Caitlin's Hero (17 page)

Mr Fix-It

Gabrielle Holly

Excerpt

Chapter One

Deena Stevens stopped brushing her hair in mid-stroke and cocked her head to listen.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

The rhythmic banging was coming from the laundry room.

“Shit! Not again!”

Deena tossed her hairbrush into the open vanity drawer then slid it closed with a smooth swing of her ample hip. Her bare feet slapped on the age-worn oak floor as she ran out of the bathroom, down the hall, across the big country kitchen and into the laundry room.

The 1970s avocado-green washing machine was rocking wildly back and forth; thudding at the apex of each shimmy. Deena flipped open the lid and looked inside the ancient appliance. The rotating drum inside was off kilter, spinning in an oval pattern rather than a circle. As she’d done a hundred times before, Deena waited as the interrupted spin cycle slowed and finally stopped with one last THUD!

Deena was just south of five-foot-four, and had to stand on tiptoe when she leaned over the edge of the machine to get at the load of whites inside. She rearranged the sopping wet bed sheets and ankle socks until they were as balanced as they’d ever get, then dropped the lid closed.

The machine gradually rumbled back to life, spinning slowly at first, then picking up speed. Deena stood back and squinted at the washer. She crossed her arms under her generous breasts, and bit her lower lip. She didn’t take her eyes off the ‘Avocado Beast’ until the spin cycle was whirring away at full speed and it was clear that the cantankerous old machine wasn’t going to go walking out of the laundry room.

Satisfied that the spin cycle was going to be completed without further drama, Deena stepped back into the kitchen. She supposed she should finish getting ready before the phone rang.

Deena had barely finished the thought when a slightly robotic version of Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ blasted out of her cell phone.
She
glanced at the phone sitting on its charger on the gleaming granite countertop, then up at the clock over the big stainless steel restaurant-grade range. She registered the time in her mind, then looked back at her ringing phone.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Deena muttered.

She took a deep breath, pulled her cell
from
the charger and swept her finger over the touch screen to answer the call. She didn’t have to look at the Caller ID, or the photo of the fashion-model-perfect face that popped up on the screen, to know who was calling.

“Hey, Suzanne. I know I’m late. Be there in ten…”

Deena rolled her eyes and held the phone a few inches from her ear as Suzanne Flowers launched into her rant without bothering with ‘hellos’.

“Are you always late or are you just operating on special ‘Deena time’? No one else seems to have any trouble getting here by eight, and everyone is pretty sick and tired of waiting around for you. I mean, really, how hard is it to—”

Deena
put the phone down
on the enormous antique farm table that filled the centre of the kitchen. She knew that Suzanne would continue with her tirade, whether or not Deena was actually listening.

Deena had heard the same lecture at least a dozen times over the past four years. That’s when Suzanne and a whole gaggle of other ‘Barbie wives’ had become her neighbours. Six years ago,
she’d
sold off some of her inherited family farmland for a new high-end housing development. Gigantic homes had begun popping up on the rolling landscape and had been almost instantly snapped up by folks with lots of money and, with a few exceptions, very little depth.

Sooner or later nearly every member of the Botox Brigade had made her way over to Deena’s big, white farmhouse, drawn in by the folksy hand-painted wood sign at the end of her driveway that promised organic produce and free-range eggs.
She
loved the irony of women who would willingly implant silicone, and other synthetic plumping agents, into their bodies, then worry about a little fertiliser on their snap peas.

Most often the women would fill their over-priced, limited edition woven baskets with organic goodies, then hurry back down the road. Sometimes, however, they would linger and chat. They would sit at the big farm table and sip rich, strong coffee (no sugar, ever, but occasionally a splash of cream…as long as it was real cream with absolutely no carbs). Deena was fascinated by how the women would visibly relax after just a few minutes in her kitchen. She supposed that they didn’t have anything to prove when they were away from the rest of the plastic herd. Surely
her
easy, earthy style threatened no one in that group. She wore her long, wavy hair loose, never bothering to blow it out or iron it straight. She had an unfashionably full figure, and favoured flowing natural-fibre clothes.

Deena definitely did not fit in. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, she had been invited to join their little book club, the book club that she had, once again, kept waiting. Deena knew, without being told explicitly, that from the beginning Suzanne had been reluctant to include her. Suzanne hosted all of the meetings and organised them like she organised the rest of her life, as if staged for a photo shoot. The charter members of the book club
were all cut
from the same designer cloth. Deena knew that she definitely upset that balance. She glanced at the clock again and wondered if her seemingly pathologic inability to be punctual for the meetings was in fact a passive-aggressive poke at Suzanne’s sense of order.

Suzanne was still scolding Deena’s tardiness when she picked up her cell phone and dropped it into her big, fringed leather purse with this month’s assigned book.
Slinging
her purse over her shoulder,
Deena
could still make out Suzanne’s muffled voice. She slid on her sandals, grabbed a plate of cookies (which no one would eat) and pulled a bottle of wine (which everyone would drink) from the rack and hurried out of her back door.

Deena crossed her side yard into Suzanne’s backyard. Through the double French doors, she could see the women gathered around Suzanne’s huge kitchen island. Suzanne had her cell phone to her ear and one hand on her boyishly narrow hip. Deena was sure that, if Suzanne had been able to wrinkle her forehead, she would have.

Deena tucked the wine bottle under one arm and balanced the cookie plate while she fished into her bag for her cell phone.

“I’m walking out the door right now, Suzanne,” she said into the phone before ending the connection.

Deena paused at the bottom step of Suzanne’s back deck and peered into the kitchen as if watching a movie unfold on a drive-in movie screen. She noticed that the Botox Brigade was even more done up than usual. Freshly flat-ironed hair gleamed, gaudy jewellery sparkled and preternaturally smooth skin was painted to perfection. At least six of the eight book clubbers inside had chosen plunging necklines to show off their synthetic cleavages. Several of them were huddled in a conspiratorial whisper that dissolved into schoolgirl giggles.

What are they up to?

She crossed the big deck and pushed open the French door. She entered the huge kitchen, where she knew few meals were actually cooked, and her nose was assaulted by a cloud of intermixed designer perfumes. She pushed the door shut with her round bottom and placed the plate of cookies and bottle of wine in the centre of the island.

Suzanne tossed her cell phone on the counter beside her ridiculously huge pink and purple designer
bag
, and planted both hands on her hips. “Well, I guess we can get started now that our perpetually late neighbour has graced us with her presence.”

Deena dropped her purse on an empty barstool, pulled the plastic wrap from the plate, snagged a homemade oatmeal raisin cookie and pointed it towards her hostess. “Please, Suzanne. We all know that I’m the only one who actually read the book.”

Deena winked and took a big, chewy bite. Her mouth was full when the door to the powder room swung open and she saw the reason for all the primping and giggling.

An enormous man, nearly a full foot taller than Deena herself, stepped into the kitchen. His deep tan stood out against a tight, sky-blue T-shirt that was just a shade lighter than his eyes. His longish, tousled, sandy hair was streaked with sun-bleached strands. He held a battered, red, metal toolbox in one big hand and extended his other towards Suzanne. She reached out and he dropped a pea-sized diamond earring into her upturned palm.

Suzanne
tossed the jewellery beside her cell phone, then pressed her hand against the man’s bulging upper arm.
She
dipped her chin and looked up at him through a fringe of pharmaceutically enhanced lashes.

“Oh, Billy, I just knew you’d be able to get it!”

Without removing her hand from Billy’s biceps, Suzanne turned towards her guests to explain. “I dropped it in the sink this afternoon. I didn’t even bother calling our regular plumber—he wouldn’t have come out right away. But this was an emergency and I just knew I could count on Billy. John found him downtown doing some work on an old house. He’s turned out to be such a treasure! He can fix absolutely anything!”

Suzanne’s voice dropped a full octave when she dragged out the word ‘anything’.

Deena was vaguely aware of the shifting and giggling around her, but she was more focused on the awesome creature in front of her. She watched his masculine face carefully. He seemed embarrassed by Suzanne’s obvious flirtation and forced a small, closed-lip smile that looked more like a grimace. Deena saw a ball of muscle gather at the corner of his square jaw and guessed that he must be clenching his teeth.

Suzanne stared at him for a long, awkward moment. The handyman cleared his throat and took a half step backward, breaking Suzanne’s grip on his arm.

“How rude of me!” Suzanne exclaimed. “Billy, you’ve met the girls,” Deena noticed
half a dozen
fingertip waves in her periphery, “but I don’t think you’ve met our neighbour, Deena. She lives in the old farmhouse behind us.”

Billy swivelled his head to find the newcomer in the group. His blue eyes locked on Deena and the grimace dissolved. It was replaced with a broad smile. His full lips framed white, even teeth and a matched set of dimples appeared on his stubbled cheeks. He set down his toolbox and took a step forward, his right hand extended.

Deena suddenly realised
that her jaw had stopped moving
the moment he’d walked in and she still had a mouthful of cookie. She chewed quickly and swallowed hard, then reached out her hand to meet his.
His hand covered hers completely
and she was enjoying the warmth of it when Suzanne’s fake laugh pierced through the moment. Everyone turned towards
the
hostess.

“Cat got your tongue, Deena?” Suzanne asked. “Or should I say, ‘cookie got your tongue’?”

Suzanne cackled and the others joined in
.

Suzanne reached up and patted the handyman on his shoulder. She stage whispered to him, loud enough for even those in the cheap seats to hear, “Deena’s so lucky. She never gives calories a second thought. We’re all totally jealous!”

With a self-satisfied grin on her flawless face, Suzanne spun around towards the cupboards and reached up for a fresh wine glass. The other women had stopped laughing, but Deena felt the heat creep up the sides of her neck and rush into her cheeks. She knew she must have been blushing deep red. She dropped her eyes to the granite island top and tried to pull her hand away from Billy’s. He held it for another moment and then gave two quick squeezes before letting her go. Deena was confused by the tiny, secret exchange. She looked up and saw that Billy was still watching her. He gave her a covert wink. She wondered if the others had seen it, but, when she looked around, everyone but Suzanne had dropped their gaze, seemingly engrossed in their fingernails.