Social Graces Page 5

  “Sorry, chicky-poo.” She scratched through the name and went on to the next entry.

  No point in letting her dentist know where she was, she would hardly be seeing him again anytime soon. Fortunately she’d already had her teeth braced and bleached.

  Her three closest friends—tennis partners, bridge partners and confidantes Felicity, Sandy and Melanie, had avoided her after the scandal broke. As stunned as she’d been by all that had happened, including her father’s death, that had hurt her terribly. By the time they’d made the first overture it was too late. Numb with grief and still in shock, she had never returned their phone calls.

  Now she addressed a card to each woman. They could respond or not, it no longer mattered. It was highly unlikely that they’d ever again be moving in the same circles.

  “And you know what?” she murmured, staring at the out-of-date lighthouse calendar hanging crookedly on the far wall. “I don’t even care any longer.”

  She made it all the way through the Ms before setting aside the stack and wandering into the kitchen in search of something edible. The choices were peanut butter or cheese and salsa on whole wheat.

  She had to find work soon. Starving wasn’t an option, and she didn’t know how to beg. Not on her own behalf, at least.

  He wasn’t coming back. He’d said he was going to get his tools, but how far did he have to go?

  Outside the hardware store, Mac tossed the newly purchased hand tools into the back of the Land Cruiser, considered picking up a sub before heading back and decided against it. He could grab something to eat after he’d checked out of the motel and moved into the fox’s den.

  Talk about luck. He’d figured on engineering an accidental meeting in a day or so, working his way into La Bonnard’s confidence and picking up any crumbs of information she might let slip before applying the thumbscrews.

  Something told him he might be in for a few surprises. The lady wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Either that or she was a damned fine actress. Recalling the first time he’d heard her voice, he’d nearly laughed aloud this time when she’d tried to send him around to the back door. By all means, let’s not forget our respective places.

  With any luck, hers was about to change. The last time he’d spoken to him, his stepbrother had blamed the lack of progress on a combination of local politics, ego, ineptitude and territorial interests, which made for a pretty unsavory stew. Mac wasn’t quite sure yet where Ms. Bonnard fit in, but she was definitely a player. Had to be. The lack of makeup and the smear of dirt on her face had thrown him for a minute, but once he was out of range, cool logic had kicked in.

  The last time he’d seen her—the day he’d delivered Will’s sunglasses—she’d been wearing white linen pants, a navy shirt and a green linen blazer. Her hair had been twisted into one of those classy-looking bundles on the back of her head, with tortoise-shell chopsticks sticking out the sides.

  Today’s version—grimy face and hair that hadn’t recently seen a brush—took some getting used to. Always open to a fresh challenge, Mac told himself there was much to be learned here, starting with why the heiress-apparent was living in a dump instead of soaking up sunshine and umbrella drinks in some fancy resort. Best guess—she was playing it smart in case anyone bothered to track her down. While she hadn’t advertised her plans, she’d made no real effort to cover her tracks.

  He hadn’t expected to get his foot in the door so quickly, but when he’d gone to check out the house and seen the for rent sign, a plan had started coming together. The handyman gig was a bonus, although he’d have to come up with a few answers when the guy she’d been expecting showed up. With any luck he’d see him coming in time to head him off.

  This time he entered the house through the back door and called out to let her know he was back.

  “Oh, good,” she said, hurrying down the short hall with a wad of paper towels in her hand. Her version of work clothes reminded him of a fashion spread he’d seen recently in the Sunday supplement. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind. Before you get started, could I get you to help me pull out the refrigerator?”

  She’d been grubby enough when he’d left to go buy tools—duplicates, for the most part, of tools he’d left back in Mystic. Now she was flat-out filthy. When his glance moved to her hair, she reached up and brushed it back from her face. The thick, shaggy braid was coming unraveled, a few stray tendrils curling around her high cheekbones.

  “The fridge? Sure. After that, I’ll get started on your shower.” He wasn’t exactly implying that she needed a bath, but it was about as close as he cared to venture. She should have smelled of dirt, sweat and stale grease. Instead he caught a whiff of something fresh and spicy that reminded him of warm nights in the tropics.

  He walked the refrigerator out from the wall, something that obviously hadn’t been done for the past few decades. Leaning past him to peer behind it, she shuddered. Then she said, “The phone man came while you were gone. That is, if you need to make any calls. Of course, long distance…”

  “Cell phone,” he said, and smiled. He’d wanted her a bit off balance, but damned if she wasn’t teetering like a one-legged tightrope walker. If he didn’t watch it, he might even start feeling sorry for her.

  “Yours works?” she said plaintively. “I have to take mine nearly out to the road to get a signal, and even then it’s iffy.”

  Leaving her placing calls, giving out her newly acquired phone number, he headed toward the back of the house, whistling tunelessly under his breath.

  Four

  From the waist down, he was scrumptious, Val mused, gazing up at the man on the ladder, his upper torso disappearing through the trap door. And if that was a sexist observation, he could sue her. Not that she would dare voice the sentiment aloud, but a woman would have to be both blind and neutered not to notice. They’d been working together for a day and a half now. Actually, not always together, but in the same small house there was no way she could ignore the man. For one thing, he was usually tapping, hammering or scraping. Not only that, but he whistled while he worked. Did he have any idea how far off-key he was? Either he was truly tone deaf or he was going out of his way to get under her skin. But why would he do that?

  As a plumber and a carpenter, he admitted to being adequate. When it came to inspecting the house wiring, he’d advised her to hire a licensed electrician. He had, however, checked the small heaters and the kitchen appliances, assuring her that the mice hadn’t done any serious damage.

  She’d asked him to check the attic for mice because of the scratching noises she still heard at night, and for leaks because of the suspicious circles on the upstairs ceiling. Only because it was rickety and she didn’t want him breaking his neck and then blaming her faulty equipment had she insisted on steadying the ladder. The last thing she needed was a lawsuit.

  As it turned out, there were squirrels in the attic, not mice. “I’ll get some hardware cloth and nail it over the places where they’ve chewed through,” he called down.

  Hardware cloth? She hardly thought cloth would suffice, but she was already learning to trust his judgment. He’d been here what—two days? A day and a half? With no particular routine and no appointments, it was easy to lose track.

  An hour ago she’d stepped out onto the porch to turn down her empty scrub bucket to drain just as he was crawling out from under the house, where he’d gone to see if the floor had rotted through behind her leaky washing machine.

  “Defies all common sense,” he’d said, backing out and dusting off his hands and knees. She’d swallowed hard and tried to erase the vision of that trim, muscular behind emerging from under her house.

  “It does?”

  “These days beach houses have to be anchored against wind, tides and all other acts of God. Law requires it. This place was obviously built before building codes were invented. It’s been sitting on top of a few skinny piers for how long—sixty or a hundred years?”

  “Who knows? But th
en, it’s not on the beach,” she said, pleased that the man took his work so seriously.

  “Doesn’t matter, inspectors are real persnickety about things like tie-downs and distance above sea-level.”

  “Persnickety. Is that a technical term?”

  Grinning, he’d wiped his hands on a red bandana. “About as technical as we professional handymen get. Did you know a couple of your girders came from a shipwreck? I’d make it mid-nineteenth century.”

  Oh, great. She wasn’t entirely sure what a girder was, but the last thing she needed was to have some historical group tying her up in legal knots so that she couldn’t even rent out a room without an act of congress. “My great-grandmother probably inherited the house from her husband. Or maybe her father, I don’t know.”

  “Pretty common practice in places like this, making do with whatever materials wash ashore.” Wintery sunlight had highlighted his features. She’d stared, distracted, until he’d said, “No signs of termites so far as I can tell, but you might want to call in an expert. Floor under the washer’s in trouble, though.”

  “A new floor and an exterminator?” Worried about the escalating costs, she’d asked how much of the floor needed replacing.

  “No more than a square yard, probably. Let me look around in your shed, might be something there I can use, since it won’t show. Or we could check out the beach if you’d rather.” He had a quick grin that came more frequently now, but never lasted more than a few seconds. All day she’d found herself watching for it, deliberately trying to tempt it into the open again.

  “Check the shed first,” she said, wondering what replacing part of a floor would cost if she had to buy new material. That had been when he’d found the ladder. He had also found several pieces of scrap lumber and crawled back under the house again with a folding rule.

  Lord, he was something, she thought now. With the weight of all she had yet to do resting squarely on her shoulders, she could still admire a splendid specimen of masculinity. Just went to show what a powerful force survival of the species could be.

  Not that there was anything like that at play here, she assured herself, watching him descend the shaky ladder. She might need to buy a new one before he went up onto the roof.

  “I’m just glad you managed to fix my water heater so I can soak my bones in a deep, hot bath tonight instead of making do with four inches of lukewarm water,” she said as he folded up the ladder.

  It occurred to her that after crawling around under her house and in her attic, he might have a few aching muscles of his own. Should she offer him a soak in her bathtub?

  Get a grip, Bonnard, you don’t have time to play Lady Chatterly even if your gamekeeper happens to be willing.

  “Looks pretty sound up there,” he said, nodding to the trap door. “I spotted a few possible leaks, mostly around the chimney. Probably needs new flashing. I can give it a go if you’d like, or you can call in an expert.”

  “No, you.”

  He nodded. He was still working for room and, as it turned out, board. Late yesterday afternoon they’d shopped for groceries together and split the bill. Mac had done the cooking and she’d cleaned up afterward. It was the perfect solution, so far as she was concerned. She had to eat, and her culinary talents began and ended with making toast and brewing a perfect pot of tea. At the moment she had to settle for tea bags, as she didn’t even own a teapot.

  Last night’s dinner had been an enormous chopped steak doused with soy sauce and salsa, along with a plain boiled potato and bagged salad. Hardly gourmet fare, but she couldn’t remember enjoying a meal more in ages. If that was an example of what she had to look forward to, she would definitely keep him.

  Mac had mentioned buying a microwave and she’d told him if he wanted one, to feel free, but she wasn’t yet ready to invest in any kitchen appliances. Her already meager budget was shrinking at an alarming rate—not that she’d bothered to tell him that. Probably didn’t have to.

  She’d checked the two regional newspapers for jobs, and even looked over the post office bulletin board. Jazzercise classes, a missing Jack Russell terrier and tax service. No help wanted ads. If nothing better turned up by the end of the week, she might have to take Marian up on her joking offer of a job cleaning cottages. By then, she should be well qualified.

  Mac called the hardware store on her newly installed phone and discussed flashing material while she washed up for a late lunch. How much, she wondered, did flashing cost? She wasn’t even sure what it was. Something copper? Copper was flashy. She suspected it was also expensive. The roof on her father’s house was slate, the gutters solid copper, the best money could buy, Charlie had once boasted.

  Amazing, the things she’d taken for granted. Leak-free roofs. Limitless hot water. Warmth.

  “I’ll replace the bulb in the front-porch fixture and clean out the gutters before I put the ladder away,” Mac said, hanging up the phone.

  “Can’t it wait?” If he started in on another project, she would feel obligated to tackle one, too. She still had two rooms upstairs to go, but there was no pressing hurry. One of them wasn’t even furnished.

  “Might as well do it while I’m thinking about it. Or if there’s something else you’d rather I start on, the gutters can wait until I do the flashing.”

  Distracted, she tried to think of her to-do list while her gaze moved over his backside. He was washing his hands at the sink, his sleeves shoved up over his tanned, muscular forearms. So far as she could tell, he wore a single layer of clothing above the belt. She was wearing three. Her layers concealed a bosom hardly worthy of the name, while his stretched to accommodate a pair of magnificent shoulders. Just from watching what he’d done so far, she was beginning to understand how a handyman might develop a set of muscles that would make a professional athlete envious.

  “I don’t suppose a few more days will matter,” she said.

  “No rain in the immediate forecast, I checked. Chilly, though. Lows in the high twenties, highs in the low forties.”

  It occurred to her that back home, forties wouldn’t even be considered cold this time of year. Either the cold down here was different or she was growing more sensitive.

  While he dried his hands on the fluffy, white-on-white monogrammed towel, she put on a kettle to heat for tea. The water had a slightly brownish tint, but no discernible taste. If it had been unsafe, Marian would have warned her.

  She jotted down bottled water on her shopping list, then crossed it off. She seriously doubted if Grax had made her iced tea with Evian. Determined not to be distracted, either by the drafts leaking in around the windows or her moderately attractive handyman, she got out the box of Earl Grey teabags and two cups.

  Moderately. Right. Like a blowtorch was moderately hot.

  Lunch was sandwiches. She spread her own. Mac raised his eyebrows when she set the cup of tea before him. She should have asked what he wanted to drink instead of assuming.

  “Here’s sugar if you want it,” she said, indicating the old-fashioned sugar bowl she’d found on a top shelf, which she’d like to think had belonged to her great-grandmother.

  “No, it’s fine as is, thanks.” His expression said otherwise.

  Her ex-fiancé, whom she was determined to forget, had thought nothing of sending a bottle of wine back if it didn’t quite meet his expectations. She’d seen more than one sommelier roll his eyes when Tripp had held up an imperious finger.

  What on earth had she ever seen in the man? Other than his George Clooney looks, his killer backhand, his low golf handicap and his flawless social skills?

  Although not so flawless, as it turned out. Not in her book, at least.

  Reaching for the last half of her sandwich, she caught sight of the square, capable hand that was resting on the table and wondered idly if Mac ever played tennis. Actually, she wondered a lot more than that.

  Which reminded her that she’d never gotten around to asking for references. Marian would never have sent him aro
und if he weren’t to be trusted—still, she wondered about his background. The sweatshirt he wore said WOOD’S HOLE, not OD’S HO. But then, anyone could buy a sweatshirt. Felicity had one that said Souvenir of Folsom Prison.

  “You planning on living here permanently?” he asked.

  She blinked at the question. Had he read her mind?

  She hadn’t thought beyond the immediate future, which included doing the detective work the investigators weren’t doing because they were convinced they’d already caught their man, even if they hadn’t yet recovered the missing funds.

  “I’m not sure…” Glancing around at the drafty old kitchen, she remembered the first time she’d ever seen it. From a child’s point of view, it had all been an adventure. The island, the old house—the ship model and decoys that Grax had said her husband had made. My great-grandfather, Val thought now, marveling that she’d never even been curious about her ancestors. Grandparents were family, but great-grandparents qualified as ancestors. She had never really known any of her extended family.

  Centered on the mantel she remembered the brass Seth Thomas clock that struck ship’s bells instead of the hour. Grax had been explaining to Val why it struck eight times in the middle of the afternoon when her mother had insisted they really must leave if they were to catch the ferry to Ocracoke in time to catch the ferry to Cedar Island in time to reach Hilton Head in time to claim their reservations.

  “I think I mentioned that my great-grandmother left me this house,” she said now. Hesitating, she added, “I only visited it once, and now…”

  He nodded, almost as if he knew what she was trying to say.

  She didn’t even know what she’d been trying to say. That she was grateful for a place to go after losing her home? That she was ashamed of neglecting one of her few relatives?