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Daisy
I’m tackingup another piece of wood when a shriek cuts through the steady pound of rain. I drop the hammer, which manages to hit both my elbow and knee on the way down. I barely slept last night after that intruder outside my door. I told myself it was just a local poking around. The excuse would make a lot more sense without the torrential downpour.
I ease open the door and peer in the direction of the cry. Movement flickers near the house, but that’s all I see.
“Help! Anybody? Help!” a voice shouts.
I shake my head. Anybody? The nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away. The only person who is going to hear her cry is me.
From the sound of the shout, the matter is of medium urgency, somewhere between “Help, I’ve skinned my knee” and “Help, I am currently on fire.” No need to race out in my only dry shirt, then. I switch to the still-wet yellow one.
I dash into the yard to see the woman on the lanai roof, waving her arms as if signaling passing aircraft.
I jog across the lawn, yelling, “You okay?” The first time, a blast of wind whips my words away, and I have to shout again. When I do, she gestures to the side, where I spot a fallen ladder. She pulls an “I feel so silly” face, and I laugh.
I’m not laughing at the self-deprecation, though. I’m laughing at her predicament... or lack thereof. She’s on a sturdy lanai roof, the edge barely six feet off the ground. She could dangle and drop onto rain-soft earth. As emergencies go, this one lands alongside “Help, I’ve skinned my knee.”
Still, I run over, resurrect the ladder and hold it steady as she descends. Then, without a word, she jackrabbits through the back door, leaving me staring before she reopens the door and beckons for me to follow.
I step halfway into the lanai and hesitate. She’s grabbed a beach towel from a stack, and she’s drying her dark-blond hair. When she sees me, she waves again.
“Come in, come in.”
I take exactly one stride, shut the door and then stand there as rainwater pools around my bare feet. When she notices, she tosses me a towel, repeating her singsong “Come in, come in” of welcome.
Am I welcome? I’m not so sure. After I ran to her aid, she can hardly leave me in the rain. However...
I do need to get into the house. To get close to her. To gain the woman’s trust. This isn’t quite how I planned it, but it could work.
I towel-dry my hair as she strips out of her tank top and shorts. With a shudder, she steps free of the wet garments and envelops herself in a fresh towel. She turns to me, and I sincerely hope she doesn’t expect me to follow suit. I’m already feeling vulnerable here.
She hands me a second towel and then scoops up my soaked clothing, saying, “I’ll find something for you to wear, and we’ll get that dried for you,” as if I am a neighbor who stopped by to help.
She disappears into the house, and I wait. I’m still waiting ten minutes later, my teeth chattering as AC blasts through an open window.
I sponge off my face, which is a mistake. The threadbare towels smell as if they’ve been in the lanai since the turn of the century. Still, I’m about to borrow a couple and make a run for the shed when the door opens, and she walks out, smiling breezily.
She passes me a sweatshirt and shorts that look as old as the towels. I take them with thanks. When I hesitate, she laughs and turns around, as if I’m that girl in gym class who changes in the bathroom stall. I strip and pull on the dry clothes as fast as I can.
When I finish and clear my throat, she turns and puts out a hand. I shake it, and she laughs again.
“I was reaching for your clothing, but yes, we should introduce ourselves. I’m Celeste.”
“Daisy,” I say.
As I gather my wet things, I take a better look at Celeste. Dark-blond hair. Hazel eyes. She’s a few years older than me. An inch or so taller. Maybe thirty pounds heavier, with a generous figure in a tank top and shorts.
“Would you like something to eat, Daisy?” she asks.
My spine crackles as I tense. Celeste isn’t offering coffee or iced tea, like a proper southern hostess. This is charity, and it knifes through me.
Uh, you are sleeping in her shed, remember?
True. I force my hackles down and murmur, “No, thank you. If I could dry my things, I would appreciate that. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Her lips twitch. “Dry them so you can run back into the rain?”
“I’d take a spare umbrella, if you have it. I’ll return it, of course. A garbage bag will work, too.”
