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“Where did you get that watch?” I ask as we pull onto the road.
“It was my grandfather’s. I was wearing it the day I was arrested.”
“I have a crazy feeling it was worth more than six hundred bucks.”
“It was a vintage gold Rolex from 1971. Refurbished, it would probably be worth about six-thousand today.”
“What?”I gawk. “Are you serious? Geez, Rhett, we could have called around, gotten some quotes.”
He shakes his head. It isn’t the amount of money he is interested in, it’s simply having enough to survive on until he can find who framed him.
I turn into the parking lot of the local big box store where I know they have men’s clothes.
I find a parking spot away from the crowd.
“I’ll stay here,” I say. I am not prepared for the onslaught of questions and accusations if I, Sylvia Stone, am seen casually shopping with the man who was accused of killing my mother.
I watch Rhett stride across the parking lot like he owns the place. Such innate confidence he has. People look at him as he passes, but I don’t think it’s because they recognize him. He is just that kind of man, a large, ominous presence that turns heads. And extremely attractive on top of that.
Six minutes later—literally—Rhett walks out of the store with a single bag clenched in his hand. He slips into the passenger seat, a waft of cologne following seconds later.
I wither in shame. Rhett must have either bought a bottle of cologne or sprayed a tester to remedy the stink I told him he had.
“That might’ve been the quickest trip anyone has ever taken in that store,” I say. “I can’t get in and out in under twenty minutes, ever.”
“I know what size I am,” he says as I pull back onto the road.
“You didn’t try them on did you?”
The look he flashes me is a comical mixture of disgust and confusion.
I laugh. “Oh that’s right, men never try on clothes. I forgot.”
* * *
Once back at the house, I leave Rhett standing in the entryway while I dart to the master bathroom to make it as presentable as possible for a stranger to shower in.
The house has two full baths and two half baths. The full bath downstairs is cramped, has a very disconcerting rust-colored stain on the floor, and a shower the size of a postage stamp—definitely not comfortable for Rhett’s size. So, my bathroom will be the one he showers in.
I find an old can of comet buried under the sink, the top eroding with crusty powder. I quickly clean the sink, toilet, shower then empty the trash. I hide my unusually large collection of female hygiene products under the sink, along with the vibrator I bought on impulse five years ago, still tucked in its explicit packaging.
As I’m doing this, I’m realizing how long it’s been since I’ve had company in my house, other than Ginger the Hairdresser.
When I return downstairs, Rhett is not where I left him, instead, he is kneeling next to the front door, studying the baseboard.
Shirley is sniffing around his boots, showing a keen interest in the new man in our lives.
He glances over his shoulder as I approach. “You’ve got a leak.”
“Yeah, I know. My house turns into a symphony of drips when it rains. I’ve got a closet full of buckets.”
“No, I meaninsidethe wall.”
I shift my weight. I should care, but I don’t.
“See the separation here from the baseboard and the wall, and how the paint is bubbled around it?”
I bend at the waist, pretend to be interested.
