The Husband Project

“Those rivers looked spooky,” she said, shuddering momentarily as she placed two coffee mugs in front of them. “I’m glad I don’t live in those places.”

Al hurried out of the kitchen to shake Sam’s hand and introduce himself. “Man, I saw that show on the giant catfish a couple of years ago. I’ll never cook catfish again.”

“Catfish?” There were people who watched shows about catfish? Well, then, viewers were going to love a show about Willing, Montana.

* * *

“CAN I DO IT?”

Lucia, busy organizing groceries on her kitchen counter, glanced at her oldest son. “Not alone. But you can come with me.” Or the four of them could walk over together. The boys could wait outside, carry wood and give Boo some time to run off some energy in the yard.

“I want to do it by myself.”

“Sorry, pal,” she said, but not about to explain the reason that mothers didn’t let their little boys go to strangers’ houses.

“Why not?”

“We don’t know anything about Mr. Hove,” she said, rearranging the supplies she’d purchased for her new neighbor. “Except what we read on the internet.”

“Yeah, we do. He’s famous.”

“Remember? You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

Davey sighed. He’d heard that a hundred times. “But Grandma said he was famous.”

“Well...maybe a little famous.” Marie had printed out a biography off Wikipedia and a spotless people search report she’d actually paid money for. As she’d said, it didn’t hurt to be careful. But Lucia thought the man lived an exciting life. He’d produced documentaries for various cable channels that specialized in adventure shows on jungles and strange fish. They’d discussed him all the way to Lewistown, the three boys asking questions no one could answer. She’d finally distracted the kids when they were in the fish section of the supermarket. There, questions about where frozen shrimp originated had replaced questions about the mysterious neighbor.

“Maybe he could come to school. You know, talk about the jungle and stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I ask him?”

“Maybe. When he feels better.” Lucia doubted that would be anytime soon. The man couldn’t even take his own boots off. Now that had been an interesting little moment yesterday. She wouldn’t even tell Meg about it because of how silly it would sound: “I untied his boots—the most intimate moment I’ve had with a man since the night before my husband went to war.”

“Mom,” her son said. “Mom.”

“What?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I apologize. I was thinking about dinner,” she fibbed. She was thinking about Sam Hove’s blue eyes. “There,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “I guess I have everything he’ll require for a few days. Maybe even a week.”

“I need more points,” Davey, still angling to do the job himself, said. Lucia admired his competitive spirit but wondered if this Random Acts of Kindness project was something he worried about too much. Davey was her quiet son, the philosopher of the trio.

“You could shovel Mrs. Beckett’s steps.”

“She’ll just yell at me.”

Yes, she probably would. “You’re right. She’s not worth the points.”

“I think she likes being mean,” he said, but Lucia could see him considering whether being yelled at was worth a point or two on the Kindness scoreboard.

“Some people do,” she agreed. Her eight-year-old was wrestling with big concepts now. She wanted to hug him, reassure him that people were good and kind and life was fair and the world was his oyster and all that, but the truth was a little harsh: mean people existed and weren’t worth the do-good-things points.

Davey pondered that for a long moment, while Lucia dug through her purse for the grocery receipt. She’d kept Sam’s food separate from hers. It wasn’t the first time she’d delivered food next door: Mrs. Kelly had become more dependent on help that last year she’d lived in town. Lucia had agreed to Jerry’s request to pick up supplies for the new neighbor—after all, the man was practically an invalid, and she was going to the store anyway—but once in the middle of the IGA with three lively boys and a horde of intense Sunday shoppers, she’d wished she’d refused.