Page 5 of Something Borrowed

He considered the jobs in front of him again. The group home quote required a walkthrough, and the other callbacks were more time-intensive, too. Vic’s job probably just needed a snake. Cal would see if it worked to come over now, make it the last job of the weekend, then get back to the other requests first thing Monday. They wouldn’t be expecting him to reply on a weekend anyway.

Vic had left two phone numbers each time he called—a cell number and a home phone. Cal called the first number on the note. Got a robot saying Vic was unavailable. He hung up without leaving a message and called the home number.

A cranky female voice barked, “Hello?”

“I’m Cal Anderson.”

“Congratulations.”

What the heck? thought Cal. “Um, from Hire a Handyman? I’m returning Vic’s call.”

“Well, it’s about time,” the woman griped. “Vic said you’ve had multiple messages!

Now you call up, no apologies, acting as if you’re replying promptly.”

Anger—and, worse, a familiar sense of inadequacy and shame—pulsed through Cal. The shrill voice continued to drill into him. “It’s a shoddy way to do business if you ask me!”

“I didn’t ask you, ma’am,” Cal said, finding his voice. For a long time, most of his life really, he took whatever crap people dealt, trying to be kind, wanting to be the bigger person—but also, now that misery had forced him to read up on the subject, subconsciously hoping that if never showed any discontent or voiced any unhappiness, people would like him, would care about him—but it seemed like the reverse was true. He still never wanted to be a jerk, but he was also done being walked over. So take that, Mel. Too little, too late, and she wouldn’t care anyway, but still.

Cal pushed hard against the spike of pain that even this smallest intrusion of Melanie into his thoughts caused. He wanted to feel anger, not sadness. Definitely not loss. She didn’t deserve it. And back to the matter at hand. He was starting to understand why Vic had left so many messages. Poor guy was in danger of being nagged to death by his shrew of a wife.

On the other end of the phone, the grouchy woman continued to splutter about his rudeness, specifically, and the collapse of manners and professionalism in general.

“If it works for you, I can come by right now. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you earlier in the week.” Sorry for old Vic, anyway, Cal added in his head.

“But it’s Saturday afternoon,” the woman whined. “And late afternoon, at that.”

How very observant of the old bat. “Yes, and the upcoming week is busy for me. I can fit you in today, or I’m not sure—”

“It’s fine,” the woman huffed as if terribly inconvenienced.

“Great. I’ll see you shortly. Will Vic be there?”

The woman let out an unpleasant sound. Perhaps it was meant to be a laugh?

“Will Vic be here? That’s a very good question. I’m sure I’ll be the last person to know the answer, though. No one deigns to tell me anything.”

Unable to say what he really thought—that no wonder her family avoided telling her things if this was how she talked to people—Cal repeated that he’d see her shortly and hung up. Man, he hoped the toilet was just a simple blockage. He hadn’t even stepped into the place he’d been dying to see, yet here he was, already dying to be done there.

Chapter 4

Vic spotted the white van in their driveway from the end of the block. The side facing her bore a large golden hammer framed by a navy circle and the words “Hire a Handyman.” The idea of some poor, unsuspecting repair guy being alone with Audra made Vic temporarily forget her humiliation and misery. She sprinted the rest of the way home as fast as her heels would let her. She wasn’t winded when she reached the front door, but her feet—her left one especially—ached. Ah, beautiful LVs, she thought. You are psychotic feet killers. Once upon a time, talking to her footwear, even in her head, would’ve made her smile, but it had been a long time since she’d smiled over anything.

You’re stalling, Shoulder Devil said.

Taking a much-needed breather, Angel corrected.

Vic shook her head at both parts of herself, then steeled herself for whatever was coming. There was no way Audra would be pleased that the guy was there to fix the toilet without Vic being home.

Taking the deep breath that her imaginary angel friend referred to, Vic let herself into the house and freed herself of her toe-biting footwear. On silent socked feet, she padded from the entranceway into the kitchen, listening for voices. It was bizarrely quiet. Even if she couldn’t make out every spoken word, she should at least hear a rumble of voices or something. The bathroom with the clogged toilet was just down the hall.

Then, just like that, the quiet was broken by Audra’s familiar querulous tone. “I don’t see why—”

A rumbling male voice cut Audra off mid-complaint. “Out. Now.”

“But I’m paying you!”

“You haven’t paid me a dime yet, and like I told you after your last outburst, I’m being paid to fix your toilet, not take your shit—”