something.”

She said it so simply it sounded like truth.

“And they’re both nice people,” she continued. “Not stupid, not spineless, just nice people who know entirely too much minutia on the Marvel Universe.”

“Her, too?” Amused, he reached for his coat. “We used to hide the comic books under the mattress.”

“Why would you have to hide them?”

He caught himself for the second time, had to wonder how that had slipped out. “No time to read about Iron Man when you’re supposed to read Moby-Dick.”

“I always liked the first sentence. ‘Call me Ishmael.’ Then, for me, it goes downhill from there.”

“It’s all an allegory.”

“Yeah, so was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’ll take that over the white whale any day.”

He laughed. “I missed that one. The Buffy thing.”

“Stream the first season sometime. Little blond girl doesn’t run from darkness. She walks into darkness to fight evil, finds her power and purpose, all while navigating the many, many terrors of high school.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“And thanks for dealing with the popcorn in the kitchen, too.”

He hadn’t seen her so much as glance at the kitchen.

“While we were at it. Your father is a genius, by the way. That’s one great-looking fireplace.”

“It really is. See you Sunday.”

He winced at that, but had the sense to wait until he’d walked outside. He liked the Coopers, and liked them a great deal.

He wasn’t antisocial. He wasn’t on Theo’s level of social, which hit way over his limit. He was, Nash decided, social neutral. He liked people well enough, even though people constantly made a mess of things for other people.

And when they got done, the people they’d made a mess of things for made a mess of things for them.

It just went round and round.

He had a circle of friends in New York, and stayed in touch. Even though most of them thought he’d lost his mind when he’d made this life change.

He even intended to have some friends come down for a weekend once he had the house done.

He stood by his truck a moment and studied how close Sloan had parked to the other side. Maybe an inch to spare. The woman was lean, but not that lean.

She’d climbed over to get out the passenger door.

He found her an interesting mix—of what, he hadn’t decided, but an interesting mix.

He couldn’t figure out why a woman looked sexy wearing a tie, but she pulled that one off.

He eased into reverse, then navigated a three-point turn to head down her bump-filled drive.

Sunday dinner. Might as well admit why that had his shoulders tensing. Whenever they’d happened during his childhood, they’d marked a day of stress, stiffness, interrogations, disapproval, and misery.

Sitting in the formal dining room like characters in a badly written play. The starch in the collar of his white dress shirt—required attire—rubbing at his neck. Sit up straight, don’t slouch. Two hours—set your watch by it—and five courses served by the silent staff, who, on occasion, might send a look of sympathy to him and Theo.

If you didn’t like what they served, you ate it anyway, without complaint or comment.

Otherwise, you still had to eat every bite, but you had to swallow the lecture with it.

He’d have preferred a solid smack to those endless, soul-sucking lectures.

No one physically slapped, but those Sunday dinners still left a mark.

“Deal with it, Littlefield,” he muttered as he pulled up to his own home. “You’re all grown up now.”

Sam spent whatever free time he could steal working on the van. The February virus caused both his work and Clara’s to run shorthanded, and for Clara, added patients.

But he’d managed an hour here, two hours there, carefully followed the instructions and videos he’d found online.

He had to be glad they’d decided to keep their cars and save the van for the mission. They’d considered selling at least one car—he still had payments on his—but they’d decided the mission was too important to risk adding unnecessary miles, risking a breakdown, even an accident.

He’d had his ear pressed to the news, too, but hadn’t heard anything about the police looking for a white van.

Still, he knew—he watched TV!—the cops held stuff back. So happy they could keep the van home and he could get it all painted fresh and new.

It was damn cold work, even though he’d jury-rigged a kind of tent over it, had a space heater going.

When he had it finished, tested to make sure the paint was good and dry, he went inside for Clara.

He found her just pushing up from the couch.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I meant to get a meal going, but I fell asleep, just dropped right off sitting here folding laundry.”

“No wonder, you’ve been working night and day. You’re looking flushed.”

“I think I’ve got a fever. Throat’s scratchy. It’s no surprise I’d catch this damn thing.”

“You’re calling in sick to work for tomorrow. Monday, too.”

“I hate doing that.” She held a hand up to her neck, as even speaking felt like broken glass scraping the inside of her throat. “But I can’t go in if I’m running a fever.”

“You’re going to get yourself into bed, babe. I’ll make you some soup, some toast, some tea.”

He laid a hand on her forehead. “You’re warm, all right. I’m going to tuck you in, but first, I’ve got something might perk you up.”

He wrapped a throw around her shoulders, walked her to the door.

He opened the door, said: “Ta-da!”

“Sam!” His name came out in a croak, but didn’t lack enthusiasm. “It looks beautiful. Why, you’d think it just came off the lot and was that color all along!”

“The navy blue you wanted.”

“I just love how it looks. Why, it’s painted just like a professional would.”

She didn’t mention the blue hazed some under the windshield wipers, or on the edge of the right headlight.

He’d worked so hard!

“When you’re feeling all better, we’ll take it out for a drive. Now, let’s get you in bed. Don’t you worry about the laundry. I’ll get it folded.”

“Oh, Sam, that’s not your job.”

“It’s my job until my woman’s well again. I’ll take care of you until you are.”

Emotion choked her; fatigue drained her. “You always take care of me.”

“Extra-special care.”

He helped her off with her shoes, helped her change into a nightgown. Then plumped up the pillows so she could sit up in bed.

“I’ll get the thermometer and some cold meds. Then make you that soup.”

“I do feel poorly.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be right here. We’ll take your temperature, and you call in. You need a couple days, babe, and you’ve been picking up the slack for others who needed it. You got sick because you were there to help others.”

“That’s what we do. We were called to help. I could sure use that tea, doll, with some honey. My throat’s just raw.” A cough snuck up on her and hurt like fire.

“I’ll put the kettle on, and get your phone. How about I set up the laptop in here for you, so you can watch a movie or something?”

“You think of everything.”

“I think of you, Clara.” Gently, he smoothed a blanket over her. “Night and day, day and night. You just rest now, and let me take care of everything.”

She lay back, closed her eyes. She was the luckiest woman in this world.

She sent out a prayer of thanks.