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“It’s in the attic,” I say, a little foolishly. Where else would a leak be? “It’s not exactly clean up there.” I cast a quick look at Celeste and hurry on, “Being an attic, obviously. I really am fine doing it myself.”
“Do I look like I’m worried about a little extra dirt under my nails?” He flourishes a hand. “It never comes out, however much I scrub. Same as this.” He lifts a work boot, showing grease on his faded blue jeans. “I’m not exactly wearing my Sunday best.”
“I just don’t want to impose.”
“You aren’t. Now lead the way.”
He follows me up the stairs. As I reach for the attic door, Celeste comes up the stairs, and Tom leans around the corner to see her.
“Why don’t I help Daisy?” she says. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“Nope.” Tom tosses her a conspiratorial smile and stage-whispers, “I’m kinda hoping to win a little tit for tat from Daisy here.”
At the look on Celeste’s face, I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I think Tom doesn’t notice... until I catch the glint in his eye.
He continues, “The back door on the garage has been jamming so bad I gotta come in the front way all the time, which makes it damn hard to slip past Glory. I love that woman, but she does talk my ear off. My secret plan is to help Daisy with your leak and then casually mention my door problems, hoping she’ll take pity and offer to fix it.”
“Sure,” Celeste says. “But I really don’t mind—”
“We’ve got it,” Tom says. Then he braces one arm against the wall, muscles flexing as he leans toward her.
“Have you ever had Glory’s cinnamon buns?” he asks Celeste. “She sells them up at the shop. Gotta get there early, though. They’re gone by ten.”
“Uh...” Celeste says. “Okay. I’ll have to try them.”
“Well, you can, ’cause I brought a box. Could you grab them from the truck, maybe stick them in the fridge before the icing melts? I thought you and I might have a coffee break after I’m done here, if you’re not too busy...”
“I’m not,” she says quickly.
“Great. Then if you can bring those in, we should be done up here in about an hour.”
Celeste is still looking our way, backing up, as Tom shuts the door. I start to climb and then realize he isn’t behind me. When I look back, he still has his hand on the knob, listening as she retreats. Then he trots up the stairs, wooden toolbox in hand. At the top, I take it from him. As I turn away, he catches my arm.
“I heard about the break-in,” he says. “She says you got knocked around fending off the intruder. You okay?”
I shrug. “Bumped and bruised, that’s all.”
He glances down at my feet. “I also heard something about stepping on glass.”
“Just a small cut.”
“Huh. And then you happened to walk through a puddle of cherry Kool-Aid on your rambles this morning.”
“Hmm?” I frown and then follow his pointed gaze to my sneaker. There’s a pink stain on the white canvas.
I’m about to say it’s fine, but he waves me to an old chair and insists I sit. He reaches for my shoe, and I tug it off before he can. He lifts my foot, his callused fingers scratching my skin.
“Shit,” he says as he peels back the blood-soaked bandage.
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” Anger ripples through his voice. Then he straightens. “Come on. I’ll run you to the ER.”
“I’m fine,” I say firmly.
“Is it an insurance problem? If it is, I know someone—”
“It doesn’t need medical attention. It just needs me to clean it, and bandage it up and keep an eye on it.”
