The Promise of Home (26 page)

“Yes! Yes, sir, we do. Thank you,” Michael said. He extended his hand for Mr. Borisov to shake, and the smell surrounding the counter suddenly wasn't quite as pungent as it had been. “I'll be here on Monday morning at nine sharp.”

“Very good, Michael O'Brien. Very good. See you Monday.”

As Michael stepped outside the store, he was nearly overcome with joy and gratitude. He sucked in the fresh air as he walked briskly down the street. The ache in his feet notwithstanding, he almost gave in to the urge to kick up his heels.
Against impossible odds, he had found a job.
If Mr. Borisov kept him on past the initial trial period, he would be able to earn more than forty dollars by the end of the summer—enough, when combined with what they already had and what they could get from selling Onion's new heifer calf, to pay the remainder of his mother's hospital bill, the electric bill, and the property taxes that would be due on the farm.

Once his initial euphoria subsided, he began to wonder whether he'd accepted Mr. Borisov's offer too quickly. Mainly, he wasn't sure how he could convince his mother to let him work in the loan office. She would never approve, he was sure, and he was afraid to tell her. After his inquiries, he felt reasonably sure that he wouldn't find another position in the city, but he hadn't tried finding a job at any of the farms outside of Burlington. It was possible he could find a summer job picking produce or as a farmhand. Though he had no way of knowing what sort of wages he might be offered, it would be respectable work. Did he really want to forgo those possibilities to work in the loan office?

He could tell his mother and grandmother about a job on a farm. But there was no guarantee he could find a farm job, and if he did, it would mean less money. Plus, there might be no possibility of farmwork once the summer growing season was over. What if his father were unable to send money even when autumn came? If he worked in the loan office, he might be able to leave school temporarily and continue working through the fall until his father straightened things out with Seamus or else came home.

Michael hurried along the street, knowing that his mother and grandmother would be expecting him home. As he fell into the rhythm of fast walking, he came to the solemn realization that if he wanted to ensure the safety and security of his family, he had no choice but to work for Mr. Borisov. That meant that he would have to hide the truth about where he'd be working—this new secret of his own—even if it meant being purposefully dishonest. It was especially important that his mother not find out, because she would be terribly upset, and that was the last thing she needed in her condition.

He arrived back at the farm just as the sun was nearly to the horizon. The Colchester parish sedan was parked in front, and he quickened his step, wondering why his uncle had come.
Has something happened to Mother? Has someone discovered the secret in the cemetery?

In the house, his mother was seated at the kitchen table, holding a handkerchief. Her face was moist with tears. His uncle sat with her, clasping her hand, and they both turned when they heard him come through the door.

“Mother? Is everything all right?”

“It's Lizzie,” his mother choked. “She died this morning. When she didn't come inside by noon, I went to the barn, looking for her. I've already called your father, and he's on his way home.”

O
n the Tuesday evening the week before Thanksgiving, Emily stood in the great room of the marble mansion. She stretched her back and yawned as she looked up and around at what she had accomplished.

The walls were freshly painted and bright, and the smooth wood floors gleamed with new stain and varnish. The trim and woodwork been painted or refinished as needed. Emily smiled as she approached the staircase. It had been painstaking work, stripping the stain from the beautiful handrail before sanding and refinishing it, but it looked brand-new.

The transformation extended to the rest of the house, down to the way the house smelled. The musty, stale air that had greeted her on her first visit to the marble mansion was gone, replaced by the scents of fresh paint and lumber and the leaves that had begun to rain down on the house and in the yard.

The bathrooms had been updated with new fixtures and mirrors, except the enormous cast-iron tub in the owner's suite. Ruth had asked her not to replace it because she loved antique claw-footed tubs, and Emily had been happy to oblige, since she would've had to knock out a wall to remove the behemoth.

The kitchen was now a fully modernized workplace for Ruth, complete with a professional stove, dual ovens, and quartz countertops. Emily had reconfigured the cabinets to allow room for a commercial refrigerator and freezer, as well as a long length of counter space that could be used as a coffee and breakfast buffet for guests. She had cut a second door in a kitchen wall, which led conveniently into the dining room.

Most of the heavy lifting in giving the mansion a makeover was finished. She would begin to tackle the smaller items on her list in the morning, but right now, all she wanted to do was go home and collapse.

Emily tidied up the corner of the great room where she kept her toolbox and her other belongings while she was working. There were a few used plastic paint trays in the corner, and she smiled as she gathered them up to throw away. The day she'd fallen into one of those trays had been a turning point of sorts. Learning about Matt's experience in the military had been eye-opening, and he'd handled her awkward mishap like a true gentleman when he could have made her feel even more foolish. In the few weeks that had passed since the paint incident, he hadn't made as much as a single joke or snide comment, which had further tipped the scales in his favor. Plus, he'd continued to show up to help her at the mansion on his days off.

It was hard to admit it, but Matt's volunteering days of his time to help her had been wearing down her own walls, the ones she kept close around her heart. She hadn't truly opened her heart to someone since Andy had been killed. Neither of her two serious relationships after that had worked out. She knew now that she hadn't been emotionally ready, but it was also true that neither of her post-Andy boyfriends had been anything like the wonderful man who had been ripped so suddenly from her life.

Matt, though, was turning out to be different. She'd forgiven his first attempt to get to know her as an epic fail at trying to be cute and clever. Throughout the hours and days they'd spent together in the mansion, she'd begun to feel more and more drawn to him. Of course, physically, he was extremely handsome. He also had the same quiet confidence and intelligence that Andy had exuded and that she found so attractive. She'd been surprised to discover that Matt had a goofball sense of humor, too.

On the third day he'd shown up to help her, she'd gone to use the restroom, leaving Matt and Gus alone in the bedroom they'd been painting. On her way back to the room, she'd heard someone singing in a strange voice, one that sounded like a higher-pitched version of Yoda from
Star Wars
. She'd tiptoed to the doorway and peeked in to see Matt holding up his index finger, bending it in time to his singing as if it were a little person. Gus was sitting on his dog bed, staring up at Matt with his ears pricked and his head cocked to one side. The tune was from “That Doggie in the Window,” but Matt had altered the lyrics:

Who left that poor Gussie in the window?

The pup who's infested with fleas?

I know why that Gussie's in the window,

'Cause doggie farts smell worse than cheese.

Emily had clasped a hand over her mouth to keep her laughter from giving her away. After Matt had sung the verse one more time, he made a loud raspberry, perhaps to further illustrate the last line in the song. Gus bounded forward with his tail wagging and gave a huge
WOOF
.

“You like that, boy? Huh? You wanna sing with me?” Matt reached down to rumple the dog's ears as she stepped into the room.

“You know, that wasn't bad. You might have a future as a pop star if the cop gig doesn't work out.”

The look on Matt's face had been pure mortification and absolutely priceless. “Oh my God, you heard that?” He shook his head as a deep pink hue spread up his cheeks. “That was just something I made up while I was messing with Ruby. You know, she's definitely part husky because she sings with me when I, uh—”

“—serenade her?”

“Yeah.” He grinned as the fuchsia creeping up his face made it all the way to his hairline.

It was at that moment that Emily had felt another shift. It was as if a long-frozen wall of ice had cracked, revealing an opening to her soul, and Matt's silly antics with Gus rushed right through it.

The feeling terrified her.

What she really wished for was a talk with her mother, the kind they used to have when they'd sit and laugh and discuss everything. Her mother's advice was nearly always spot-on, but they hadn't connected like that in months, not since her mother faked her own death in a crazy, last-ditch attempt to get her daughters back on speaking terms. Emily had forgiven her for the stunt, but she hadn't forgotten it, and she still didn't feel enough time had passed since the incident to resume their mother-daughter chats.

Eager to shower and crawl into bed, Emily went home. Once she was clean and Gus was back inside from his pre-bedtime trip into the yard, she slid under her covers and sank onto her pillow. The briefcase from the mansion sat on her nightstand, but she was too tired to read any of the letters tonight. She didn't want to think anymore about Matt, either, since her emotions were entirely unsettled. As she closed her eyes and began to drift off, she hoped only that somehow things would work out for the best.

When she arrived at the marble mansion the next morning, Matt was sitting outside the back door with a disposable cup from the bakery in each hand.

“You're here early,” she said as she got out of the car and opened the door for Gus to do the same. She also took a bag from the backseat containing the sweatpants—now freshly laundered—that Matt had loaned her after the paint mishap.

“So are you. I brought you a green tea from the bakery.” He held one of the cups out to her, and the steam emanating from the small drinking hole in the lid curled up into the chilly morning air. “Mornings are getting pretty cold.”

“Yeah. It won't be long before we're buried in snow. Thanks for this,” she said as she took the cup. Gus went up to Matt and whined for attention as she pulled the key to the door from her purse. “Here, let's go inside.”

In the kitchen, they took off their coats and gloves. “So, what's on tap for today?” Matt asked. He took a sip from his own cup.

“Well, I need to install a support for a flat-screen TV on a wall in each bedroom. While I do that, I thought maybe you could put in the new locks I got for the doors.”

“Sure. Locks are my specialty,” Matt said with a smile. “You have a drill here, right?”

“Yes, in the toolbox. I'll need to use it, too. Here, I'll put your stuff with mine.” She took Matt's jacket and gloves and laid them beside her own on the kitchen counter. “I've got deliveries of furniture starting right after Thanksgiving, so there's not too much time left to finish up—” She turned around in midsentence and nearly ran into Matt, who had stepped closer to the counter while she had her back turned. “Whoa, I'm sorry. I almost beaned you.”

She had never been that close to him, and what air remained between them felt electrically charged. She was close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and the day-old stubble around his mouth, to smell toothpaste and freshly scrubbed skin combined with the scent of the coffee he held. It was almost as if time stopped for a few seconds as her mind went completely blank.

Get ahold of yourself,
she thought.
You have work to do.

Emily got Gus settled on his dog bed, grabbed her toolbox, and headed for the stairs. Wordlessly, Matt took the heavy toolbox from her before they went up. She opened her mouth to protest.

“Don't you even,” he said before she could get a word out. “I know you're usually very capable of lugging this around, but you almost bashed into me down there. I'm not sure you're fully awake yet, so I'll get it for you this one time. No telling what damage you might do with a large metal object.” He shot a cocky grin over his shoulder as he bolted up the stairs with her tools.

“Hey!” She ran after him, taking the stairs two at a time, but she couldn't catch him before he'd reached the master suite and set down the box.

They worked methodically most of the morning, she using a stud finder and tape measure to insert supports for the televisions and he swapping out the old doorknobs for new ones with deadbolt locks and adding chain door guards. They shared the drill back and forth as they needed it.

“Can I use the drill for a minute?” Emily asked. She had just marked a small X in pencil on the wall where she needed to place one of the wall supports. They were in the last of the six bedrooms that would be used by future guests.

“Yep.” He passed the drill to her and returned his focus to measuring for the doorknob's new strike plate.

Emily took a few seconds to let her gaze run over the way Matt's shirt fit on his muscular torso before she wrested her attention back to the wall. Confidently, she swapped out the Phillips bit for a long bit, raised the drill, positioned the bit against the small X on the wall, and squeezed the trigger switch.

At first it felt like every other time she'd drilled a hole into a stud. The bit went easily through the drywall before encountering a harder surface. But instead of the steady, increased resistance that was typical once the bit hit wood, there was only a moment when it came up against a hard surface before it plunged forward. Even worse, a thin jet of water shot straight out of the hole into her face.

“Dammit!” she yelled. She yanked the drill away from the wall and set it down roughly. The muffled sound of rushing water could be heard coming from within the wall, and in a few seconds, it began gushing out beneath the baseboard.

Matt flinched and looked over his shoulder. “What happened?”

“I hit a water line.”

“Oh, shit.” Matt glanced down at the floor. “That's a
lot
of water.”

“The pipe in the wall must've burst. Probably corroded from the inside.” Emily was already bolting out the door, heading for the stairs. “I'm going to shut off the water. As soon as you hear me yell, go in the bathroom around the corner and turn on the sink—the cold water side, wide open. It'll help run the water out of the pipe faster.” She left before he could reply and raced downstairs, through the kitchen, and back into a small utility room. The washer and dryer were there, along with a closet where Ruth intended to keep brooms and cleaning supplies, the circuit breaker panel, and the main water shutoff valve.

“Matt, turn on the sink!” she hollered after she'd rotated the valve all the way closed. She had very little in the mansion that could absorb water, but she grabbed an old bucket from the utility room. On her way back through the kitchen, she turned on the cold water at the sink and took Matt's clean sweatpants from the counter. There was a roll of paper towels next to the clothes, and she snatched that up as well.

The water was already pooling on the floor when she reentered the bedroom. Immediately, she threw the sweatpants on the wet floor and started unrolling the paper towels.

“Sink faucet's on,” Matt said as he bent to help her. “I shudder to think how much water is inside that wall.”

“The wall is toast,” Emily said. “I've got the kitchen faucet running downstairs to drain the pipe. Now, the most important thing is to get this water up before it soaks through to the ceiling below us. It'd be nice if I could keep the wood floor here from warping, but I think it's too saturated to avoid damage. Have you got any more clothes in your car?”

“I wish. I got embarrassed, having only dirty clothes in there to lend you, so I cleaned out my car and washed everything I had stashed in it.”

“Well, we're going to need more things to sop up this water, and fast. I never should have taken my shop vac home.” There was still standing water on the floor and more leaking out of the hole in the wall and the crack beneath the baseboard.

“Do you want to run and get it? Or I could go home and get towels,” Matt offered, “but that might take too long—”

“Dog bed!”

Emily jumped up again, ran downstairs, and heaved a sleeping Gus off his large cushion and onto the floor. “Sorry, bud, I've gotta borrow this,” she said as the dog whined and blinked. In seconds, she was back to the bedroom, where she threw the dog bed on the wet floor.

Another minute or so passed before the stream of water from the wall stopped. The flow from the sink faucet slowed to a trickle and then a fast drip before it, too, ended. The dog bed functioned like an enormous sponge, soaking up much of the water on the hardwood. She and Matt tried to absorb the rest of it with his sweatpants. They took turns wringing them into the bucket or the bathroom sink until the floor was no longer a shallow lake.