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Eli hesitated and then shook his head. “Never mind.”
With a mental shrug, she went back downstairs to finish washing her breakfast dishes and to put her leftover oatmeal away. As she opened the fridge, she realized she was barefoot, still in kitty pajamas and with unbrushed hair.OMG.Iris buried her face in her hands. This wasn’t the impression she’d wanted to make… Too late now. She supposed it was better to dispel all illusions since they’d be living together while Eli worked on houses. Orbuilt websites? She wasn’t clear on what exactly he’d be doing, but as long as he paid the rent on time, it was none of her business.
She wanted to get upstairs to organize her studio—which wasn’t a word she normally used—but this was a fresh start. If she took some nice photos, updated her online store, and did some advertising, maybe she’d start getting orders. Every little bit would help. But she was expecting Henry Dale Macabee today as well, and she’d thought he might show up at the crack of dawn. But it was just past noon, and she still hadn’t heard from him. She had his check, and he had seemed desperate, so he’d turn up sooner or later.
Once she put her clean bowl in the drainer, Iris went upstairs, up, up, up—all the way to the attic. Fortunately, she’d only needed to haul a mattress up here on her own. The rest of the furniture had been hibernating here for decades, and she’d had this space cleaned as well, so at least she wasn’t breathing in a quarter century of dust. Once, she’d read that dust was mostly made of dead skin cells, and—
Yeah. Stop thinking about that.
She’d built herself a bed from old pallets she’d found tucked away up here, and she’d set up a seating area with two armchairs and a side table. Across the room, a dated dining table served as a workstation. Her clothes were still in boxes, bags, and suitcases, shoved up against the wall to clear a footpath. The sloped ceilings might bother some people, but for Iris, this space felt cozy. In summer she might feel otherwise, but since it was fall trundling toward winter, she had some time before sweltering heat became an issue.
She’d showered the night before, so she dressed in a ratty sweater and yoga pants and followed through on her plan to set up her workspace properly—bins full of beads, pendants and cabochons, pins and earring hooks, various wires and strands and tools. There was a certain peace in putting everything in its place, but it was impossible to focus when she was listening for the bell. When Henry Dale arrived, she’d have to sprint down three flights of stairs.
Finally, she took her sketchbook and sat in the front room, listening for the old man’s arrival. An hour later, he turned up in a rideshare with even less fanfare than she’d imagined, carrying only a small suitcase and a duffel bag. Iris couldn’t decide if it was impressive or sad to have lived so long and to own so little.
“Hey,” she said, stepping back so Henry Dale could come in.
She snagged his paperwork from the dining room table and led the way to the kitchen. The old man inspected everything with critical eyes; hopefully, he was imagining all the fun projects he could take on, not judging the house defective. She already felt protective of the place, even if she lacked the resources to restore its former glory.
The bedroom off the kitchen was on the small side: a single bed with an antique brass headboard, a small trunk, a night table with a vintage lamp, and a wardrobe. If Henry Dale needed more furniture, he could check the attic or supply it himself. Again, she’d tapped into old sheets and quilts that had been hidden away in various trunks, though she’d had the linens professionally cleaned also.
“Is it okay?”
He stood for a moment in silence, then he set his duffel on the bed. “I like it. No clutter. No nonsense.”
“Here’s your rental agreement. I haven’t deposited your check yet, but I will now that you’re officially rooming with me.”
His mouth pressed together, but she couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at the reminder or repressing a smile. Henry Dale had a weathered face that reminded her of an old map, as if it had been used well, folded often, and the lines represented roads he’d traveled and stories he could share. Then his shoulders rounded, as if he was repressing a sigh of relief.
Over having somewhere to stay? Relatable.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Iris figured she shouldn’t make a big deal out of his gratitude. “Welcome. I forgot to mention, certain items will be communal—like cooking oil, spices, sugar, tea, and coffee. I’ll figure out how much we use in a month and tell you how much to contribute to keep the kitchen stocked. Label your food to avoid confusion and let me know if you need anything.”
Henry Dale nodded, and she got the impression he was done with the conversation. Since he was older, it would be challenging not to slip into the misguided dynamic that he had authority over her, simply by virtue of greater age.I’m in charge. This is my house.If she repeated that often enough, she might even believe it.
There were three rooms left to rent, but she’d worry about that next month.
Part of her felt like she ought to be making food or offering to entertain these strangers since they felt like guests. But really, she just needed to leave them alone. Iris ate a sandwich and a yogurtfor lunch and was about to head back to her room when Henry Dale came into the kitchen.
“I noticed the shed out back. Do you mind if I take a look? There might be tools I could use, and I’ll need somewhere to work.”
“Work?” He’d mentioned that he wanted household projects to keep busy, but she never imagined he would get started on day one.
“Yes, ma’am. I can take down these cabinet doors, wash and sand them and paint them. It should only cost for the paint, and you said you’d knock the labor off my rent.”
Crap. What does he charge per hour? I wonder if he’s planning to work full-time and bill me for the work while living here.
Quickly she said, “I did say that. But I can’t afford to pay you outright, and I can’t afford projects that will cost a ton up front. So it’s probably best if we set an hourly limit.”
“I understand. You need the cash or you wouldn’t be renting rooms in the first place,” Henry Dale said brusquely. “I can’t get handyman work at my age. People are worried I’ll break a hip. So I’ll charge you minimum wage for the work and no more than twenty hours a month.”
Iris did the math. That would mean he was only paying around a hundred dollars a month in cash, but if he slowly improved the condition of the house, it would be a good investment, even if she had to tighten her belt.
“That works for me.”
Eli was eavesdropping.
