The Family Solution. Bobby Hutchinson

at night, but at least she could now play three songs on the harmonica she’d bought for her birthday. “Golden Slippers” had been especially tough, but she’d conquered it.

      Her body was telling her that naps were in order, but taking them at the store wasn’t exactly reassuring to the slow but steady stream of customers the closeout sale had attracted.

      From the bathroom she heard the ding that told her another customer had just come in. She hastily dried her face and curled her eyelashes. At least that might make her look semiconscious.

      She emerged to find Charlie Fredricks standing in front of the pyramid of paint cans she’d erected in the middle of the room.

      Bella walked toward him and stopped just inside what should be his comfort zone. She knew from experience that was one sure way of making troublesome customers head for the door.

      “Can I help you?” She made herself meet his gray-green eyes—arresting eyes for a guy with such dark hair, she thought again.

      “I think we can help each other.”

      “Oh, yeah? And just what makes you think that?”

      “You’re closing out, right?” He pointed at the bright red sign in the window.

      “Whatever gave you that idea?” Her sarcasm was thick as jam.

      He gave her a steady look. “Do you want to discuss business or just trade insults?”

      “What sort of business? Because if this has anything to do with you selling my house, I’m not interested.”

      One of his eyebrows went up. “You’re not interested in selling your house?”

      She put her hands on nonexistent hips. “Don’t play word games, I’m not in the mood.”

      “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m the low man at my brother’s agency, and I’ve been given the listings that nobody can move. Shotgun shacks, Rick calls them, because it would mean holding a buyer at gunpoint to get an offer. There are three of them, and they all need work, to put it mildly.”

      “Who owns them? Why isn’t the owner fixing them up?”

      “They’re all owned by an absentee landlord. He lives elsewhere, and he’s been renting these dumps out. Now that real estate is high, he wants to unload them, and I’d like to sell them, if only to spite the ones at the office who think I’m riding on my brother’s coattails.” He moved away from her, seemingly intent on a rack of screwdrivers.

      “Are you?” She boosted herself up on the counter. This was getting interesting.

      He shrugged. He had good shoulders under that denim jacket, and she was relieved to see he’d gotten the bloodstains out. “At the moment, yeah, after a fashion. My brother paid for my real-estate course. See, if I move these babies, the owner will give us listings on other properties he owns, more expensive properties. Problem is, he wants top dollar for them.”

      “And Rick will benefit if you make this guy happy.”

      “I’ll benefit, too. I’ll earn the commissions. I’ve shown them lots of times to people who think they want a fixer-upper, but these go way beyond the basics.”

      “So they’re more like tear-downers?”

      He blew out a frustrated breath. “A couple of developers have looked at them with the thought of tearing them down, but the owner wants too much for them to make it feasible. So the only answer is make them look better.”

      He turned and came back to where she sat, putting one hand on either side of her. Clearly, perching on the counter had been a tactical mistake. Maybe she was higher than Charlie, but he was way too close. She could see how thick his hair grew on top of his head. And he smelled very pleasantly of coffee and soap.

      “I don’t have a clue about colors and decorating,” he admitted, looking straight into her eyes. “And I can’t stand painting. But I can do minor repairs, carpentry, some electrical work and plumbing.” He took his hands away and drew in a deep breath. “So this is what I thought. You need to sell your house, but it could use a bit of work, too. It looked to me as if you’re pretty good with a paintbrush—I liked what you were doing to your walls that day.” A grin came and went. “What I saw of them before you booted me out on my ass, that is. But that so-called powder room of yours should really be finished, your landscaping is nonexistent and the kitchen could stand backsplash tile and some molding.”

      Gordon had wanted the house. The contractor who built it had gone bankrupt and the asking price had been well below market value, because it wasn’t finished. She wasn’t about to tell Charlie all that. Instead she tried for righteous indignation. “You nosed around quite a bit while I was upstairs.”

      “What can I say?” He’d probably used that crooked grin before to get his way. “I’m a curious guy, and I’m also pretty good with landscaping. So here’s the deal, Bella. I can call you Bella, right?”

      “Suit yourself.”

      “If you supply the paint for my listings and do some of the scut work to help me spruce them up a bit, I’ll do what I can with your garden and also put in a toilet and shower for you. I can show you how to tile. It’s a valuable thing to learn.”

      Bella didn’t answer right away. She got down from the counter and stood looking at him, wondering what his ulterior motive was. He had to have one. People didn’t just wander in off the street with offers to help her solve some of her immediate problems.

      “How come you don’t just hire painters for those shotgun houses? There’s lots of painters around. I have a list as long as your arm.” She just couldn’t afford to hire them herself.

      “Same reason you don’t. I don’t have a whole helluva lot of spare change at the moment.”

      “How come? You were a cop—don’t you have a pension? And everyone says the real-estate market’s hot in Vancouver now. I thought all Realtors were practically millionaires.”

      “Think again. Selling real estate is no easy road. Sure, I wrote my exam and passed the course, but you need contacts. You need listings. You need clients. You also need a ‘patter,’ which I seem to lack, according to my wildly successful brother.”

      “Too honest?” She meant it to be sarcastic.

      He squinted at her and nodded. “Could be.”

      “So what about that solid pension?”

      “I didn’t have pensionable service. I worked for a contractor after I left the force, doing rough laboring jobs to meet expenses. See, I have a daughter in university and an ex who isn’t working. All of which means I don’t have much of a bankroll.”

      Okay. God knows Bella could understand being broke. She wondered what his reasons were for leaving the police force to work as a laborer, but she didn’t ask. Even in her present state of mind, that felt too much like prying.

      She thought over what he was suggesting. “I don’t have a lot of spare time,” she finally said. “The store will close at the end of the month, which is about twelve days from now, and then I’ll be unemployed. But until then…” She gestured with an arm. “I don’t have employees. I have to be here.”

      “Time is one thing I do have,” he said with a smile, flashing those good straight teeth. “So I could start working at your house during the day, while you’re here. Unless you figure I’d walk off with the silverware.”

      “Huh. If I’d had any, Gordon would have taken it,” she snapped.

      “Gordon being your husband?”

      “My so-called husband. Soon to be ex, if I can locate him to serve him papers. And get the damn Volvo back.”

      “He took your car?”

      The familiar sense of outrage returned. “The brand-new car we leased together.