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He pulled off the sunglasses. “I’ve rethought that.”
She stepped away from the window and out of the view of those piercing eyes. She extended his wait overlong before flipping the lock.
When she opened the door, his head was tilted back. He was looking at the eaves and lightly tapping the sunglasses against his thigh. “You’ve got wood rot.”
“That much I could have told you.”
“Your doorbell doesn’t work.”
“Again. I already know that.”
He lowered his head and looked at her; she looked back, hoping that her stare was as steady and held as much challenge as his. Neither moved or said anything, and she was beginning to think that this standoff would continue indefinitely when he folded the stems of his glasses and slid them into the breast pocket of his plain white oxford-cloth shirt.
“I’ve reconsidered taking the job.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My bank statement. I balanced my checking account this morning.”
She didn’t know if he was joking, or trying to be charming, or if he was telling the bald truth. His expression gave away no clues.
With indecision, she caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. Her sleepless night had been the result of worrying over what her next step should be, since his flat refusal yesterday had left her with no remaining prospects. None that she could afford. He had made this conciliatory move, and that counted for something. Each still had the option of saying no thanks to the other.
Hoping that she wouldn’t live to regret it, she opened the door wider and motioned him in.
The empty living area seemed to shrink the instant he stepped inside. His cuffs had been rolled back almost to his elbows. His shirttail was tucked into a pair of jeans, which, like yesterday’s, had been softened and faded from many washings. They were worn with a belt of tooled brown leather. The antiqued brass buckle had a military insignia. But he no longer had a military haircut. In back, his dark hair was long enough to brush against his collar.
Boot heels thumping on the hardwood floor, he advanced into the room and took a slow look around. “You play the piano?”
She had anticipated a comment, not a question, and it took her off guard. “No. Well, a little. I was taking lessons when—”
At her abrupt stop, he turned his head and looked at her expectantly.
Amending what she’d been about to say, she said, “I gave up music lessons when my sister and I moved away.”
“Hmm. Too bad you didn’t pick back up after you got resettled.”
“I regret now that I didn’t continue, but other things had to be given priority.”
He went over to the staircase and stepped up on the first tread with only one foot. It squeaked. So did the second step. As he backed down, he ran his palm over the bannister. “This is nice wood. Worth salvaging, I think. It could be sanded and revarnished. Maybe a lighter stain?”
She gave a noncommittal “Umm.”
Returning to the center of the room, he turned in a tight circle as he surveyed the ceiling. “The crown molding has possibilities, but I won’t know if it’s worth keeping until I get a closer look at it, and I didn’t bring a ladder today.”
“I’m not particularly attached to it.”
“What about that chandelier?” He pointed to the fixture in the dining area. “Does it have any sentimental value?”
“None.”
“Good. I’d pitch it. It’s too large for the space.”
He gave the fireplace mantel the same rubdown he’d given the bannister. Stepping back and assessing the fireplace as a whole, he said, “The brick is boring. Another material would add some character.”
He went over to the row of front windows and inspected the sills. Sliding a pocketknife from his back jeans pocket, he picked at the splintered wood with the tip of the blade. “All these window frames need to be replaced. If you go with wood again, it’s more labor intensive and therefore more expensive. Or you could go with prefab, but that still requires some carpentry. I’ll figure it both ways. How many windows in the house?”
“I’ve never had cause to count them.”
