Husband Under Construction. Karen Templeton

“I was putting in long hours at work back then, I didn’t really pay much attention.”

      “There’s probably a hundred pieces altogether.”

      He’d had no idea. “You’re kidding?”

      Her curls shivered when she shook her head. “Even though the market’s pretty saturated with Lladro right now, some of the pieces could still bring a nice chunk of change from the right buyer. Mae collected some good stuff here.”

      “And some not so good stuff?”

      She pushed a short laugh through her nose. “True. Not sure what the demand is for four decades’ worth of TV Guide covers, or all those boxes of buttons—although some crafter might want them. Or the Happy Meal toys. But this—” She held up another unwrapped piece. “This I know. This we can sell.”

      Over the pang brought on by that word “sell,” Charley felt a spurt of pride, too. Maybe the girl drove him bonkers, but she was damn smart. And knowledgeable, like one of those appraisers on Antiques Roadshow, which Charley realized he hadn’t watched since Mae’s passing. And for sure, Roxie’s talents were wasted in some fly speck of a village in northern New Mexico. Child needed to be someplace where she could put all that education and experience to good use.

      Then he could get back to living on his own, which he’d barely gotten used to when Roxie returned and tossed everything ass over teakettle.

      He leaned over and picked up one of the pieces, the flawless surface smooth and cool against his hand. “Getting any messages from Mae?” Roxie asked, a smile in her voice.

      Charley set the piece back down, then took a long swallow of his tea. “Do whatever you think best,” he said, feeling a little piece of himself break off, like a melting iceberg.

      Although the fact was, Mae had told him before she died to sell the whole shebang, put the money into an annuity. It was him who was resisting, not Mae. Who didn’t really speak to him, of course. Even if he sometimes wished she did. Lord, what he’d give to hear her laughter again.

      The pretense hadn’t even been a conscious decision, really. Just kind of happened one day when Roxie had been bugging him about packing up Mae’s clothes, and Charley, growing increasingly irritated, heard himself say, “Mae wouldn’t want me to do that,” and Roxie’d said, “What?” and he said, “She told me not to get rid of her things yet,” and Roxie had backed right off, much to Charley’s surprise.

      Charley supposed it was his subconscious stumbling upon a way to make Mae the buffer again. Not that he was entirely proud of using his dead wife in this manner, but if it got Roxie off his case? Whatever worked. And that way it wasn’t him changing his mind, it was Mae.

      Long as he didn’t carry things too far. Dotty was one thing, incompetent another. Fortunately the hospice social worker—who Roxie’d contacted without his say-so—had reassured her it wasn’t uncommon for the surviving spouse to imagine conversations with the one who’d gone on, it was simply part of the grieving process for some people, it would eventually run its course and she shouldn’t become overly concerned.

      So it would. Run its course. Soon as “hearing” Mae no longer served his purpose, he’d “realize” he no longer did.

      Two more pieces unwrapped and noted in that spiral notebook she carried everywhere with her, Roxie glanced up. “You okay? You’re awfully quiet.”

      He decided not to point out he could say the same about her. And he was guessing Noah Garrett had something to do with that.

      “Nothing to say, I suppose,” he said as the powerless feelings once again threatened to drown him. “Need some help unwrapping?”

      “Only if you want to.”

      He didn’t. Outside, the wind picked up, the wet snow slapping against the bay window, slithering down the single-paned glass behind the flimsy plastic panels he popped into their frames every year. Simply watching the plastic “breathe” as it fought valiantly but inefficiently against the onslaught made him shiver. Roxie glanced over, then reached behind her for one of the new plush throws she’d bought at Sam’s Club to replace the sorry, tattered things that had been around since the dawn of time, wordlessly handing it to him.

      Charley didn’t argue. Instead, he tucked it around his knees. “New windows included in that estimate Noah’s gonna give us?”

      Shoving a pencil into her curls, Roxie smiled. “What’s Mae say about it?”

      “Mae’s not the one freezing her behind off,” Charley snapped. “So. Am I getting new windows or not?”

      Rolling her eyes, Roxie pulled her cell phone and what Charley assumed was the shop’s card out of her sweatshirt’s pocket and punched in a number. While she waited for somebody to pick up, she glanced over, a tiny smile on her lips. “Mae would be very proud of you, you know.”

      Charley grunted—only to nearly jump out of his skin when he heard, clear as day, You want me to be proud? Fix Roxie. Then we’ll talk.

       Chapter Three

      “This is still way over Charley’s budget, Dad,” Noah said, frowning past his oldest brother, Silas’s shoulder at the computer screen as the accountant ran the figures for the third time.

      “Then we’ll simply have to shave off some more,” his father said. Silas quietly swore, then sighed.

      Even though Gene insisted they’d do the work for practically cost, no matter how much they whittled, the estimate still stubbornly hovered around twice what Charley could afford, according to the figure Noah’d finally wormed out of him when he’d gone back to shore up his figures the following day. Oh, there was enough for the repairs, to get the guy some new double panes, but the bright blue daisies had probably been given a reprieve. And Roxie was not gonna like that, boy.

      Not that Noah should care. It wasn’t her house, and she wasn’t Noah’s…anything. In fact, after that little exchange between Roxie and her uncle about hearing Mae’s voice…

      Yeah. That he would do well to remember. Also, the woman’s pain-in-the-butt potential was through the roof. And did he need that in his life?

      He did not.

      Speaking of butts…Noah pulled his head out of his when Benito, the shop foreman, called Gene out of the office and Silas pushed away from the computer with a noisy sigh, crossing his hands behind his head. Silas’s involvement in the family business was limited to number crunching and filing taxes, but since the bottom line was what made the difference between success and a whole bunch of people starving to death, his input was crucial.

      And now his short dark brown hair was a mess from his repeatedly ramming his hand through it over the past hour. “And you’re sure Charley wasn’t lowballing his figure?”

      “Since I’m not privy to the man’s bank account, I have no idea. But he’s only going to spend what he’s going to spend.”

      One side of Silas’s mouth hiked up before he removed his wire-rimmed glasses to rub his eyes. “True,” he said, shoving the glasses back on. “But even if you do the absolute minimum, Dad’s cutting this way too close for comfort. My comfort, at least.”

      Straightening, Noah crammed his hands in his back pockets, frowning at the figures on the screen as if he could will them to change. “There’s really no wiggle room at all, is there?”

      “Nope. Meaning he’ll have to eat any cost overruns.”

      “Then I’ll just have to make sure there aren’t any.”

      Silas snorted, then leaned forward again, apparently unaware of the SpongeBob sticker clinging to the back of his navy sweatshirt.

      “I know this is your project—”

      Noah snorted.

      “—but