I’d thought the “girthy”vanity incident on Monday would be the end of it. That my client would finally start to trust me so we could cohabitate in peace while I focused on finishing his renovation and finding a new place to live.
By Friday morning, I was forced to acknowledge that peace wasn’t really an option when dealing with Delaney Monroe.
Delaney, who used a complex system of color-coded sticky notes for different purposes and had rearranged my grandmother’s teacups on his kitchen shelf five times in six days to achieve the right “visual harmony.”
Delaney, who I’d overheard speaking to his sister for six uninterrupted minutes about an article he’d read on the importance of baby-wearing, as Tam’s expression had morphed from shock—Delaney reads articles on baby-wearing?—to offense—Does he think I’m not meeting Tierney’s “psycho-emotional needs”?—to concern—Is he still talking?—to reluctant admiration—Holy shit, he memorized fourteen sling-wrapping techniques?—to fond amusement, while I’d nearly fallen off my ladder while repairing the living room ceiling and brained myself, trying not to laugh.
Delaney, who, it turned out, had strong views that there wasonecorrect way of folding towels and spent forty-five minutes explaining to me why the subway tile pattern I’d suggested for the downstairs shower was “pedestrian”… before changing his mind an hour later and deciding it was “preferable, Brewer, please proceed.”
Delaney, who apparently wore slithery green silk pajamas that had stopped me in my tracks when I’d spotted them peeking out of his hamper and which had spawned a dozen fantasies since.
Delaney, who toyed with his glasses, and stared at my chest in an abstracted way all the fucking time, and left me glass containers of food neatly labeled with my name when I’d started avoiding the kitchen during mealtimes to minimize how much time I could spend staring back at him.
Delaney, who was cranky and unexpectedly sweet, cocky, and anxious, like a double-sided puzzle I couldn’t help trying to put together, who’d invaded my brain to the point where I’d had to jerk off in the attic this morning before getting to work—not a thing I’d had to do when working with other clients—and who was the primary source of the low-level tension I felt crackling in the air like?—
“There’s a big storm a-comin’, Brewer!” Hen said gleefully. “Good thing Delaney’s cabinets came in this morning, eh?”
I shook myself physically and mentally, realizing I’d been woolgathering in the middle of the hardware store—another thing I didn’t think I’d ever been reduced to before Delaney.
“That’s why I’m here,” I agreed. “I did hear there might be flurries tonight, but?—”
“Flurries.” Hen scoffed. His chest puffed up. “You sound like my grandson. I keep telling Everett TV meteorologists don’t understand the unique microclimate around here. My leg’s been aching something fierce, so I’m saying we’ll get a solid foot.” He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Maybe more.”
“Tell you what, Hen,” said a voice behind me. “I’ll bet you a coffee and a cheese danish at Fanaille we get less than three inches.”
I turned to find Reed Sunday approaching with a smile, carrying a tub of spackle and an armload of paint rollers. He and his husband had bought a new house around the time Delaney had but were doing most of the renovations themselves. I was scheduled to work on their kitchen after I finished at Delaney’s place.
Hen’s eyes lit as he extended a hand for Reed to shake. “You’re on, son. You bet against the leg at your own peril. I can taste that danish already.”
Reed laughed as he set his purchases on the counter, and Hen began to ring him up.
“Best to be prepared, that’s what I say!” Janice Plum breezed out of the Seasonal aisle carrying three huge bags of Ice Melt… and wearing what appeared to be a wicker cornucopia on her head, decorated with silk flowers and miniature plastic fruit. “Right, Brewer?”
I was momentarily so blinded by her… hat-thing I couldn’t process her words. “Er. Y-yes. Definitely.”
“Tricky for other folks to be prepared whenyou’rebuying out the store.” Angela Ross, Theo’s mom and the leader of the local gossip tree, came up behind her carrying a mop propped over her shoulder like a rifle.
“I’m buying for theneighborhood, Angela,” Janice said primly. “Some folks from my book club have banded together to form THWAC—The Helpful Wintertime Association of Coppertians—to do snow removal for folks who need help.” She threw her head back proudly.
When she did, a fake orange fell off her head, plopped on the floor, and rolled under Hen’s counter.
For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Angela broke the silence. “Janice, honey, what on earth are you wearing?”
“Oh, this?” Janice tweaked a cluster of grapes dangling by her ear. “Why, it’s a historic harvest crown. Obviously. In honor of the Council for Historical Happenings’ Harvest Festivals Retrospective.” Janice leaned toward me and added with a wink, “Tuesday night, 7:00 p.m., at the library.” Then she straightened and said, “I decided this would be a… a visually striking way to draw attention to the event. Do you like it?”
Reed and I exchanged a glance, and I bit the inside of my cheek.
“It’s definitely striking,” I offered.
“Yes,” Reed agreed. “I can say that I, personally, feel struck.”
Hen stroked his mustache, I was pretty sure to hide his laughter.
Janice blushed and ducked her head slightly. “You’re too sweet. To be honest, it was Delaney’s idea,” she admitted. “Delaney Monroe.”
“Delaneytold you to put a harvest on your head?” I demanded. I felt my cheeks go red. “I mean…”
“Not exactly. I gave him one of our event flyers the other day, and he suggested I might get more engagement if I wore a historical costume.Hesuggested a hoop skirt, but hoop skirts are impractical?—”
