Problem was, he knew that Britt’s house was yellow and had a red mailbox, but that was about it.
After a wrong turn or two, he was finally confident he’d found the place.
Mostly because it was the place that looked the most likeher.
He pulled up outside it, and got out to take a look in the full sunlight.
It was a dollhouse of a cottage: tiny, wood-framed, painted pale yellow, set back from the road in a sheltering horseshoe of pines. A fruitless little white picket fence circled a little yard—fruitless, since a determined deer could yawn and stretch and just step over it to eat flowers and crap on the small green lawn if it so chose. But the fence seemedright; the house would seem incomplete without it. Poppies and wild lavender and irises and other cheerful, colorful wildflowers on long stalks peeked in and out of the slats in disarray. A neatly trimmed little flagstone path led to the porch, which wrapped around the front of the house.
That big French-paned window would let in sunlight during the late afternoon, if he had to guess. And it would be shady and cool the rest of the time.
The raised porch was railed in white and the center step was the one that sagged. He could replace the boards in a couple of hours, and he could do the same with the railing, too, provided there wasn’t any dry rot.
And then he was positive it was Britt’s place, because, flanking the window on the deck, pressed up against the wall, was that rescued ficus, already looking happier. It cheered him. Oddly, he felt somewhat personally responsible for its health. Alongside it, on a tall metal baker’s rack, were what looked like other little plant patients: a tomato, he was pretty sure. Some basil. A poinsettia, probably a Christmas orphan. An African violet. A coleus, at least that’s what he thought it was called. Some others he couldn’t identify.
He smelled varnish, too, and located the source: an old chair that had clearly been stripped and repainted and antiqued in shades of cream and white. A skillful, elegant job. Another chair was lined up next to it, battered wood, with a shredded cane back, but it had good lines, simple, elegant, well made.
Rehabilitation seemed to be a theme up here on Britt’s porch.
He smiled. This was kinda funny, given that the porch itself needed a little rehab.
Her neighbor’s house was similar: a little bigger, minus the picket fence, painted a sweet pale blue. They must have kids, or maybe they hadn’t put their Halloween decorations away yet: a big old rag doll with little stick legs was slumped in the wicker chair on the porch.
J. T. whistled as he pulled his toolbox out of his truck, then lifted the latch on the little gate and headed up the flagstone path to Britt’s house.
Cha-chunk.
He froze.
Because that’s what anyone with any sense would do at the sound of a shotgun being cocked.
A Remington, if he had to guess. Like his first gun.Absolutelyunmistakable sound.
He turned his head very, very slowly.
I’ll be damned.
The rag doll on the porch next door and had come to life and was aiming the shotgun right at him.
“Jesus,” he said.
He dropped his toolbox and slowly raised his hands.
“You a praying man, mister?” she asked.
“Isn’t everyone when they’re staring down the business end of a shotgun?”
To his surprise, she chuckled.
They spent a moment in a silent stalemate while she studied him. Her white hair was scraped back into a neat chignon. Her eyes were brilliant blue, even if her face was like a pale crumpled tissue. Her arms were as wiry as her legs, and her dress, floral and cheerful, hung from her spare frame.
Finally she spoke. “You’re a little too handsome...”
“Thank you?”
“...for a housebreaker.”
“I’m not a housebreaker,” he said soothingly. “Just here to fix Britt’s porch.”