Michael's Baby

His passionate reply clearly startled her. He saw the way her blue eyes opened wide, her long lashes dark against her creamy white skin. He wondered who she was visiting in the building.

“So are you going to buzz someone to let us in?” she asked.

“Most of the intercom system is busted. Those that do work are in apartments where the occupants are halfdeaf.” He was referring to the Stephanopolises, Mrs. Wieskopf and Mrs. Martinez, quelling the flash of guilt he felt at referring to them in such a way. His parents had taught him to respect his elders. But surely not when they took pleasure in torturing him the way his tenants did.

“If the intercom is broken, then I guess there’s just one thing to do,” Brett said. “Put that doorknob back on.” Seeing his distrustful look, she added, “Look, I know what I’m doing. Actually, I’m here to interview for the building supervisor’s job. It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

The man’s expression darkened as he frowned at her. “What kind of story is that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a woman.”

“That’s right. So?”

“The ad said I was looking for someone with experience. A handyman.”

“You? But I thought you said the owner was a no-good con artist?”

“That’s the guy who dumped the place on me. I’m just, the poor idiot who got stuck with this monstrosity.”

Her look clearly told him that she thought he was an idiot for questioning her skills. She was kind of pretty, with her short dark hair and those blue eyes with their smudgy thick lashes. Seeing the sprinkling of freckles across her cute nose, he was willing to bet she had Irish blood. She looked wholesome. His mother would approve of her. But then Michael had never dated women his mother would approve of.

She was wearing a down coat and a strange woolen hat—beret, he corrected himself. Whatever it was called, it wasn’t real practical for keeping body warmth in. Around her neck was a bright-colored scarf that looked like it had been knitted by a bunch of color-blind elves. She had nice legs encased in tight jeans and on her feet were a pair of heavy-duty hiking boots.

“As the poor idiot who owns this place,” she said, “maybe it would be best if you conducted our interview inside. It’s not much warmer in here than it is outside. Are you going to give me the doorknob to fix or not?”

“Not,” he said.

She sighed. “Why not?”

“Because things are bad enough already. I don’t want them getting any worse.”

“Then how about I talk you through fixing the knob yourself?” she suggested with the patience of someone addressing a troublesome two-year-old who was refusing to eat his vegetables. “I’ve got a small screwdriver on my Swiss knife.” She reached into her purse and pulled it out.

“I’ll do that,” Michael said, taking the knife from her. He wasn’t sure he could trust her not to run him through with it. She looked aggravated enough with him to try. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Brett. Brett Munro.”

“You signed your application letter B. Munro,” he noted accusingly before handing her his package while he turned to the door.

“To avoid your throwing it into the ‘round file,’“ she retorted. “Experience has taught me to be cautious when applying for a job of this kind.”

Michael wasn’t really listening to her. Instead he was rather proud of the way he jiggled the doorknob back into place. He had to squat down to see what he was doing while trying to fit the compact screwdriver into the screw’s slot. This handyman stuff wasn’t that hard after all, if you had the proper tools.

“You have to turn the screwdriver to the right to tighten it,” she informed him dryly. Of course, with that he slid the screwdriver right off the screw, nearly gouging the wood on the door.

Muttering under his breath, he tightened the screw and moved on to the next one. Once that was done, he reached into his wallet and extracted a credit card to slide into the door jamb. Holding it just right, he hit the bolt and opened the door.

“You did that a little too easily for my comfort,” Brett told him.

“That’s why I’ve got a locksmith coming next week. I’d have gotten him here sooner, but the guy had a three-week waiting list.”

“I know how to put in a new lock.”

“Yeah, but do you know how to fix a hot-water heater?” he retorted, certain she’d answer no.

Instead she said, “Depends what’s wrong with it.”

“If I knew what was wrong with it, I’d fix it myself,” Michael declared.

He didn’t appreciate the yeah-right look she gave him.

“Have you ever been a building supervisor before?” he demanded, taking his package back from her in exchange for her Swiss knife as he headed for his main-floor apartment. This door he hadn’t locked, thank heaven.

“No,” she replied, trailing after him and looking around his place with interest.

Michael never “sted a look like that. It either meant someone was casing the joint or, if it was a woman, that they were getting nesting instincts—imagining their chintz couch in his living room. He’d be called paranoid, were it not for the fact that his last romantic relationship had started with just such a look of interest at his living room. The relationship had ended several months ago in disaster. She’d accused him of being a loner. She was right.

“Why should I hire you if you have no experience?” Michael countered.

“I didn’t say I had no experience. I’ve taken architecture courses, I know basic construction methods. Other girls played with dolls. I played with tools. I’m good at fixing things.”

“Taken apart any stoves?” he asked, pointing to the mess in his kitchen.

She nodded.

“Can you fix that?” he inquired mockingly.

She walked into the kitchen and frowned at the appliance. “Do you have a toolbox?” she asked. “I didn’t bring many tools with me.”

What kind of question was that? Every self-respecting man had a toolbox—not that he knew what to do with it. He handed it to her and let her have at it, figuring she couldn’t mess up the appliance any more than it already was.

While she attacked his stove, Michael undid the package he’d received—which was harder than it sounded, since the thing was wrapped in clear tape from one end to the other. It took him ten minutes to get the outside paper off. The one time he shook the package in frustration, he felt that sharp pain in his head again—almost as if the pain was connected to his handling of the package. Finally he got it unwrapped. Inside was a cardboard box advertising what he assumed to be Hungarian washing powder. And inside that was a mass of crumpled newspapers.

Reaching down, his fingers finally made contact with something solid. Something warm. He couldn’t get a good grip on it with all those newspapers, though.

Tossing them aside, he noticed a sheet of white writing paper with the same spidery handwriting as the address label. Taking the sheet, he read:

Oldest Janos son,

It is time for you to know the secret of our family and bahtali—this is magic that is good. But powerful. I am sending to you this box telling you for the legend. I am getting old and have no time or language for story’s beginning, you must speak to parents for such. But know only this charmed box has powerful Rom magic to find love where you look for it. Use carefully and you will have much happiness. Use unwell and you will have trouble.

Michael had to squint to make out the spidery signature and in the end was only able to make out part of it-”Magda.” He hadn’t thought they’d had any relatives left in Hungary, but on second thought he did seem to recall his dad mentioning a Great-Aunt Magda.

He read the strange note once more. “Rom magic”…that meant Gypsy magic, Michael knew that much. His dad had Gypsy blood, but Michael didn’t know anything about any family secrets. It was just his luck that his folks had recently left on a Pacific Rim cruise, so he couldn’t call and ask them what this was all about.

Looking back into the carton, minus the newspaper, he was now able to see something. a box maybe? Picking it up, he saw that it was indeed an intricately engraved metal box, with all kinds of strange markings—half-moons and stars, among other things.