The Husband Project

Davey guessed that was okay. “He said he broke his ribs.”

“Nah,” she said. “I think he was just being dramatic. He looked like the type.”

“You think this’ll count against me?”

Kim tilted her head and considered the question. She knew all about the third grade project, knew that Davey wanted to win the prize. “You have the rules somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see.”

Davey pulled out his notebook and removed a carefully folded sheet of blue paper from the inside pocket of the binder. He unfolded it and handed it to Kim. “I don’t think it’ll count against me, but I’m not sure.”

Kim read it carefully, moving her lips a little as she did. She shook her head. “There’s nothing here about penalties.” She handed it back to him. “Just a warning that you can’t, well, arrange things so you can get a point.”

“Yeah. I didn’t get that part.”

Kim thought for a second. “It would be like making a big mess in the kitchen, without anyone knowing you did it. Then you clean it up, like you’re surprised there’s a mess. That doesn’t qualify as a Random Act of Kindness.”

“It has to be random,” he said, trying out the word on his tongue. “Random Acts of Kindness.”

“Yep.” She grinned. “Like when you see I don’t have a cookie and you know I like the ones with the red sprinkles and you sneak one in front of me when I’m not looking.”

Davey grinned back. “You talk a lot, but that’s okay.”

He gave her two, both with red sugar sprinkles, the biggest ones he could find in the plastic box.

* * *

SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL, but that was the least of his problems. He’d been around beautiful, black-haired women before, though this one was exquisite. Petite and delicate, with that waterfall of silky hair and greenish eyes that twinkled with good humor. The problem was his feeling that she was pure steel. Her sons had not argued with her when she’d told them to go home. The hellions had done what they were told, however reluctant they were to leave her with a firewood thief. He looked forward to meeting her husband. He pictured a soft-spoken giant who took orders well and behaved himself.

He’d never felt so helpless in his adult life.

She wasn’t getting the message to leave him alone. In fact, she’d ordered him to have a hot shower—after checking to make sure there was hot water, a slip-proof mat in the bathtub and fresh towels—and she’d carried his two duffel bags into the bathroom. She’d even unzipped them to save him the trouble of bending over to do it.

When she’d left the bathroom, he’d managed to kick out a clean pair of sweat pants and a long sleeved T-shirt.

“Are you okay?” she called from the hall. He locked the bathroom door because he wouldn’t put it past this woman to walk in and make sure he’d washed behind his ears.

“Yes, but you don’t—”

“Good.”

He’d heard nothing after that, so he carefully stripped off his clothes and, with some dexterous toe action, removed his thick wool socks. He adjusted the water, eased his cold body under the shower spray and realized the pain pill had eased some of the ache in his chest. Hallelujah.

He was going to survive this day after all. He retrieved the new bar of soap he’d noticed earlier and, after scrubbing himself with a faded purple washcloth, stood underneath the hot stream of water for at least ten minutes before carefully stepping onto the bath mat that Lucia Swallow had put in place. Both bath towels had violets embroidered on the edges. He rubbed his hair with one towel and wrapped another around his waist.

And he spotted the electric heater imbedded in the wall. Thank you, Mrs. Kelly, he thought, pushing the buttons until a blast of hot air hit him in the knees. He stood there for long, blissful minutes as the heat fanned his legs and warmed his feet.

“Mr. Hove?”

Damn. He drew a deep breath, then regretted the action when a now-familiar pain caught him in the right side of his chest. “Yes?”

“Just checking,” she said through the door, her voice as cheerful as a nurse’s. “You’re okay?”

“Fine.”

“No dizzy spells or anything like that?”

“No,” he declared, gingerly pulling the shirt over his head. “I thought you’d left.”

In fact, he’d hoped like hell she had. He stood half-naked in a purple bathroom. There was no sound from the other side of the door, so he hoped she’d finally taken the hint and gone home to her kids and her cowed, silent, pathetic husband. Sam finished putting his pants on, but decided not to struggle with socks. He unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.

He smelled tomato sauce. Oregano. Coffee.

He inched down the hall and around the corner to the kitchen where Lucia Swallow stood in front of a microwave oven. Inside the oven a dinner plate rotated and sizzled, its wax paper tent flapping.

“I built a fire,” she said without turning around. She opened the microwave door and poked at the wax paper topping the food, then closed the door and turned the microwave back on. “It might take a while for the house to warm up, but the woodstove’s big and it should be fine for the night if you turn it down before you go to bed.”

“You carried wood?”

She turned and smiled at him. “How else would I fix the fire?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“My kids knocked you down.” Her smile had disappeared.

“Your kids didn’t break my ribs.”

“So who did?”

“It was an accident.” She stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. He felt about ten years old. “At work. I was hit by an Arapaima.”

“A what?”

“A fish.”

She frowned. “A fish broke your ribs?”

“A very large fish. And it cracked my ribs, not broke them. Three of them. Hurts like he—heck.”

“I’m sure it does.” A little furrow sprang between those delicate wing-shaped eyebrows.

“I’m actually doing fine. Healing according to schedule.”

“Even after falling in the snow?”

“Yeah. Even after that.” He didn’t feel any worse now than he had a couple of hours ago. In fact, after the hot shower and donning warm clothes, he felt better than he had in days. “The pain pill has kicked in.”