“Now we move inside,” Jack told her.
He used the zipper on the interior of the front window, and then, with an X-Acto knife, removed globs of old paint from the sash lock before he could finally flip it open. Then he examined the window jambs. “If we’re lucky, these babies will still have the sash cords and sash weights.”
He took a small pry bar and worked it cautiously under the edge of the jamb, popping off the molding and exposing the channel, where he pointed at the cotton sash cord. “Good news.”
He pushed hard on the bottom sash, but it didn’t budge.
“Uh-oh,” Cara said glumly.
“I’m not done yet.” Now he took a slender putty knife, inserted it between the windowsill and the bottom sash, and lightly tapped it with a hammer, working the knife from side to side along the sash. He did the same thing on the top of the sash.
This time, when he pushed, the window slowly slid open.
Cara threw her arms around Jack. “My hero!”
He grinned. “And it only took what? About forty-five minutes?” He poked his head out the open window. “I’ll put the burglar bars back up—but you’re definitely gonna need some window screens, or you’ll get eaten alive in here. Do you happen to know if there are any still around?”
“I think I remember seeing some screens in the toolshed,” Cara said, with a shudder.
“What?”
“The last time I opened the shed, I saw a rat. I haven’t been out there since.”
“Does that mean you wantmeto rummage around in the shed?”
“Yes, please,” she said meekly.
Twenty minutes later, he was back, with an armload of wood-framed window screens. His shirt and pants were streaked with dirt, and a bit of cobweb hung from his hair. She silently picked it off.
“See any rats?”
“Mmm. Not the rats. But evidence that they’ve been there. You might want to put some poison out there. I also found more sets of burglar bars, probably for the second-story windows. I’m thinking I’ll need to put those up if we can get those windows open.”
“Absolutely.”
After he’d worked his way around to the back of the house, unsealing the windows, Jack got out the extension ladder and clambered up to work on the second-story windows.
Declaring herself his assistant, Cara did what she could to help, rinsing off the window screens with the hose, wielding the window zipper on the inside windows, breaking the painted seals with the putty knife and hammer the way he’d shown her, fetching tools from his truck, and even ferrying the newly cleaned window screens up the ladder.
Overhead, the sun blazed down. It was hot, sweaty work. But by six that evening, Cara had enough open windows—with screens and burglar bars in place—to admit what little hot breeze existed.
After loading the ladder and the last of his tools into the truck, Jack came into the town house.
“Up here,” Cara called down. He found her in the kitchen alcove. She handed him a cold long-neck bottle of beer before uncapping her own.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” he said. “Thanks.” They clinked bottles and he drank thirstily.
“Are you kidding? You just spent your whole day—your day off—doing what you get paid thousands of dollars to do.”
“Wait’ll you get my bill.”
Her face fell.
“Kidding. Really. I was happy to be able to help out. I just wish I could have resuscitated your air conditioner. Getting the windows open is only a temporary fix, you know. You’re gonna have to make your landlady install a new air unit.”
“I’m calling Sylvia first thing in the morning, and I’m going to keep on calling, and I’ll send her a registered letter, like you suggested. But in the meantime, I am so, so grateful to you, Jack. Let me at least take you out to dinner, as partial payment. Okay?”
He gestured down at his grimy clothes. “Like this?”
