The Unknown Malone

Nicole’s knife stilled in her hands. Carpentry? Helper?

She stood frozen over the food, an instant replay of their meeting outside running before her eyes, embarrassment warming her neck and cheeks. All around her were signs of remodeling. And nowhere in sight were the ladies, whose colorful stories she’d heard about in Livingston

“Sorry. Guess I should have put the location in the ad,” Michael said behind her. “You’re right. It’s probably a two-hour drive. Uh-huh. Perfectly understandable. Well, good luck.”

Nicole heard him hang up the phone, but she kept her back to him, wondering how she could begin to explain, if she should even try. She cut the sandwiches diagonally and on second thought put three halves on each plate. She added chips and pickles, then carried it all to the cozy table in front of the window.

Before he could join her, one of her sandwich halves had disappeared along with most of her chips. Michael pulled out a chair and sat down, fascinated with the steady rhythm of her hand to mouth to plate and back.

“Some kind of fad diet you got there.”

She continued shoveling it in, not meeting his gaze, too intent on the business at hand. When she’d finished the last of it she sat back and closed her eyes, seeming to relish the moment.

Michael picked at his food, his appetite having left him when he realized he’d fallen prey to this hapless creature. It was obvious she was hungry and had been for some time, which meant she was broke, which meant he couldn’t send her off if he wanted to.

What bothered him most was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

There was something more than met the eye here. One moment she was cocky and confident, the next a frightened kitten.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” She was staring at his untouched half sandwich and pickle.

He pushed his plate over and she helped herself.

“Where else have you tried to find work?”

She held up a finger, finished chewing, then said, “You name it.” She polished off his dill pickle in three efficient bites, then carried both plates to the sink where she rinsed and stacked them. Then she put everything away and cleaned off the counter, looking as though she’d done this all her life, that this was her home instead of his.

Now she stood in front of him, hands on hips. “Well, I can swing a hammer as well as the next. Paint, wallpaper. Whatever.”

“Have you considered getting a job as a cook instead of... instead.”

She crossed her arms and glared at him, looking insulted that he might suggest she came for anything other than a carpenter’s helper, when he knew full well she hadn’t

“I need a job with room and board.” It was more a statement of fact than a request, a certain sound of assurance in her voice telegraphing this was a done deal.

Heaven help him. She was moving in. His gut told him it was true before the words took shape in his head.

He went to the cupboard and started rummaging.

“What are you doing?” she asked, standing close enough that he caught a whiff of her perfume, her words sending a soft puff of warm air skittering over his free arm.

“Looking for the antacid.”

“Have you ever tried laughter instead?”

He found the bottle, uncapped it and downed a healthy swig. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She cocked her head in a too-adorable way and said, “You ought to loosen up a little, Michael. Look at that frown on your forehead.”

When had they gotten on a first-name basis? And when had her voice changed? It seemed different somehow. Whatever was going on, he knew he’d better take charge of this situation right here and now.

“Look, Nic—Ms. Bedder. You can stay here for a few days and cook...in exchange for room and board.” She eyed him for a moment, looking as though she were taking his measure and had suddenly become wary of his intentions, which seemed strange, since she was a woman willing to sell her body to a perfect stranger.

Something just wasn’t adding up. But for now it didn’t matter. All he wanted to do was make one thing perfectly clear.

“Just a few days, while you look for a job elsewhere. Agreed?”

A slow smile reappeared on her full lips, exposing small, white, perfect teeth. “Agreed.”

Nicole raced over the brick walk toward her trusted Chevy until she came to the path’s end. There she turned and surveyed the sprawling Victorian, its turrets and furbelows adding grace and beauty to the valley it inhabited. It was a grand old lady, she thought, before turning and tiptoeing over the gravel and popping open her trunk. She could do a lot worse than stay here.

Yet stay she would. And not for a few days, either. Somehow she would convince that——that macho cowboy—that she was the right person for the job. A salaried one, at that. She’d never been afraid of hard work, and after a few good meals her strength would surely return.

Inside her duffel she found comfortable sandals and breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped them onto her hot feet. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she indulged in a moment of optimism. What if this turned out to be more than a means to an end? Maybe she wouldn’t have to take the money and run. It could be the perfect place for—

She was getting ahead of herself. First things first.

When she started back for the house, she saw Michael standing in the doorway, his face lost in shadow. He was waiting for her and watching, not moving a muscle. She tried to recapture her earlier persona as she strode toward him, but she knew some of the cockiness had abandoned her. There was something about fainting that made that role no longer plausible. Something about him carrying her inside that made her feel...

She closed the distance between them and concentrated on the present. He held the door open and she squeezed through the narrow space between him and the door frame. The scent of aftershave floated on a breeze, and she moved quickly, suddenly uneasy.

He took her duffel and said, “Follow me.”

They crossed through French doors that led to the west wing, stopping when they reached the first room to the right. He stepped back and with a wave of his arm motioned her in.

“This will be your room.”

There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, which confused her. Until she stood m the doorway and looked in. Then she froze, dill pickles revisiting the back of her throat.

“The previous owner had a son. All the other bedrooms are in various degrees of disrepair, so I guess this will have to be it.”

In front of her was a young boy’s room, decorated in red, white and blue, a twin bed the shape of a race car with an appropriate spread. She took an involuntary step backward, a sharp intake of air sounding loud to her own ears. Her back hit Michael’s chest, but he didn’t move. Instead he gripped her shoulders and held her firm.

“You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”

She closed her eyes to what was in front of her and took a cleansing breath. It was only then she realized his hands were still on her. Warm and gentle.

She turned quickly, breaking contact. “N-no, of course not.”

He slanted her a disbelieving frown, then turned. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”

She vaguely remembered Michael showing her the sitting room next to hers and beyond that his own room, but whatever else she’d seen, Nicole would have to explore another time, the image of this room having occupied her thoughts.

She sat gingerly on the race car bed, buried her face in her hands and wondered for what cruel deed she was being punished to be sentenced to this room. Tenaciously, behind the darkness of her fingers, burned bright a dirt-smudged, freckled face.

No! She leaped from the bed and paced to the long, narrow window. She couldn’t afford the luxury of self-pity. There was a job to be done, money to earn. People in need.

Compartmentalize, she lectured herself. As often was the case, she imagined her heart as a large warehouse with many private chambers, each storing its own joys and pain, some atrophied with neglect, others—such as the one she accessed now—ripe with worry and longing.