toolbox and inserted it into the lock.
“I didn’t know you knew how to pick locks,” she said with amusement.
His hand froze for a moment, and she could almost hear him wondering if he needed to actually reply to her comment; then he made a “hmm” noise in his throat and resumed manipulating the pick.
Cate moved so she was directly behind him and leaned closer, trying to see what he was doing. The bright light illuminated his hands, etching every raised vein, every powerful sinew. He had good hands, she noticed. They were callused, stained with grease, and his left thumbnail sported a black mark that looked as if he’d banged it with a hammer, but his nails were short and clean and his hands were lean and strong and well-shaped. She had a soft spot for strong hands; Derek’s hands had been very strong, because of the rock climbing.
He grunted, withdrew the pick, and turned the doorknob, pulling the door open a few inches.
“Thank you so much,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. She indicated the suitcase he’d pushed to the side. “That guy who left without taking his things still hasn’t come back, so I have to store his suitcase for a while, in case he decides to come back for it.”
Mr. Harris glanced at the suitcase as he took the flashlight from her, turning it off and placing both it and the pick back in his toolbox. “That’s weird. What was he running from?”
“I think he wanted to avoid someone in the dining room.” Odd that the handyman had so swiftly picked up on something that hadn’t immediately occurred to her. Initially, she’d just thought Layton was nuts. Maybe men were more naturally suspicious than women.
He grunted again, an acknowledgment of her comment. He dipped his head at the suitcase. “Anything unusual in there?”
“No. He left it sitting open. I packed his clothes and shoes, and put his toiletries in the kit.”
He stood and nudged the toolbox to the side, opening the door wide, then bent and picked up the suitcase. “Show me where you want to put it.”
“I can do that,” she protested.
“I know, but I’m already here.”
As she led the way up the steep staircase, Cate reflected that she’d probably heard him say more in the past ten minutes than she had in months, and it was certainly one of the few times she’d heard him utter an unsolicited comment. Usually he’d give a brief answer to a direct question, and that was it. Maybe he’d joined Toastmasters, or taken a loquacious pill.
The attic was hot and dusty, with that moldy smell abandoned possessions all seemed to have even when there wasn’t any mold present. Light from three dormer windows made it a surprisingly sunny place, but the walls were unfinished and the floor was made of bare planks that creaked with every step.
“Over here,” she said, indicating a bare spot against the outer wall.
He put the suitcase and Dopp Kit down, then glanced around. He saw the climbing gear and paused. “Whose is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Mine and my husband’s.”
“You both climbed?”
“That’s how we met, at a climbing club. I stopped climbing when I got pregnant.” But she hadn’t gotten rid of their gear. It was all still there, neatly arranged and stowed: the climbing shoes, the harnesses and chalk bags, the belaying and rappelling devices, the helmets, the coils of rope. She’d made certain direct sunlight never reached the ropes, even though she knew she’d never go climbing again. It just wasn’t in her to mistreat the equipment.
He hesitated, and she could see his face turning red again. Then he said, “I’ve done a little climbing. More mountaineering type stuff, though.”
He’d actually volunteered information about himself! Maybe he had decided she was as nonthreatening as the boys, so she was safe to talk to. She should note this day on her calendar and circle it in red, because any day that shy Mr. Harris began talking about himself had to be special.
“I just
“I didn’t know you knew how to pick locks,” she said with amusement.
His hand froze for a moment, and she could almost hear him wondering if he needed to actually reply to her comment; then he made a “hmm” noise in his throat and resumed manipulating the pick.
Cate moved so she was directly behind him and leaned closer, trying to see what he was doing. The bright light illuminated his hands, etching every raised vein, every powerful sinew. He had good hands, she noticed. They were callused, stained with grease, and his left thumbnail sported a black mark that looked as if he’d banged it with a hammer, but his nails were short and clean and his hands were lean and strong and well-shaped. She had a soft spot for strong hands; Derek’s hands had been very strong, because of the rock climbing.
He grunted, withdrew the pick, and turned the doorknob, pulling the door open a few inches.
“Thank you so much,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. She indicated the suitcase he’d pushed to the side. “That guy who left without taking his things still hasn’t come back, so I have to store his suitcase for a while, in case he decides to come back for it.”
Mr. Harris glanced at the suitcase as he took the flashlight from her, turning it off and placing both it and the pick back in his toolbox. “That’s weird. What was he running from?”
“I think he wanted to avoid someone in the dining room.” Odd that the handyman had so swiftly picked up on something that hadn’t immediately occurred to her. Initially, she’d just thought Layton was nuts. Maybe men were more naturally suspicious than women.
He grunted again, an acknowledgment of her comment. He dipped his head at the suitcase. “Anything unusual in there?”
“No. He left it sitting open. I packed his clothes and shoes, and put his toiletries in the kit.”
He stood and nudged the toolbox to the side, opening the door wide, then bent and picked up the suitcase. “Show me where you want to put it.”
“I can do that,” she protested.
“I know, but I’m already here.”
As she led the way up the steep staircase, Cate reflected that she’d probably heard him say more in the past ten minutes than she had in months, and it was certainly one of the few times she’d heard him utter an unsolicited comment. Usually he’d give a brief answer to a direct question, and that was it. Maybe he’d joined Toastmasters, or taken a loquacious pill.
The attic was hot and dusty, with that moldy smell abandoned possessions all seemed to have even when there wasn’t any mold present. Light from three dormer windows made it a surprisingly sunny place, but the walls were unfinished and the floor was made of bare planks that creaked with every step.
“Over here,” she said, indicating a bare spot against the outer wall.
He put the suitcase and Dopp Kit down, then glanced around. He saw the climbing gear and paused. “Whose is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Mine and my husband’s.”
“You both climbed?”
“That’s how we met, at a climbing club. I stopped climbing when I got pregnant.” But she hadn’t gotten rid of their gear. It was all still there, neatly arranged and stowed: the climbing shoes, the harnesses and chalk bags, the belaying and rappelling devices, the helmets, the coils of rope. She’d made certain direct sunlight never reached the ropes, even though she knew she’d never go climbing again. It just wasn’t in her to mistreat the equipment.
He hesitated, and she could see his face turning red again. Then he said, “I’ve done a little climbing. More mountaineering type stuff, though.”
He’d actually volunteered information about himself! Maybe he had decided she was as nonthreatening as the boys, so she was safe to talk to. She should note this day on her calendar and circle it in red, because any day that shy Mr. Harris began talking about himself had to be special.
“I just
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