Kristine Rolofson – The Husband Project (страница 10)

“The what?” First the “pie lady,” now a goddess. An interesting neighbor, all right.

“She went to school for it with Meg, who owns the café. Between the two of them, no one in this town goes hungry.”

Good news, Sam thought. “How far away is this café?”

“One block east and two blocks south. You can almost smell the bacon from your front porch.” Jerry leaned forward. “You’re looking a little rough there, pal. Are you sure you’re okay? Getting some food in you would help, but are you really up for a walk? I can get you something and bring it back here.”

“Food would be good, if the café’s not too far away. I could use the exercise.” He looked down at his sweat pants and socks. He could probably lace up his boots if he did it real fast. “Let me get some clothes on.”

“Good. Pardon the cliché, but we’ll kill two birds with one stone.” Jerry sipped his coffee and leaned back on the sofa as though he planned to spend the day there.

“What do you mean?” Sam paused in front of the bedroom door.

“You need to meet some of your neighbors and show them you’re normal, just a regular guy who’s not going to cause any trouble.”

“Why would I cause trouble?”

“For starters, your coming here is suspect. I mean, who moves to Willing in the winter?”

Sam shrugged. He wasn’t going to explain about the man he’d met on the flight to Miami. He’d sound like an idiot.

“Second,” the mayor cheerfully continued, “you’ve been searched for on the internet. People like the writer, adventurer, documentary-maker thing, but they don’t completely trust it. It could be a cover.”

“A cover for what?”

“Who knows? Criminal activity, insanity, government plots.” Now it was Jerry’s turn to shrug. “Hey, I’m just the landlord here. You seemed okay to me or I wouldn’t have rented the house to you.”

Sam doubted that. They’d traded emails and had one brief phone conversation. The check for three months’ rent had been cashed. Sam turned back to the bedroom, where the purple violets on the wallpaper greeted him.

“But the biggest thing,” Jerry said, slurping coffee, “is who you’re living next to.”

The violets would have to wait another minute. Sam gingerly turned around again. “What does Lucia have to do with it?”

Jerry cradled his coffee and looked very, very serious. “She’s a widow. She’s a good person. She doesn’t date. And her pie crust will make you weep.”

“A widow?” The beautiful Lucia Sparrow, who baked like a goddess and could handle a woodstove and three boys, was single? What was wrong with the men in this town?

“Yep. So don’t mess with her unless your intentions are honorable.”

“My intentions?” He chuckled. “My intentions are...nonexistent. What are you, her father?” He couldn’t help laughing at his landlord again.

“Hey, this is no joke. If anything happens to Lucia because of me...” He picked up his jacket and gave Sam a warning look. “I’d never win another election.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sam promised. “For your sake.”

* * *

JERRY DEBATED BETWEEN a booth or a stool at the counter, since the old guys weren’t in their regular spots. Being Sunday, the café wasn’t filled with regulars the way it was on a weekday. Well, Sam would meet the old guys soon enough.

“Could we sit at the counter?” Sam asked, seeming to read Jerry’s mind. “Easier to get on and off.”

“The ribs are bad, huh?”

“They’re taking longer to heal than I want.”

Jerry introduced him to Shelly, who wore a battered cast on her arm and had her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her belly appeared to have tripled in size since the accident, yet she seemed to still enjoy working for Meg. She certainly seemed thrilled to see him and his guest.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m really good,” she said, holding the coffee carafe in her good hand. “I get the cast off in two and a half more weeks.” She twinkled at Sam. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Sam said, sounding a little out of breath, though they’d walked slowly on the shoveled sidewalks.

“Shelly, I’d like you to meet Sam Hove. He’s new in town.”

“I know. Everyone’s talking about you. I saw some of your videos on YouTube last night. Awesome stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“Those rivers looked spooky,” she said, shuddering momentarily as she placed two coffee mugs in front of them. “I’m glad I don’t live in those places.”

Al hurried out of the kitchen to shake Sam’s hand and introduce himself. “Man, I saw that show on the giant catfish a couple of years ago. I’ll never cook catfish again.”

“Catfish?” There were people who watched shows about catfish? Well, then, viewers were going to love a show about Willing, Montana.

* * *

“CAN I DO IT?”

Lucia, busy organizing groceries on her kitchen counter, glanced at her oldest son. “Not alone. But you can come with me.” Or the four of them could walk over together. The boys could wait outside, carry wood and give Boo some time to run off some energy in the yard.

“I want to do it by myself.”

“Sorry, pal,” she said, but not about to explain the reason that mothers didn’t let their little boys go to strangers’ houses.

“Why not?”

“We don’t know anything about Mr. Hove,” she said, rearranging the supplies she’d purchased for her new neighbor. “Except what we read on the internet.”

“Yeah, we do. He’s famous.”

“Remember? You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

Davey sighed. He’d heard that a hundred times. “But Grandma said he was famous.”

“Well...maybe a little famous.” Marie had printed out a biography off Wikipedia and a spotless people search report she’d actually paid money for. As she’d said, it didn’t hurt to be careful. But Lucia thought the man lived an exciting life. He’d produced documentaries for various cable channels that specialized in adventure shows on jungles and strange fish. They’d discussed him all the way to Lewistown, the three boys asking questions no one could answer. She’d finally distracted the kids when they were in the fish section of the supermarket. There, questions about where frozen shrimp originated had replaced questions about the mysterious neighbor.

“Maybe he could come to school. You know, talk about the jungle and stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I ask him?”

“Maybe. When he feels better.” Lucia doubted that would be anytime soon. The man couldn’t even take his own boots off. Now that had been an interesting little moment yesterday. She wouldn’t even tell Meg about it because of how silly it would sound: “I untied his boots—the most intimate moment I’ve had with a man since the night before my husband went to war.”

“Mom,” her son said. “Mom.”

“What?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I apologize. I was thinking about dinner,” she fibbed. She was thinking about Sam Hove’s blue eyes. “There,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “I guess I have everything he’ll require for a few days. Maybe even a week.”

“I need more points,” Davey, still angling to do the job himself, said. Lucia admired his competitive spirit but wondered if this Random Acts of Kindness project was something he worried about too much. Davey was her quiet son, the philosopher of the trio.

“You could shovel Mrs. Beckett’s steps.”

“She’ll just yell at me.”

Yes, she probably would. “You’re right. She’s not worth the points.”

“I think she likes being mean,” he said, but Lucia could see him considering whether being yelled at was worth a point or two on the Kindness scoreboard.

“Some people do,” she agreed. Her eight-year-old was wrestling with big concepts now. She wanted to hug him, reassure him that people were good and kind and life was fair and the world was his oyster and all that, but the truth was a little harsh: mean people existed and weren’t worth the do-good-things points.

Davey pondered that for a long moment, while Lucia dug through her purse for the grocery receipt. She’d kept Sam’s food separate from hers. It wasn’t the first time she’d delivered food next door: Mrs. Kelly had become more dependent on help that last year she’d lived in town. Lucia had agreed to Jerry’s request to pick up supplies for the new neighbor—after all, the man was practically an invalid, and she was going to the store anyway—but once in the middle of the IGA with three lively boys and a horde of intense Sunday shoppers, she’d wished she’d refused.

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