well go to bed. He’d been looking forward to that ever since he saw it made up with baby-soft flannel sheets, a wool blanket and a beautiful old quilt. More luxury.
He turned off lights as he went, brushed his teeth and stared at himself in the mirror. For a second, he almost didn’t recognize the face looking back at him. He still saw a death’s head instead of the face he’d once known, but...less so. Despite the rain, he’d acquired the beginnings of a tan since he got on that bus out of Walla Walla. His hair hadn’t grown very much—he ran a hand over the stubble—but maybe a little.
It was the eyes, he thought, leaning closer to look. They weren’t empty anymore. Someone was at home in there. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he felt again, and not only rage and despair. He’d have to watch that, not let his emotions get out of hand.
Finally, he turned out that light, too, and walked across the dark bedroom to the window that looked toward the house. He could tell from the shiny reflection that Erin had washed the inside glass, and the curtains smelled fresh. With one pulled aside, he found that he could indeed see the golden square of an upstairs window that had to be Erin’s bedroom.
Cole stood there longer than he should have, both grateful and disappointed not to see even a shadow of movement or the silhouette of the slim, womanly body.
* * *
THEY WORKED IN harmony the next morning, Cole appearing relaxed. He didn’t go so far as to waste a smile, but once, when she was returning for another load of debris to toss in the Dumpster, he raised his chin up, to guide her gaze to the roof of the house. Bright eyes in a furry face looked back at her. A squirrel. The tail gave an agitated jerk, and the squirrel vanished.
Erin chuckled. “I hope his food stash didn’t get thrown out with the porch.”
“I’d have seen that.” Cole placed another nail and swung the hammer.
Smiling, she went back to her job. With his strength, he would have finished it a lot faster, but she couldn’t have done a single, useful part of what he was doing. Transferring the pile of splintered, rotting boards to the Dumpster was at her skill level.
At lunchtime, he refused her offer of a bowl of chili and went up to the apartment. Probably to have something like a bologna sandwich, but she understood his need to be self-sufficient.
It didn’t seem worth heating anything just for herself. With little appetite despite her labors, Erin cut a few squares of cheese and ate them with crackers, calling it good. When he came out, she was already at work.
His stony face sent a chill through her.
“I need to buy a phone,” he said, “but I’m wondering if I can use yours to make one call.”
“Of course you can.”
Still with that utter lack of expression, he looked at her. “He’ll want to talk to you. I’m...due to check in with my parole officer.”
“Oh. I see.” Did he expect trouble?
“Do you mind if I give him this address?” he asked stiffly.
“It is your address as long as you live in the apartment.” She pulled her phone from the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt. “Here.”
He took the phone but didn’t move, only stared at it. Erin had started to turn away to give him privacy, then stopped. How long had iPhones been around? Would he ever have used a smartphone of any kind? If not... God, it probably looked like a slab of polished stone to him.
She turned again, careful not to meet his eyes. “Push this button to wake it up.”
Without a word, he continued to follow her instructions, his jaw clenched so tight muscles quivered. He took a business card from his pocket and tapped out the numbers, then said a gruff, “Thanks.”
Guessing how hard it had been to say that much, Erin nodded. She went to get one of the yard waste bins, rolling it up the driveway to the first heap of cuttings. Cole had walked a few feet away and stood with his back to her, talking.
She succeeded so well in ignoring him, she gasped and jumped six inches when he touched her shoulder.
“Mr. Ramirez.”
Taking the phone, she willed her heartbeat to slow down. She aimed for a brisk tone. “Mr. Ramirez? This is Erin Parrish.”
“Ms. Parrish. I’m Mr. Meacham’s parole officer. He tells me you’ve rented him an apartment.”
“That’s right. He’s also working for me.”
“So he says.”
“He’s currently rebuilding the front porch on an old house I inherited. Unfortunately, my grandmother didn’t maintain the house or yard very well, so they both need a lot of work that’s beyond my skill level. Cole’s doing a great job.” Wow, listen to her. Bouncy, upbeat. Would she be more believable if she scaled it back? Still, she had to finish. “We came to an agreement that he’ll stay in the apartment above the garage in return for working on that, too, once he has the time and I buy the materials.”
“So you’re satisfied with his work?”
Hadn’t she said so? But skepticism was probably part of his job description. “Yes.”
“Were you acquainted with Mr. Meacham before his prison term?”
“No, I overheard him applying for a job in town, and thought he might be willing to take on short-term work for me.”
He had more questions. How long did she expect to employ Cole? She guessed at least a month. Yes, he was welcome to stay in the apartment after that, provided he did the work on it. She verified the address. West Fork was not in Whatcom County, where Mr. Meacham was supposed to go. Did she know why that hadn’t worked out? No, she had no idea.
Yes, this was her phone. She didn’t mind if Ramirez called from time to time. She walked into the garage and scribbled his phone number on a sheet of notepaper, below the list Cole had come up with for her next lumberyard run.
When she pocketed the phone again, she went out to find Cole swinging the hammer with short, violent motions. Wham. Wham.
“I’ll come up with a rental agreement,” she said to his back. He quit hammering but didn’t turn. “That way, you can show it anywhere you need to.”
He nodded. Wham. Wham.
O-kay.
An hour later, he barely glanced at her when she told him she was heading out. When she returned, she showed him the two different kinds of roofing nails she’d bought because she hadn’t been sure which was the right one.
“These,” he said, taking the bag.
That was the extent of their conversation for the rest of the afternoon.
Erin knew she shouldn’t feel hurt. She understood why he detested needing help and how he must’ve struggled with himself to accept her offer of the apartment and then have to ask her to vouch for him. Friendship wasn’t part of their deal. He hadn’t really even been rude, just withdrawn.
But
