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Rob was right. This lady is probably the most entertaining thing that’s happened or will ever happen to me. Maybe getting to know her, no matter how our introduction went, isn’t the worst idea in the world.
I do a quick once over of the AC unit. Nothing seems to be out of place. It is old, but it seems to be chugging along just fine. In my experience, the quickest way to fix something is to give it a swift kick. It might not be the smartest way, and it might not always work, but when it does, it really does. If the kick fails, a few slaps to teach it respect are usually in order, and sometimes, those work just as well. Next time the computer craps out? Smack. The fridge stops working? Roundhouse kick. Furnace on the fritz? Backhand the bastard.
Being a carpenter by trade and trained by my father to fix almost anything, I can attest that kicks and slaps aren’t really the best method. But I am surprised by how many times I have been frustrated at something, and when I give it a good whack, it starts working right away.
Satisfied that there really isn’t anything more for me to do, I pick up my toolbox and make my way back up the porch stairs. I feel weird pulling open the front door without knocking, but Lu-Anne did say to just come in, so I do.
I spot her right away, sitting in the living room. She’s doing something with a hook and ball of yarn that I think is called crocheting. There’s a square taking shape under her hands, something bright yellow.
I clear my throat, and she nearly jumps straight off the couch. Her yarn goes flying onto the floor, and she drops whatever she was making.
“Sorry,” I say guiltily. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Uh—your AC seems to be working fine. There isn’t anything I can do for it at the moment. If it dies on you again, come over and let me know, and I’ll take a look at it. Can’t have you melting away in this heatwave.”
“Maybe it will melt the spider too.” Lu-Anne gathers up her spilled yarn and hook and sets them beside her on the couch.
There’s a free chair on the other side of the room, something big and comfy looking, so I set my toolbox down and decide to take up residence there. Lu-Anne doesn’t tell me to get out. Rather, she looks like she actually doesn’t know what to say.
“I inherited the house from my grandma,” she blurts. “Most of the stuff is hers.”
I glance around. “It’s nice. I like antiques.” I only say that because I’ve seen her and her little blue car, wrestling out insanely large purchases. I don’t tell her that, though, because it’s creepy and stalkerish.
“Really?” Her eyes warm up just a little at that. “I like them too. I love going to sales and everything. Garage sales, antique sales, estate sales, thrift stores—all of it. I don’t have a lot of room, so when I find something I like, I either have to get rid of something I already own or clean it up and sell it.”
“That’s smart. Prevents clutter.” Did I really just say that? I search for something better to say and come up with a big pile of nothing. “I’m renovating the house. I…” I drag a hand through my hair, ruffling it a little. It’s sweaty at the roots, and it makes me wonder if I’m sweating in other places—mainly the armpit region. I quickly drop my arm even though I’m wearing a black t-shirt, which is pretty good at hiding sweat stains. “Well, you probably already saw that, though.”
Lu-Anne’s eyes become round and huge. She blinks hard and stares at me like I just started growing a big toe between my eyes. I quickly think back to what I said, but I don’t know what was so shocking about me doing renovations.
“Renovating?” she mutters like it’s her choice swear word of the decade.
“Yeah. Renovating. Sorry about the bin on the driveway. It’s going to be gone tomorrow. When I bought the house, it was pretty outdated. The carpets were pretty old and worn. Beyond saving, really. I want to put in hardwood. I took down all the kitchen cabinets to paint them, but I thought I would save what I could and reuse it. The cabinets are oak, so they’re worth repurposing.”
Maybe renovations aren’t the right thing to discuss, because as I’m going on, Lu-Anne is looking more and more disturbed. Or maybe embarrassed. I can’t actually tell which. Something is going on, though, and it isn’t good.
“What about the tattoos?” She interrupts. The question is flung out there like a stone being hurled in an abstract direction with too much force. After she blurts out the question, Lu-Anne looks at me with a little bit of shock, a little bit of shame, and a whole lot of alarm. She looks as if the errant stone she just threw crashed into the window of a house that wasn’t hers and completely shattered it.
