what is this man doing?
Walking around in the backyard of one of the houses in Freedom’s Chase.
That’s it? Call me back when he does something illegal, okay?
But isn’t trespassing illegal?
Then again, what if he was just looking around with the idea of buying a house here?
“How much longer will you be?”
The question, asked from behind me in a very male, rather abrupt voice, startled me, and I almost lost my precarious footing. I put a hand out and caught the upper sash to steady myself. With my sudden movement and less firm grip on the material, the heavy window treatment I held began to slip from my grasp. The slick silk flowed south with determination, a fabric Mississippi heading for the wooden Gulf of Mexico.
“No!” I couldn’t let that wonderful fabric get all wrinkled, maybe even damaged, not after all the hours I’d put in working on it. I lunged for it, the man outside forgotten, the man inside ignored.
Then the curtain was forgotten too as I belatedly realized that you can’t lunge when high on a stepladder. Maybe, I thought desperately as I flailed my arms, I could sort of step backwards and find the floor without falling flat on my back or stepping on the precious material. Of course that would be quite a step; the floor was several feet down.
“Watch it! You’re going to fall!” the man behind me yelled helpfully.
Tell me something I don’t know!
I scrunched my eyes shut as I felt myself plummet in a graceful sort of slow motion, at least until gravity got hold of me. Then it became full speed ahead.
Lord, don’t let it hurt too much!
How would I ever finish my decorating job if I broke my leg—or broke anything, for that matter? And then there was school, which started Monday. How could an art teacher ever manage one hundred and fifty-plus intermediate school kids and all the supplies for their various projects while on crutches? I could barely hold my own on two feet.
Suddenly strong hands grabbed me none too gently about the middle. The man they belonged to staggered under my weight, not the most complimentary thing that ever happened to me, but he didn’t go down. Thanks to him, neither did I. No broken legs after all. Just wounded vanity.
He set me unceremoniously on my feet. Yards of glorious Scalamandré fabric billowed about us. I watched as it settled on the floor, burying my sneakers and his dirty workboots.
“Be careful,” I cried. “Don’t move. Don’t get that fabric dirty! It costs a fortune.”
He snorted. “Tell me about it. I got the bill yesterday.”
I carefully lifted the drapery off his boots, laying it over one of the plaid slipper chairs. I examined it minutely and couldn’t see any dirt on the pale-cream background. Relief washed over me.
I turned to my rescuer. Now that I could spare him a glance, I saw he was what Dad always called a man’s man: big, physically fit, ruggedly handsome with dark eyes and wavy dark hair that needed a haircut. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, and he had a phone clipped to his belt and a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neck of his T-shirt.
All in all, very impressive, but I’d given impressive men a wide berth since Glenn. Once burned was more than enough.
A pad of lined paper filled with notations and a black leather carrying case holding what I assumed was a laptop lay on the floor where he’d dropped them when he grabbed me.
“That would have been a nasty fall,” he said, picking up his tablet and case.
I nodded. Of course I wouldn’t have fallen at all if he hadn’t scared me to death, but I decided not to mention that little fact. “Thanks for the rescue.”
He grunted, frowning at me. “What are you doing standing on something as unstable as that ladder? It looks like it’s going to collapse under you at any moment.”
“What’s the matter with my ladder?” I looked at the paint-splattered contraption. It was my father’s. He’d used it for all his home projects for years, as had Granddad before him. It bordered on family heirloom.
Dad had loaned it to me almost ten years ago when, to help pay college expenses, I began sewing curtains, slipcovers, pillows and anything else a customer wanted for her home. I was now long out of college, but the ladder was still with me, as was my part-time business, Anna’s Windows Plus. When I’d picked that name years ago, I’d never given Bill Gates and his Windows program a thought. I didn’t get too many calls about malfunctioning computer programs.
“What’s the matter with your ladder?” He looked amazed I would ask. “You’re kidding, right? The brace on one side is broken. It has more potential splinters on it than a porcupine has quills.”
Yowzah! The guy spoke in poetic images.
“In short, it’s an accident waiting to happen, and when you break your neck, I’ll get the blame.”
I blinked. “Why would you get the blame?” But I was pretty sure I knew since I’d just figured out why he looked so familiar.
“Because I’m the contractor, and Freedom’s Chase is my project.”
“You’re Edward Grayson.” Just as I’d thought. I’d seen his picture in the News often enough. I’d guess everybody in the Amhearst area knew his name, probably everybody in Chester County, if not Philadelphia and the whole Delaware Valley. He built wonderful homes like the one we were standing in and sold them at outrageous prices, though rumor had it he didn’t need the money. His family was supposedly drowning in Texas oil or something.
Maybe that’s where he got the financial backing for the massive renovation of downtown Amhearst he had planned and which City Council had just approved after much dispute. All the deteriorating buildings in the four-block area that had once been a thriving shopping and business district were to be torn down, and condominiums and apartments built, with all the facilities such a community would need.
I had followed the newspaper reports about the huge project every step of the way. I loved Amhearst, and anything that would make it a more healthy community had my support.
“You’re younger than I thought, Mr. Grayson.” Not too much older than I was. Mid-thirties to my late twenties, I thought. Young for such responsibility.
“That’s Mr. Edwards, not Mr. Grayson,” my rescuer said. “My name’s Grayson Edwards. Gray Edwards.”
“You’re named after a color.” As an artist I liked that idea, though gray wasn’t the color I would have chosen for him. Nothing so soft, so muted. Black maybe. Strong and powerful. Or Green, a deep, forest shade. Too bad I’d never been asked my opinion. I looked at Gray Edwards. Like he’d ever want my opinion.
What if I were named after a color? I could be Rose Volente or Violet Volente. The thought made me grin.
“I am not named after a color.” There was enough pique in his voice to indicate he’d dealt with this comment before. “Grayson is my mother’s maiden name.”
Mom’s
