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He had a shocked smile on his face. “Well, I’ll be damned. What was it?”
Zoey reached under the sink for the small pail, setting it on the counter. “Potato skins.” Jack’s cheeks flushed. She didn’t want him to think it was some kind ofgotchamoment, regardless of the slight pleasure she felt from being right. “It’s a very common culprit. They’re thin and small, but in any kind of quantity and without enough water pressure, they can create a ball big enough to clog a pipe.” She smiled. “Let me guess... Mother’s Day?”
His eyes went wide, as if she’d just pulled a rabbit out of her hat, then he nodded with a chagrined smile. “We had fifteen people here for leg of lamb and roast potatoes. I figured the disposal could handle the peels, though.”
“It probably could, as long as you don’t stuff them all in at once and you keep that water flowing for a minute or twoafteryou turn the disposal off. Grinding it up isn’t enough—you gotta wash the debris down the pipes.” Zoey turned the disposal and faucet on and off a few times, then checked underneath to make sure everything was connected tightly with no leaks. She grabbed her invoice pad and handed a slip to Jack.
“That’s it?”
She shrugged. “It’s my minimum house call fee. I didn’t really repair anything...just cleaned the pipe and put it back together.”
He gave her a shrewd look before pulling out his checkbook. “You knew what was wrong from the minute you stepped in the kitchen, didn’t you? How long have you been doing appliance repair?”
“Since I was five.” She winked when he stopped writing and looked up. “I developed my fix-it gene early. I used to ride around with my dad all the time.”
“Well, your number is the first one I’ll call for appliance repairs, for sure.”
Another man won over.And easier than some. The fact that she was careful not to rub his nose in it probably helped. She thanked him and headed out to the truck. Mike had helped her figure out how to navigate male customers without pissing them off, from mild skeptics like Jack Nelson to flat-out misogynists like that jerkwad Hal Comstock down near Watkins Glen.
When he was alive, Dad would have just hauled off and punched anyone he thought was hassling his daughter. That wouldn’t be very good for business, so she couldn’t go to him. But Mike, as angry as he’d get on her behalf for any grief she got, kept his cool and helped her be more proactive.
Hal Comstock had been rip-roaring drunk last year when she arrived at his home, and things had gone downhill from there. His wife tried to run interference while Zoey looked at their washing machine, but Hal’s comments got more inappropriate by the minute. When Zoey went out to get a part from the truck, he’d followed her and suggested she was “stealing” a job from a man, called her a few names, then tried to intimidate her by standing so close she ended up with her back pressed to the side of the truck. At which point she’d kneed him hard in the balls and got out of there as fast as she could.
Shaken, she’d pulled over at a gas station and called Mike in tears of fury. He told her to stay put, and he was there in minutes. He listened to her story, made sure she was okay, then made a quick trip to the Comstock home. When he returned, he’d told Zoey not to worry about anything, then took her out for milkshakes and burgers the size of their heads. They’d ended up laughing over the disastrous day.
A few months passed before Mike admitted he’d barely avoided punching the guy. Instead, he’d told Comstock to never call Hartford Fix-It again, and to never utter a word about Zoey, good or bad. If Mike heard otherwise, he’d be back and make sure Hal regretted it.
It was clients like Comstock who were pushing Zoey toward jobs that allowed her to avoid going into strangers’ homes. She was trying to pick up more commercial business, and she’d been doing more jobs for antiques dealers and collectors in the area. She was building a strong reputation for being able to rebuild small mechanicals like music boxes and clocks, and even a few larger items like vintage vending machines.
There was good money in it—more than there was in home appliances in this age of disposable electronics. Why repair something when you can get a new one at the nearest big-box store?
Zoey pulled her truck into the long driveway leading to a sprawling Victorian mansion on a waterfront lot. The home wasn’t quite as brightly colored as some of the homes in town, but the closer Zoey got, the more colors and detailed paint schemes she could see. The house itself was a soft butter yellow. The spindles on the porch railings were grayish blue, but the top rails were a muted reddish-brown. The lacy gingerbread trim was a combination of pastels that must have taken the painters days to figure out. The overall effect, much like her godmother, Vickie, was unique and elegant.
The change in her business focus had been Mike’s idea. He’d floated it after the Comstock incident, but became more insistent after her father died. He was worried about her. Or maybe he just didn’t want to come running to her rescue all the time. No, she knew how much Mike cared. He’d do the same for Mary. Zoey was his extra sister—a twin and a spare, as his father liked to say. She was more family than friend. It was good to know Mike had her back.
She headed toward the pastel house, knowing she’d be facing an inquisition from Vickie. And probably news of some blind date the book club wanted to set up for her. She shook her head. She might need Mike to come to her rescue again.
CHAPTER THREE
VICKIEKNEWZOEYmight stop by after going to Jack Nelson’s place, and she opened the front door before her goddaughter had even reached the top of the porch steps. She was curious to hear how the call went. Jack could be blunt at times, but he and his wife were good neighbors. The kind of neighbors who stopped by to bring Vickie’s dock in from the water every fall and helped put it back every May. They’d been doing that for years, in exchange for nothing more than a couple cold beers and snacks on the back deck.
Zoey gave Vickie a smile—a good sign. Vickie stepped aside, swinging the door wide.
“I thought I might see you today. Coffee’s on, and there’s a bagel on the kitchen island.”
“No tea and crumpets? I’m disappointed.” Zoey patted Vickie’s shoulder affectionately as she passed.
“The last time I tried tea and crumpets with you, you told me you’d rather have beer and pretzels.” Vickie closed the door and followed Zoey to the sunlit kitchen. “You were twelve. And I had guests.”
Zoey grabbed a mug of coffee from the marble-topped island and turned to face Vickie, one eyebrow arched high.
“Think about what you just said, Vicks.” Vicky did her best not to grimace, knowing Zoey was just trying to get a rise out of her by using a nickname Vicky hated. “You invited atwelve-year-oldto an adult ladies’ luncheon whereactualcrumpets were being served.” Zoey chuckled. “I still remember the looks on their faces when I came clumping in wearing my Doc Martens. I thought Marjorie Adams was going to pass out.”
Vickie took a sip of her coffee. “Marjorie always had a big stick up her ass, God rest her soul.”
“She never understood your efforts to make me into a...” Zoey stuck her nose in the air and her pinkie finger out dramatically as she held her cup high. Her voice slid into a prissy half-British accent. “...proper young lady of Rendezvous Falls.”
Vickie took half a bagel and spread some strawberry-flavored cream cheese on it. Zoe did the same, but she used the “Everything” cream cheese—onion, garlic, pepper, basil and whatever else the manufacturer could find to toss in. Vickie was tempted to point out Zoey might render a client senseless with her breath later, but mentioning it would only encourage her stubborn goddaughter to eat more of the stuff. She shook her head as a swell of affection rose inside her. Zoey was the closest thing to a daughter she’d ever had.
