Chapter Text
Phyllida stood inside the door of Lattice and glanced around the shop, her nose twitching at a subtle scent in the air. It wasn’t the cloying, too sweet scent of incense which had made her sneeze in other New Age shops. Nor was there the usual suggestion, contrived or otherwise, of an otherworldly atmosphere. A large plate glass window–no, twenties poured glass, she corrected herself–stretched from floor to ceiling at the front of the south facing store, flooding the twenty-by-forty space with light and setting a hundred tiny rainbows dancing on the walls as the sunlight filtered through prisms and crystals hung from a grid secured to the ceiling.
The muted, driving sound of the Riverdance soundtrack played through the four speakers mounted high on the walls. There were four or five other people in the store besides herself. Two girls crouched by shelves laden with books on magic and spells, twin heads dyed black, both wearing too much makeup, obviously meant to heighten pale skin. They acknowledged her entrance with a disdain only post-adolescents could manage.
Another couple, male and very much together, were examining sets of mounted crystals and hand carved god and goddess figures with soft whispers and chuckles. They noticed her not at all, a woman alone as invisible as wind in their closed little world.
A third man was crouched in front of a rear display checking, marking and stocking CDs and tapes. She walked through bookshelves and racks holding incense, bins containing colored stones and the other usual paraphernalia carried by this type of shop. With surprise, she noted that a large section of one wall was covered with instruments, dulcimers, rebeks, psalteries, and small harps. Handmade, too, by the look of them. As she came up behind the man at the back, he glanced up with a genuine smile of welcome on his face.
“Can I help you?” he asked. His voice was light and had an English accent. He was in his mid-thirties or perhaps older, but it was hard to tell. Dark hair was cropped short–too short to be fashionable, but not short enough to be cutting edge. His face was long, thin and angular, roman nose linking him to a bloodline that was fast becoming homogenized in the West. He was shorter than average, only four or so inches taller than she and she barely passed five two. Deep set, gray eyes were a half shade lighter than the gray turtleneck he wore. The turtleneck both obscured and accented a slender, but well-muscled, torso.
“I’m Phyllida Behn,” she introduced herself, giving him her friendly, but not too friendly interview smile. “I called yesterday about the ad for a metal worker.”
“Ah,” he said and checked himself before he too obviously assessed her physique. She ignored the reaction, knowing her petite figure and blonde bob were a far cry from most people’s idea of a blacksmith. He extended his hand. “Adam Johnston. I’m very glad to meet you.” The smile was back and still genuine. His grip was dry and firm. “Excuse me just a moment,” he said politely, standing up and taking three steps to a curtained doorway. “Andrew?”
“Yeah?” A tall man with shoulder-length blond hair swept back from his boyish face emerged, grinning at Adam. Both face and eyes bore the marks of a lively sense of humor. He reminded Phyllida of nothing so much as a very large Puck.
“This is Ms. Behn,” the dark man said, introducing them with a small courtly wave of his hand. “The blacksmith? Ms. Behn, this is my partner, Andrew McAran.”
“Right!” Andrew said and Phyllida blinked when Andrew did not even hesitate over her sex or size, just simply accepted who and what she was. “Go on then. I’ll baby-sit,” he said to Adam, cheerfully waving them away. He took the clipboard from his partner and turned his attention to the music display.
“Oh, so the work isn’t in the shop?” She asked, venturing a question. There hadn’t been any way to miss the ironwork over the front door. She’d been hoping to get a better look at it.
Her prospective employer caught her quick, disappointed look back at the front of the store and shook his head in apology. “Sorry. It’s at my house.” He held the curtain open in a civil manner. Again there was the courtly, slightly theatrical sweep of his hand. “This way, please.”
Phyllida preceded him into a combination office and stockroom. Steep stairs divided the back wall and led to a wide door. Two desks, battered and scarred, but serviceable, faced each other at one side of the room. One held a computer. A hand-built worktable, on which sat boxes of merchandise waiting to be catalogued, occupied the middle of the room. Shelves along the outside walls were labeled and neatly packed with inventory.
“Short cut,” Adam explained and headed up the stairs, Phyllida following, her feet echoing hollowly on the slick wood. She squinted as he swung the door open and they left the artificial illumination of the shop, stepping into sunlight. Before them was what once had been a street but now was street, parking lot and access to the rear entrances of the shops facing the main thoroughfare.
“It’s not far,” he promised as they crossed the lot to the old and cracked sidewalk along which two-story homes, circa early 1900’s, peeked out from behind high, tangled hedges already showing the green of new growth. A few brave blossoms scented the early spring air as they walked along in silence.
Four houses down Adam stopped and released the latch on a double iron gate. It swung open easily and without noise.
Phyllida stopped as well, but didn’t follow Adam inside the fence. Sensing that he was alone as he started up the drive, he turned to find her squatting down on the sidewalk examining the fence. He returned to her side and watched as she inspected it, seeming totally engrossed.
The ornate pattern, a lattice work of leaf and twig, branch and blossom and berry, was hand hammered, not poured, each leaf and flower slightly different and bearing the unmistakable impressions of anvil and hammer. The iron had been painted dozens of times, each color emerging in chipped layers as the current, but sparse, green flaked off.
Adam crouched down beside her and waited with no sign of impatience as she continued her silent and absorbed examination.
“Do you recognize the work?” He finally asked, curious.
She shook her head, looking at him but not breaking physical contact with the fence. It made her fingers tingle. Not to mention her whole body. God, this was something.
“The style, yes,” she said. “I’ve noticed the basic skeleton on a lot of fences around Atlanta. It was a popular style. But nothing like this foliage. There’s probably a master’s mark somewhere, but you’d have to take all this paint off to find it. This is amazing work–I’ve never seen anything like it.” She rose and began to examine the inside of the gate, fingers running along the rough, interwoven design almost as if she were reading Braille. “Each flower and leaf was pegged in, then soldered,” she remarked, her voice soft with incredulity as she looked along the wide expanse of metal that encircled the yard, pushing her hair away from her face with both hands. “That makes the whole thing less likely to rust or break apart. And I’d swear, if this panel is anything to go by, that each individual panel is unique. This was all done by hand, not casted. And it’s real wrought iron.”
“Which means?” Adam asked as he watched her caress the metal.
She chuckled, green eyes alight with something akin to awe. “It means that this fence is fairly old–you can hardly find real wrought iron anymore. Smiths use something called “mild steel” today. It has some carbon in it. It’s okay for most things, but it’s not good for fine, detailed worked–like this–and it’s harder to weld and it rusts easier. It also means that whoever built this thing was very, very good. The best I’ve ever seen! The panel itself is one piece. They probably all are. Each post is fitted to a frame, then the ornaments were set in and secured. Usually ornamentation is poured into a mold and finished, or polished, then soldered to a solid bit of frame. See this?” Coming up behind him she pointed to a delicate branch laden with small berries, hand shaking with subdued excitement. “Look at the small indentations. Your artist has handhammered each ornament, melted a hole in the solid backing, pegged the ornament in and then sealed around it rather than just soldering the back of it to the fence. The design is unblemished. None of the fence material has been melted, except where the holes were put, to secure each individual berry. And look here.” The fingers gently probed around a leaf and scraped. She held out her finger. “See this?”
“I see,” he remarked, confusion and self-deprecating humor on his face, “a dirty finger.”
She grinned and crouched down beside him, thumb and forefinger rubbing together. “But no rust. Even where the paint has flaked off to the iron. Besides normal oxidation–which I don’t see any sign of and that’s kind of weird–rust usually sets in where pieces are jointed, but there’s enough space and air in this design to let the water evaporate rather than pool.” She rocked back on her haunches and looked at the man beside her. Exhilaration and awe fought for supremacy on her face. “This thing should be in a museum!”
“I haven’t understood half of what you’ve said,” he laughed, responding to her almost intoxicated mood. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
He rose and gestured for her to precede him through the gate. She stood up, tearing her attention away from the fence only with difficulty, and went through, taking a good look at the house for the first time. Like its neighbors, it had two-stories, but was faced with stone, not brick. A wide porch ran along the front, its level roof providing a second story balcony. Vines, bare but thick and greening, ran along the railing. The front yard was mostly driveway, an ancient, but pristine, Volvo parked behind a newer, but less cared for, Isuzu Trooper.
The house was in need of repair, showing the unmistakable signs of abandonment, but there were numerous signs that renovation was underway. Storm shutters, made of wood, not vinyl, were stacked neatly on the porch, their slats showing signs of recent sanding. Cans of paint stood beside them showing the next step of the process. The heavy front door that sat in the middle of the house had been refinished as well, dark stain stripped off and replaced with fresh white paint.
Leading her up the drive and the three broad steps to the porch, Adam took her into the house. Directly in front of them was a beautiful, dark wooden staircase rising in straight, graceful lines to the second floor. To the left was an empty, echoing room in which, as she looked around curiously, she noted the myriad signs of many workmen and their different specialties. Plaster, wood and paint scents filled the air, intensifying as she followed her prospective employer to right through a freshly-painted dining room formally furnished with table and sideboard, then into the kitchen.
Everywhere hardwood floors gleamed the color of amber. Honey-tinted walls reflected back light from the windows that surrounded the outside wall of each room, as did the glass-fronted cabinets in the kitchen. Boxes stood in one corner of the kitchen ready to be unpacked, and new, state-of-the-art appliances unobtrusively waited behind their camouflaging wooden panels. To her left was a pristine Hoosier cabinet. A large farm-style kitchen table was pushed against the right-hand wall. One chair was slightly turned out as it if had been sat in and hastily pushed toward the table. The others were pressed firmly against the table, each fastidiously placed in the center of their section. They gave the impression of never having been used.
Did this man live alone in this big house? Phyllida wondered. As she surreptitiously studied the room, she could detect no signs of another presence. Certainly no feminine touches. It exuded a bachelor’s austerity.
There was money here, though, she thought as she followed him out the kitchen door onto the small back porch. There was also a sense of caring. This guy not only was really well off, he was also obviously interested in restoring the house and turning it into a live-in work of art, while making it modern and livable at the same time. He was creating a beautiful, hand-crafted home worthy of gracing any of a dozen magazines. Must be nice.
The backyard was framed by hedges in need of a hard cutting back, their branches tall and thin, reaching high only to fall over in untidy arches. Another yard, much better kept, backed onto it. Two enormous oaks stood sentinel at the far corners. Where once had stood a third oak now only a low, dead stump remained. In the fourth corner, a maple had uprooted and toppled. Sections of it were cut and ready to move or be split into firewood.
Phyllida stopped and gasped in dismay as she saw why Adam had placed the ad.
The rear section of the fence had been crushed when the maple fell. Miraculously, the tree had done only minor damage to the houses surrounding Adam’s, its fall having been partially broken by the surrounding trees in neighboring lots. However, a large branch and part of the trunk had tore away, its weight splintering the ironwork as though it were made of matchsticks. As she took in the damage, an unbelieving surprise grew in Phyllida. The weight would have damaged the fence, true, but it should just have dislodged or bent the panels, not left them splintered and ragged.
Moving forward, Adam trailing behind, she headed for the fence like a bird dog to a downed goose.
“I’ve checked the local architectural warehouses,” Adam volunteered as they crossed the green grass. “But I couldn’t find even a close match.”
“You wouldn’t. Not with that foliage pattern,” Phyllida said absently as she halted, taking in the twisted wreckage. She’d never seen anything like this either. Surely it was physically impossible for metal to splinter like this. Unless it had been in an explosion. “Like I said, this is one of a kind. Are you sure this wasn’t struck by lightning?”
“Positive,” he asserted, sticking his hands in his jeans pockets. “There was no thunderstorm the night the tree fell.”
Hunkering down, she fingered the broken metal, surveyed a few pieces of ornamentation and silently shook her head, dumbfounded. Picking up a shattered metal branch, she stood and twanged it against the ruined fence. The sound was sour, hollow. Moving to the corner of the yard, she traced the fence into the bushes, knocking until she heard a rich, bell-like tone. Again, she got down and pored over the metalwork. Adam watched fascinated as she stood up again and continued clanging on the fence all around the lot. Even when she passed out of sight around the front of the house, he could hear the deep, melodious belling of the metal.
As she came back into sight and approached Adam, her attention still on the fence, her potential employer watched her. She didn’t look happy and his heart sank, although he was careful not to show it.
“Well?” He asked neutrally when she stood beside him, frowning at the downed fence.
“What you have here,” she said in disgust, presenting him with the broken metal twig she still held, “is modern, machine-made trash. It’s probably less than fifty years old. It’s rather remarkable for the close fit of the design, but it’s definitely inferior to the original. I’d say someone tried to save money by using mild steel. Also, although each piece is separate, the ornamentation has been cast, and everything has been crudely soldered on unfinished. If you look here,” she directed his attention to a branch, “you can see where the twig has just been slapped onto the main branch with a glob of solder. Just look at that seam.”
“It is rather obvious,” he agreed eyeing the offending joint. “So, what does all this mean?”
“It means that either the original smith didn’t finish this section of fence or that it was scavenged at some later date and then replaced. The corner straps at either fence of this section are original, so I’d bet that it was finished. It also means that while this section of fence isn’t worth the amount you’d get for scrapping it, replacing it with work done in the same style and manner as the rest is going to be very expensive.” She looked up at him. “Very.”
He nodded, not agreeing, but acknowledging her opinion and expertise. When he didn’t say anything, just kept looking at her in a calm, expectant manner, she continued.
“You could get something less expensive if you sent out photos and specs to some of the big metalwork shops around the country. But to get something really close, you might even have to go out of the U.S., maybe to Italy. It would be machine-made, like this, but you could get better metal. Maybe even real wrought iron.” She sounded doubtful however.
He considered this information, then asked. “Would it be indistinguishable from the original?”
“Well, it’s according to how you define indistinguishable. I’d be able to tell the difference. I think you’d probably be able to tell the difference now, too. The average person wouldn’t though.” She shrugged and stuck her hands in her back pockets, less than joy-filled eyes on the broken fence. “I don’t know. How important is having an exact duplicate to you?”
Crossing his arms, he answered her with another question, eyes intense. “How important is it to you?”
She glanced at him and her face went blank. He was aware–for all its subtlety–that she was sizing him up, weighing what she wanted to say against what she thought he wanted to hear. Brushing her thick bangs away from her face, she came to a decision, saying impatiently. “Very. Like I said, this fence is museum-quality. You should get the finest artisans you can to replace it and damn the expense. But I’m not you. It’s not my money or my fence.”
“Could you do it? Make a new section? Duplicate the original?” He asked, face and voice betraying nothing but polite and curious inquiry.
Her heart sped up. Taking a deep breath, she worked hard to keep the excitement out of her voice, to match the casual tone and mien of the man beside her.
“Maybe. I don’t know. This type of work isn’t my area of expertise. I’d have to do a lot of research, spend a lot of time studying the other panels, draw each design in the other panels, try to keep the uniqueness of each ornament, figure out how it was put together.... But even if I could, you really are talking about a lot of money and a lot of time.” She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, looking Adam straight in the eye, and trying not to listen to the tiny voice in her head that was telling her how much she needed that money.
“What is your area of expertise?” he asked
Turning back to meet his eyes, she said. “Weaponry. Armor.”
And watched the dark eyebrows rise.
He asked suddenly. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?”
She blinked, confused, the change of subject catching her off guard, but nodded warily and followed him back into the house. He moved about the kitchen, manner sure and economical, getting mugs from a cabinet, setting sugar on the table, grinding coffee beans and putting the fragrant grounds into the coffee maker sitting on top of the dishwasher. Flicking on the brewer, he went to a wood panel and opened it, revealing the refrigerator. Cream–real cream–was brought forth and placed on the table. There was no conversation as he prepared their coffee, seemingly lost in deep thought. Phyllida respected his silence, using the time to both pray that he’d let her have a crack at the fence and trying to prepare herself for bitter disappointment. After they had fixed their drinks, they walked back onto the backporch and settled onto the stone rails, cups in hand. Adam leaned back against the porch’s stone support and propped one leg up on the thick stone railing. Phyllida perched across from him, cautiously testing the hot, strong brew. The sun-warmed stone felt rough and hard beneath her thighs and rear, catching the fibers of her jeans as she wiggled into a more comfortable position.
After a few sips, he said, voice decisive. “I want the fence rebuilt.”
“Money no object?” She had to grin. This man had money, but he obviously had no clue about the cost of what he was talking about. “You’re talking about ten to fifteen thousand dollars, easy, Mr. Johnston.”
Dismay crossed the serious face for a moment. A hand crept up to his neck and he rubbed his thumb against his skin, looking doubtfully first at her and then at the fence.
“And probably a year of work. Like I said, it would be easier and cheaper to make do with a near, mild steel equivalent. Five or six thousand to ship and install. Maybe less.” She took another sip of coffee waiting for the penny to drop.
“You don’t want the job?” He seemed in earnest, both hands once more wrapped about the hot mug. The air was just cool enough that she could see a faint tracery of steam rising.
She shook her head and set her coffee cup down on the stone. “I’d kill to have it. I could do it, I think. There are enough good metal yards in Atlanta and I have some contacts, but that’s not what I meant. It’s just not practical for you.”
“For a swordsmith, you’re not very mercenary,” he observed, gray eyes twinkling.
“I am when I have to be,” she shot back in exasperation. Was this man deliberately misunderstanding her? “But I’m also a realist. You have obviously sunk a lot of money into this house already. You’re paying for expert work–the handmade shutters, the hand-planed wood floors, all that hand-worked plaster...the medallion and scroll work in the living room—”
“Oh.” He interrupted, looking pleased. “You noticed?”
“I noticed,” she said dryly. “But the fence.... Authenticity, Mr. Johnston, does have its limits.”
“Come with me,” he said, his tone a request not a command. He slipped off the railing and strode to the side of the house. Phyllida followed. Leaning against the stone were twenty or more smaller panels, each fitted to be attached to the windows of the house. Even at first glance, Phyllida knew what she was looking at. The workmanship was unmistakable. She almost pounced on them.
“I think this might be the missing section of fence,” Adam said, nodding at the panels.
Phyllida nodded, reverently fingering the squared edges. “It is. Are there enough for all the windows?”
“Including the attic.”
She stared up at the silver-stoned house. The mica in the granite glinted dazzlingly in the sun. She ran her eyes along the length of the house, hands crammed into front pockets, counting under her breath. There had to be six windows on each floor along the back. Twelve windows. Probably the same on the front and at least half that number to either side. Twenty-four plus twelve equaled thirty-six. Plus the attic. Holy Mother of God. She looked down at the separated panels.
“Quite the fortress,” she observed. Pulling one panel away from the wall of the house, she examined its back. “Latches?”
“Fire escape. The catches are actually mounted into the stone,” he added, pointing to the window over their heads.
She replaced the panel against the wall. She couldn’t reach the catch, but by standing on her tiptoes and craning her head around, she could see it. Stone had been carefully chiseled away and iron poured into the stone to form the catch.
“I’ve seen this kind of work before, but in books about Machu Picchu, not Atlanta, Georgia. Or New Zealand, or anywhere else I’ve ever been. Who built this house, Mr. Johnston? Do you know? Was it a blacksmith?”
“Oh, I checked the deeds,” he said. “The original owner was a woman named Claire Montgomery. She built it over a hundred years old. I doubt very much that a woman of that time, and with that type of money, would be blacksmithing.” He paused. “Could you use these to rebuild the fence?”
She hesitated, financial concerns as ever battling against her integrity. “I could, but I think it would be poor work; at least not up to the standard of the original. These were cut down to fit the windows. The fence panels are larger. I’d have to patch the rails together–they’d never be as strong.”
“You really don’t want to do this job, do you?” He asked, cocking his head at her, expression puzzled. “Why?”
She made an impatient sound, almost, but not quite, a snort and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, pulling her jeans low on her hips. A light, cool breeze tickled her bare stomach and she withdrew them, pulling down her sweater.
“Like I said, I’d kill to have a crack at it. I just don’t think it’s financially feasible for you. We’re talking about a commission of at least a year–maybe less if it weren’t exclusive. Sure, the money would cover labor and materials, but to be honest, Mr. Johnston, even as expensive as the project is, the amount I’d charge for labor wouldn’t support me. I have to make enough to pay rent, bills, utilities, you know the modern world’s usual banes. And this job wouldn’t do that. Plus it would leave time for little else in the way of contract work that might make up the difference.”
“Okay.” He considered, thumb going to neck again and furrows appearing on his forehead. He had an incredibly mobile face capable of expressing a wide range of emotions. The one which remained was determination. “What if I pay you a salary? You present an estimate, including supplies, which I’ll pay for outright. You could draw money as the work progresses, rather than get a lump sum up front.”
She stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. He appeared, however, entirely sincere. Sighing, she stuck her hands back in her pockets. Looking up she watched the thin clouds glide over the pale blue spring sky. She was not believing this. Here it was, the job of her dreams and she couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the time it demanded–and it did demand time. A lot of it. Damn and double damn.
“You’re an employee’s dream,” she finally said, looking back at the dark man. “And as much I hate to do this, I really can’t take this job, Mr. Johnston. I’ve just arrived back in the States and all my equipment is in storage. I was hoping that this would be some sort of simple, short commission to get me going. Consulting work or piece work.” She shook her head and leaned against the house, crossing her arms. She suddenly felt tired and depressed. “I don’t even have a shop yet. I could cadge time at a friend’s, but for work this involved....”
“Where have you been?”
“New Zealand, doing props for a TV series.”
“Would I know it?” Adam prompted and she told him, grinning with him as he rolled his eyes at the series’ title. “I hate to admit it, but I love that show,” he said laughing.
“So did I–more because the cast and crew were great, but they finished filming there and, as beautiful as New Zealand is, it isn’t home. And it was as good a place to leave my ghosts as any,” she said wearily, the laughter fading. “Plus my son, Jason, will be starting kindergarten in a year and, despite the U.S.’s scholastic reputation, I want him to go to school here.”
“Plus your Visa ran out,” he hazarded.
“That, too,” she assented. “And yours?”
He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “No. I received citizenship about five years ago. My parents were horrified, but Merry Olde England holds only a sentimental allure. Besides,” he added, his face darkening. “I have work here that needs doing.” He caught the cautiously speculative look that she darted at him, half sympathy, half curiosity, and shrugged off the mood. Phyllida’s face became blandly polite and he wondered if he had only imagined that fleeting moment of something like kinship. “So, you need work, and lots of it, to support you and your son. And to work you also need a place to do that work.”
“I can’t set up a forge in my apartment,” she said wryly. “I’ve scouted some spaces and I have some stock in reserve to sell, plus the money from the sale of my house in New Zealand, and a small pension from my husband. He died three years ago. Military.” She did not elaborate, though he noticed that her hands clenched in her pockets. “I’m not destitute, but frankly, Mr. Johnston, I’d lose money eventually. Even at the top estimate. I haven’t done this kind of work. I don’t know anyone who does. Not in this kind of detail, at least. And if you can’t have that, you might as well buy prefab.”
“And if hiring you to do the fence is what I do want?” He persisted, pressing her.
She drew in a deep breath and stared at the shortening shadows of the trees as the sun climbed toward noon. “You don’t take no very well, do you?”
“You haven’t said no,” he pointed out mildly, his manner patient. “You keep saying you can’t. I’m trying to figure out how to make it possible.”
The absurdity of the situation hit her and she began to laugh. “Do you always try to believe in three impossible things before breakfast?”
Adam grinned and made no comment.
“Okay,” Phyllida said briskly. “This is what it would take. I need a salary, a place where I can live and work, patience while I experiment and a contract that lets me take on outside work to pad the nest.”
Pursing his lips and staring up into the sky, Adam considered her terms seriously. He rubbed his left thumb against his lower lip.
“Eight hundred a month, plus supplies. A twelve month contract with a month-to-month extension if necessary. If you finish early you get the balance on completion. You live and work here.”
“Huh?” She croaked, startled out of her businesslike demeanor, green eyes widening. Her body jerked away from the wall.
“Hear me out,” Adam said, holding up a restraining hand. “I live upstairs; bed, bath, study. The living room’s not finished, nor the dining room, but there are two bedrooms and a bath downstairs empty and ready for occupation. Side entrance, your own. We share the kitchen and I never go into your quarters unless invited. Every house on this block is being renovated so any noise you make is unlikely to make an impression–you might even get more work out of it. I can get the permits for an open fire forge and, if you can stand prefab, we can get a shed out here for you. There used to be a carport on the side of the house. There is an excellent daycare down the street and good schools in the area.”
“You must be out of your mind!” Phyl exclaimed, finding her voice.
“Why? Don’t tell me you disapprove of an unmarried man and woman sharing a house?”
“No. No. Of course not,” she rejoined, nettled, a sweep of her hand emphasizing the absurdity of the notion. “But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why go to such extraordinary effort for a fence?”
“Because it’s my home,” he said simply. “I’m not a millionaire, but I can afford this with some canny financial maneuvering, and this house and I deserve the best. Down to the fence.” He turned away suddenly. “Let me show you the house.”
Phyllida stood motionless for a moment, watching him walk away, then followed him. She’d been doing that a lot this morning, she thought feeling like a dazed puppy. Her intention, she told herself, was to continue out the front door and walk away from this madman and his fence, but her feet followed Adam’s back through the kitchen and into the main body of the house.
“I spend my time upstairs or at the store,” he said and turned abruptly, going to the rooms he was offering.
They were at the back and side of the house and although they weren’t large, they were comfortable and connected by a good-sized bath. The larger of the two rooms had an outside door and windows on two walls, the smaller backed into the kitchen. Adam ducked back into the hall and into the living room leaving footprints in the white plaster dust on the floor as he walked. Pocket doors slid roughly into place, separating the living room into its original living room and parlor configuration. The doors shut the three rooms off from the rest of the house.
“Your own living room - den, whatever,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the small area outside the larger bedroom. “Almost an apartment. And free. But only one kitchen,” he warned.
“Am I,” she asked, her voice quiet and slow, “the only person who answered your ad?”
“No, actually. You’re the sixth. And the most expensive,” he added with a sudden disarming grin. He reopened the pocket doors and stood in the opening.
An ugly suspicion reared itself. “The only woman?”
“The second,” he corrected easily. “Go on. Accuse me of being after your body.”
She drew in a sharp breath and narrowed her eyes. He was far too perceptive. Or she was too obvious. However he seemed the embodiment of innocence. Albeit highly entertained innocence. Glad you’re enjoying the show, she growled to herself. Resisting the urge to cross the room and kick him, she decided to try one of his own tactics. She just stood there and stared at him.
“The first woman,” he explained, breaking down first, “was an Amazon. Godzilla.”
“An Amazon,” Phyllida repeated darkly.
“She scared the hell out of me,” he admitted with a laugh. “She also said she wasn’t good enough to do the work, but that she would clean up the window grates and remount them. The other four...well, one fellow said he hadn’t the skill either but he would do the work for free–minus supplies–to learn the smithying trade. I almost hired him before you called. The other three,” he finished with disdain, “were idiots, and arrogant to boot.”
“So, are you after my body?”
“Not presently–at least not in any way that you need to worry about. I want my fence.”
“Are you gay?” Phyllida asked, working very hard to get a handle on the situation and this quicksilver man.
“No. Nor am I married, dating or otherwise entangled,” he said without batting an eyelash. “I can also promise I’m not a rapist, a serial killer, or any other type of lunatic; but I can’t prove it.”
“I’m not sure I believe the lunacy part,” Phyllida muttered, at a loss, but still wary.
“Ms. Behn,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms over his chest. “I really am a normal guy who runs a bookshop, is slightly obsessed with restoring a house, and is otherwise rather boring. I like books better than most people, cats more than dogs, live theatre better than movies, and walking better than driving.”
“I have a dog,” she confessed.
“Wonderful. I don’t have an alarm system,” he commented ingenuously. “Is it a good watchdog?”
“Very. He’s big,” she cautioned, holding her hand up to waist level and then spreading both hands almost four feet apart.
His eyes widened and his mouth opened in a little silent “oh”, but he only asked. “Will he kill me?”
“Not once you’re properly introduced.”
“And?”
“And....” She waffled for a minute, then stopped, her mind blank of excuses and protests. They stared at each other for several long moments, she bemused and he, she would have sworn, amused. “Okay,” she finally said, slowly, feeling her resolve weaken and thinking that she was out of her mind. “You have a deal, Mr. Johnston.”
“Great!” he said, eyes lighting up, softening his features and peeling years off his face. He held out an unusually large hand, long fingered, bony and very strong looking. “And it’s Adam.”
“Phyl.” They shook. She’d been right about the strength. He had quite a grip. She returned it with equal firmness. “What about the Amazon?”
“I’ll probably hire her and Mr. Free-and-Eager if you don’t mind,” he said.
She shook her head. “Probably not. I’ll let you know.”
“Wait here.” He left the living room and she heard the sound of his footsteps running up the stairs and walking on the floor above. Returning a moment later with a business checkbook, he balanced it against the stair railings and wrote quickly, tearing out the check and handing it to her with a key.
A thousand dollars sat in her hand. She looked up at him in shock.
“Advance and moving costs,” he explained. “If you have a lease and need to break it, let me know. And about the work shed. Find one you like. Look, I’ll have a contract for you in the morning. Come by before nine and you can have it–let your lawyer look at it.”
She nodded blankly, more than a little stunned as he headed for the door. He paused, glancing back at her.
“What’s wrong? Oh,” he said, answering his own question. “Too fast.”
“Way too fast,” she admitted, eyes glazed and head shaking from side to side. “Are you always like this?”
“About decisions or people?” He wanted to know.
“Both,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered smiling, then became serious. “Phyl, take the check and the key. Go home and think about it. If you want the job, come back for the contract. If not, leave the check and the key in the mailbox.”
“That simple?”
“It can be,” he asserted. “Look, I have to get back to work before Andrew’s mind starts imagining trysts and assignations. Look around. Listen to the fence. If you need me, come back to the store. That key fits the back door as well.”
She nodded numbly and he smiled, then slipped out the front door leaving her alone. She stared at the check, rubbing the key between her fingers, then looked up at the unfinished walls of the living room. Putting the check and the key carefully into the pocket of her jacket, giving herself a firm mental shake. She went back into the rooms Adam had offered.
The space was easily as big as the small apartment she and Jason were living in presently. Windows allowed light to pour through in vast quantities, high ceilings giving an even more airy feeling to the rooms. As Adam had pointed out, they were freshly plastered, primed, painted, very empty and imminently ready for occupancy.
She left the house a few minutes later, locking the door and heading down the street toward the Candler Park apartments where she and Jason were living. It was a quick walk, only three blocks from Lattice, and one during which she paid attention to no one and nothing. She had other things on her mind.
Arriving at the apartments, she stood for a minute across the street, looking at them. The apartments were a series of red brick rectangles and ells. Green lawn surrounded the entire complex and dogwoods and Bradford pears had been planted between and around the buildings. They were attractive in a utilitarian way, tidy and safe-looking from the outside. One reason she had chosen them. The rent had been another. For Atlanta it was reasonable. She could afford it. The last reason, and a far more subjective and indefensible one, she acknowledged studying them, were the metal awnings over each door. They were only black sheet metal, their slanting, ridged design suggesting France or the French Quarter in New Orleans, supported by machine pressed iron scrollwork. But they were pleasing and had appealed to her.
Stepping across the street, she went in between her building and its back neighbor, ducking under a dogwood ready to burst into bloom, and approached one of the ells. A few more steps had her on her neighbor’s, Mrs. Maria Perez, doorstep. After ringing the bell, she opened the door. Small heads turned and Maria looked up from where she and her three charges were coloring on oversize construction paper. Maria only looked after the three, which was the reason Phyl had picked her. Jason, Tommy, another neighbor’s child, and her own son, Iladio.
“You look happy. It went well?” Maria inquired.
“I think so,” Phyl answered, squatting to receive an enthusiastic hug and kiss from Jason. She pulled out her wallet. “Thanks for looking after the brat here for me.”
Maria shook her head at the money. “You were gone an hour. You pay me for real work. Don’t forget your picture, Jason,” she admonished, holding up the green paper. Jason took it and presented it proudly to his mother. Phyl examined the drawing intently, giving vocal praise to her budding artist. On the green sheet, two crudely drawn trees flanked a wobbly two-story house. Although it took a mother’s practiced eye to be able to tell what the colors and lines represented.
“It’s beautiful, Jase!” She planted a kiss on his neck.
“Bee-yoo-tee-full!” Jason yelled, then ran to give Maria a sloppy kiss before turning to take his mother’s hand and lead her away. Phyl tossed a wave over her shoulder.
The ground floor apartment was small but it had its own door to the outside, beside which Beeswax stood waiting as they entered. The black and white monster Collie-Newfoundland mix barked once as they entered and Phyl obligingly attached the lead and let him out. The dog would stay within his established borders, but Phyl had no desire to prove that to her neighbors or the authorities, so he stayed leashed to the scrollwork except for occasional runs in the nearby parks.
It was almost lunchtime so Phyl pulled out peanut butter and jelly from her sparsely filled cabinet. Jason sat at the dated kitchen table putting embellishments on his drawing. As she spread first peanut butter on whole wheat bread, then grape jelly, she watched her son fondly as he drew and sang to himself. Putting the sandwiches on small plates, she set them on the table, then poured milk into two glasses. She joined Jason at the table.
While they nibbled their sandwiches, Phyl glanced through the kitchen door and into the other rooms that comprised the apartment. It had come furnished. The few things she had brought with her from New Zealand were in a storage center in Decatur. She was renting month-to-month so the lease Adam had been concerned about was not an issue. The deal he had offered was mind numbing and though she still thought he was mad to offer it, she would have to be equally mad to turn it down.
But she still hesitated. Something about the house–or the man.
The house was like half the houses in Little Five Points and in the other older sections of Atlanta. Better built maybe, but not particularly remarkable in its looks. The man then. Yet Phyl couldn’t pin anything disagreeable on him. Quite the contrary. On the plus side, he’d been polite, more than generous, had a lively sense of humor, a real passion for his new home and had not balked at the prospect of living with a young child and a big dog. On the minus side, he’d been occasionally abrupt and, she was positive, had used that same lively humor against her several times. A wealthy employer’s prerogative, she finally decided, casting her vote in his favor. After all, he could afford her.
Living and working in the same area didn’t bother her, and living with Adam - well, if he turned out to be a real bastard, she figured she’d be able to teach him the error of his ways. But, again, he hadn’t given her the impression that he would or could be anything other than a gentleman. If he was attracted to her, he had certainly kept it very, very well concealed.
She fingered the key in her pocket and glanced at Jason. He looks so much like his father, she thought, suddenly wistful. With his head bent over his artwork, Phyl could see the light brown hair curling slightly at his neck. Jim’s had done that, too, but the short, military cut he’d worn in later years had seldom let it get long enough to curl. When he’d worn it longer, it had swept back from his forehead like a gently cresting wave. She could remember being on their honeymoon in Hawaii, sitting on the beach and twisting her fingers through those silky curls as they watched the sunset and looked forward to the coming night. Jim’s brown eyes stared out of Jim’s heart-shaped face as the little boy concentrated.
“Done!” Jim’s child announced and handed her the finished picture, then took a big bite out of his sandwich. Purple jelly was smeared liberally on the bottom half of his face and fingers. Jim had been neater. Just.
“Better and better,” Phyl praised warmly standing up to walk over to the battered fridge and pushing memories of Jim back into their box. She carefully rearranged other pieces of artwork, placing the new amidst the old. Standing back and placing her hands on her hips, she said. “Do you know this kitchen wouldn’t be half as bright if it weren’t for your pictures? I think you should charge me a decorating fee.” The little boy gurgled in his milk happily, spewing some of it onto the table. Phyl reached for a cloth and mopped both table and child. “Are you ready for a walk? C’mon, let’s take Beeswax out for an airing.”
As they walked, she found her footsteps taking her back to the shopping district and Adam’s house. As soon as she realized this, she hesitated, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.
Jase pulled on her hand insistently. “Don’t stop, mum. I want to walk!”
Phyl smiled at the sturdy little boy beside her, dwarfed by the pony-sized dog, and picked up her pace. Acting like a girl going on her first date! She wasn’t about to let any man or any house get around her! She led the way, key in hand, Jason skipping along holding Beeswax loosely on leash.
“My house!” Jason cried when they stopped before the closed gate.
Phyl started and stared. The trees were in the back, but Jason’s picture could easily have been this house. She hadn’t noticed the resemblance. Probably because it could have been any one of dozens of houses in the area. Opening the gate, she led the way up the drive to the steps and went to fit the key in the lock. The door moved at the slight pressure of key to lock. It was unlatched. She froze. She had locked it, she was certain of that. Her muscles tensed.
Pushing Jason between Beeswax and the porch wall, she gave two hand commands, “stay” and “guard.” The dog locked his legs and leaned against the small boy, pinning him to the wall. Jason’s eyes were huge and apprehensive, but he remained quiet and still, not resisting the dog’s weight. The three of them went through this and other drills once a week. Now came the pay-off.
She used her fingertips to gently swing the door open and slipped silently into the darkened hall. Standing a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, she listened. Muted sounds came from the kitchen. As she strained her ears and crept a few steps forward, sliding along the wall, she thought she could discern the sounds of metal clicking against glass. A hum cut through the silence. The refrigerator had been opened. There was rustling and then the refrigerator closed. The clinking began again. The tension ran out of her. Lunch is served, she thought ironically. She turned and went back to the door, motioning for Beeswax to lay down and for Jason to join her. He tiptoed up to her and she swung him into her arms.
“Adam?” She called, now just inside the door. A muffled voice returned her greeting and she walked back to the kitchen. A familiar blond head glanced at her as she entered, hands putting the finishing touches on a pair of sandwiches.
“Hi!” Andrew said. He gestured at the counter. “Chicken salad?”
“No, thanks. We just finished lunch.” She watched as Andrew sliced the two sandwiches in half. “Do you live here, too?”
“Nope. I have a perfectly good apartment in Decatur. But since Adam was goofing off this morning,” he grinned, holding up a pickle spear, “I get to take a break and make lunch.”
Jason giggled, eyes still big, as Andrew waggled the pickle at him.
“Oh, sorry. Andrew, this is my son, Jason. Jason, say hello to Mr. McAran.”
“Hullo,” Jason said gravely. “Can I have the pickle?”
“Jason!” Phyl cried, mortified by his lack of manners.
“Hello, Jason. Pleased to meet you and even more pleased to give you a pickle. As long your mother...?” He looked askance at Phyllida. Phyllida rolled her eyes.
“I don’t know, Jason, can you have the pickle?” The little boy screwed up his forehead in thought and Phyllida looked at Andrew. “I’m sorry. He’s usually not this forward.”
Jason started bouncing in her arms, demanding attention in an extravagant stage whisper. “Mum! Mum!”
“Yes?”
He breathed. “May I have the pickle?”
“Much better.” She squeezed him. “Ask Mr. McAran.”
“May I have the pickle, Mr. Maran?”
“Certainly,” Andrew answered holding out the pickle.
Jason grabbed onto the spear and chomped down on it with pure childish glee, then wiggled. Phyl set him down and he ran to the backporch.
“Stay close!” She called after him as he disappeared outside.
“Adam’s at the store,” Andrew said turning back to the counter to wrap the sandwiches and pickles. “If you’re looking for him.”
“I figured he would be,” she admitted. Sitting down at the table, she studied the tall blond. “So, since you’re here, how long have you known him?”
“Oh, God,” he said anxiously, looking at her over his shoulder, blue eyes dismayed. “You’re going to pump me for information, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“You’re not very subtle about it,” he accused finishing the wrapping job.
“Subtlety is for wimps.” She stretched her legs out and made herself comfortable, folding her hands over her stomach and crossing her ankles.
Andrew looked at her with a wily gleam in his eye. “What if I claim the Fifth?”
“‘You can judge a man by the company he keeps’,” she quoted more or less accurately.
“That fence is never going to get fixed,” Andrew sighed.
“Did he tell you what he offered?” She asked.
“Yes,” Andrew answered slowly, eyeing her with caution.
“Don’t you think it’s a little strange?” She prodded. “A bit, oh, shall we say, overgenerous?”
“For Adam? No.”
“He doesn’t even know me,” she said reasonably.
“Or you him. Or you me. Your point?”
“I’m not much into costume parties and I don’t really relish being Alice. Personally I think she was pushed through the Looking Glass.”
“Ah. Well, Adam is not the Queen of Hearts. Or the Mad Hatter or the White Rabbit. Although he will be wondering right about now why I’m so late.”
Phyl ignored the hint, recognizing it for the delaying tactic that it was.
“As you said, he got to goof off this morning, so why don’t you goof off a few more minutes this afternoon?”
“Boy, you’re cold, you know that?” He fiddled with the wrapped sandwiches. He looked around the kitchen. He looked everywhere but at Phyl. Phyl continued to pin him with an unwavering green gaze. Resolve faltering, after all there were only so many things he could look at in the kitchen, he shrugged. “Okay. So maybe he did look a little bit like the Cheshire Cat when he got back this morning.”
“Did he?” She asked conversationally, face pointedly polite.
“Uh-oh,” realizing what he’d said. Or how it could be interpreted. The dismay in his eyes was real this time. “I’m in trouble. Look, Ms. Behn....”
“Phyl.”
“Phyl? Okay. Phyl. Adam’s a nice guy. Really. I’ve known him since University. He wants the fence fixed and he thinks you’re the best...choice...for the job. The rest is details to him. Sure you don’t want a pickle?” He queried nervously. Adam was going to kill him. Kill him dead. Then kill himself and come looking for him.
“Positive.” She stood up and went to the back door. “Come on, Jason!”
“Please tell me I haven’t screwed this up,” Andrew pleaded, almost panicked as Jason came in tracking leaves and bits of grass all over the clean kitchen floor.
She smiled and took Jason’s hand. “Nice talking to you, Mr. McAran. Jason, what do you say?”
“Thanks for the pickle, Mr. Maran,” he said formally.
“Andrew, please,” he automatically corrected, looking at both of them. Phyl turned and began walking out of the kitchen. Andrew hurriedly crammed the two sandwiches into a paper bag and stepped after her.
As she opened the front door, Beeswax came to his feet, panting joyfully at the reunion. When Andrew hove up behind her, though, a low, deep, rumbling growl built up and his upper lip flickered to show glimpses of a very fine set of white fangs. Andrew stopped, the bag of sandwiches clutched to his chest.
“Big dog,” he commented faintly and with great respect.
“Beeswax. Stand,” Phyl ordered. The rumbling stopped, although the dog’s eyes never left the man. Phyl bent over and picked up the leash.
“Are you going to introduce us?” Andrew asked hopefully, afraid to move.
“I don’t think so, Mr.—”
“Andrew.”
“McAran,” Phyl continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “Bye,” she said airily and walked away. She glanced back once to see Andrew watching her with a stricken look on his boyish features. She chuckled silently to herself, then looked down at her son, smitten by a sudden attack of guilty conscience. “Remind me to ask God for forgiveness tonight at prayers, okay? It really isn’t nice to torment helpless animals.”
“Okay,” Jason promised, but otherwise uninterested in his mother’s spiritual tribulations. “It was a good pickle.”
“And well worth the price,” she said laughing as they strolled down the sidewalk. “What say we go home?”
“No park?”
“Not today. Mommy’s got a lot to do.”
Like pack.