Husband Under Construction. Karen Templeton

swallowed back another threat of tears “—but whenever I suggested taking a leave of absence, or even coming for the weekends to help out, he refused.” A humorless laugh pushed from her throat. “Very emphatically.”

      “Don’t take this the wrong way…but Dad says Charley’s known for being a little, ah, on the stubborn side.”

      “A little?” She chuckled. “Why do you think it took so long before he’d let me go through Mae’s things? Or even think about fixing up the house? Although, considering it had only been the two of them for so much of their marriage, I honestly think they simply didn’t want anything or anybody coming between them, even at the end. Especially at the end.”

      After a moment’s unsettling scrutiny, Noah squatted in front of a worn spot on the flooring. “And that made you feel useless as hell, right?”

      “Pretty much, yeah. But how—?”

      “Like I said, I’ve been there.” He stood, his fingers crammed into his front pockets, watching her, like…like he got her. And how ridiculous was that? He didn’t even know her, for heaven’s sake. The logic of which didn’t even slow down the tremor zapping right through her. Well, hell.

      “Maybe I should’ve been pushier, too,” Roxie said, thinking she’d take remorse over this tremor business any day. “By the time your mother called me, Mae was nearly gone. And even then, even though Charley obviously couldn’t handle things by himself that last week, I still felt in the way.” She backed out of Noah’s path as he moved into the dining room, rapping his knuckles once on Mae’s prized cherrywood dining table before crossing to the bay window, a DIY project that hadn’t exactly stood the test of time. “Like I was infringing on their privacy.”

      “Must be scary, loving somebody that much,” he said to the window, and she had the eerie feeling hers wasn’t the only veneer peeling away that day.

      “Yes, it is,” she said carefully, although her younger self probably wouldn’t have agreed with him, when she still clung to the delusion that bad things happened to other people. “Then again, maybe some people find it comforting. Knowing someone’s there for you, no matter what? A lot less scary than the alternative, I’d say.”

      Noah craned his neck to look up at her, a frown pushing together his brows.

      “Sorry,” she muttered, feeling her face heat. Again. “Not sure how things got so serious. Especially for your average estimate walk-through.”

      Getting to his feet, Noah’s crooked grin banished the heaviness in the room like the sun burning off a fog, sending Roxie’s heart careening into her rib cage. “Oh, I think average went out the window right around the time you compared me to a weed-whacker. Besides…this is a small town. And your aunt and uncle were friends with my folks for years. So no way is this going to be your standard contractor/client relationship.” He paused, looking as if he was trying to decide what to say next. “Mom and Dad’ve mentioned more than once how concerned they are about Charley.”

      Roxie smirked. “That he’s turned into a hermit since Mae’s death, you mean?”

      “‘Closed off’ was the term I believe Mom used.”

      “Whatever. Again, I wasn’t around to see what was happening. Not that I could have been.” She sighed. “Or he would have let me. He tolerated my presence for a week after the funeral, before basically telling me my ‘hovering’ was about to push him over the edge.”

      “And now you’re back.”

      “A turn of events neither one of us is particularly thrilled about.”

      “You think your uncle doesn’t want you here?”

      Once more rattled by that dark, penetrating gaze, Roxie sidled over to a freestanding hutch, picking up, then turning over, one of her aunt’s many demitasse cups.

      “I think…he wants to wallow,” she said, shakily replacing the cup on its saucer. “To curl up with the past and never come out. I’m not exactly down with that idea. Frankly, I think the only reason he finally agreed to let me start sorting through Mae’s things was to get me off his case.”

      “And you’re not happy because…?”

      Roxie could practically hear the heavy doors groaning shut inside her head. Talking about her uncle was one thing. But herself? No. Not in any detail, at least. Especially with a stranger. Which, let’s face it, Noah was.

      “Several reasons. All of them personal.”

      His eyes dimmed in response, as though the door-shutting had cut off the light between them. What little of it there’d been, that is.

      “So is it working?” he asked after a moment, his voice cool. “You trying to get your uncle out of his funk?”

      “I have no idea. Opening up to others isn’t exactly his strong suit.”

      A far-too-knowing smile flickered around Noah’s mouth before he glanced down at the notes, then back at her. “To be honest…this is shaping up to be kinda pricey, even though I can guarantee Dad’ll cut Charley a pretty sweet deal. And I haven’t even seen the upstairs yet. I mean, yeah, we could paint and patch—and we’ll do that, if that’s what you want—but I’m not sure there’d be much point if it means having to do it all over again five years from now. But the windows should really be replaced. And the cabinets and laminate in the kitchen. We can refinish the wood floors, probably—”

      “Oh, I don’t think money’s an issue,” Roxie said, immensely grateful to get the conversation back on track. “Not that much anyway. I gather his work at Los Alamos paid very well. And he and Mae lived fairly simply. And there was her life insurance….” Another stab of pain preceded, “Anyway. Wait until you get a load of the bathroom….”

      Feeling as if he’d gotten stuck in a weird dream, Noah followed Roxie up the stairs, the walls littered with dozens of framed photos on peeling, mustard-striped wallpaper. Mostly of Roxie as a baby, a kid, a teenager. A skinny, bright-eyed, bushy-haired teenager with braces peeking through a broad smile. Funny-looking kid, but happy.

      Open.

      Then her senior portrait, the bushiness tamed into recognizable curls, the teeth perfectly straight, her eyes huge and sad and damned beautiful. Almost like the ones he’d been looking at for the past half hour, except with a good dose of mess-with-me-and-you’re-dead tossed into the mix.

      A warning he’d do well to heed.

      This was just a job, he reminded himself. And she was just a client. A pretty client with big, sad eyes. And clearly more issues than probably his past six girlfriends—although he used the term loosely—combined.

      Then they reached the landing, where, on a wall facing the stairs, Roxie and her parents—she must have been eleven or twelve—smiled out at him from what he guessed was an enlarged snapshot, taken at some beach or other. Her mother had been a knockout, her bright blue eyes sparkling underneath masses of dark, wavy hair. “You look like your mom.”

      Roxie hmmphed through her nose. “Suck-up.”

      “Not at all. You’ve got the same cheekbones.” He squinted at the fragrant cloud of curls a foot from his nose, and a series of little pings exploded in his brain. Like Pop Rocks. “And hair.”

      “Unfortunately.”

      “What’s wrong with your hair?”

      “You could hide a family of prairie dogs in it?”

      If he lived to be a hundred he’d never understand what was up with women and their hair. Although then she added, “But at least I have no issues with my breasts. Or butt. I like them just fine,” and the little pop-pop-pops become BOOM-BOOM-BOOMS.

      Before the fireworks inside his head settled down, however, she said, “Mae and Charley really were like second parents to me. Even before…the