9

“Roof repaired. It’s time to start properly renovating,” I muse as I sip my coffee in bed and scowl at my bedcovers.

“These will be the first to go.”

Ever since James left there are some things that rub me the wrong way in this house. Things that hold memories that I don’t want to relive. And other things that hold question marks that I also don’t want in my mind.

My bed linen is one of the latter.

‘Did he ever bring her here while I was out? Did he screw her on my bed? How could he lie in between these sheets with me every night when he was thinking about another woman?’

The thoughts are many and varied.

“What’s the plan today?” Chris asks, popping his head around my door and interrupting my maudlin pondering.

“Shopping,” I mutter.

“For hardware?” His eyes twinkle.

“Yes, Chris,” I groan, returning his smile, his expression infectious as always, “you can go to the hardware store again. We need paint and sledgehammers, among other things.”

“You really know how to turn a man on,” he fake growls.

“Sure,” I laugh. “You strange creature. Start making a list, I know you already have your eye on some tools you saw last week. But I’m telling you now, no nail gun.”

He winks and disappears, and I shake my head.

Yes, new bed linen will make me feel better, as will knocking out some walls. I’d been dying to get rid of our boxy separate rooms for a decade or more, ever since I saw an open plan house on the television show House Hunters and admired the flow and easy living it seemed to offer. James, being a builder, had refused to undertake any structural work on ‘his home’ since he did that kind of work day-in-and-day-out in his business. Naturally, he also wouldn’t let me hire anyone, adding that for resale value we needed to keep separate rooms. So the house had remained with a formal dining room, living room, and separate kitchen, even though neither of us had any plans to sell, or move. At least, I didn’t.

Today is the day the walls come down.

Groaning, I pull back the covers and get out of bed, every muscle aching from all the work Chris and I had just finished on the roof, and my neck stiff from looking up to paint the ceiling.

Walking to the window I look out at the world of white, and scowl. Parked across the street is James’ truck, and leaning out the window is Wednesday. She appears to be taking photos of the house. When she sees me she quickly pulls her phone back into the car, raises the windows, and drives away.

‘What the fuck is she up to?’

Scowling, I stumble into the shower and allow the hot water to pound the back of my neck, the whole time running scenarios through my mind over what James’ sugar baby could possibly be taking photos of my home for.

Deciding it’s probably best I don’t know, I jump out after just a few minutes. I’ve freshened up, but there’s nothing I can do about the paint splatters in my hair, other than tie it up into a chaotic bun and accept that I’m a mess. As usual, I don’t bother studying my reflection for too long. There’s nothing there that I enjoy seeing. Instead, I slap on some lipstick, pull on jeans and a sweater, and pause to take a long look around the room, imagining it a different colour.

But even as I do this, I know I’m stalling.

The shower has limbered me up, and I can move my neck a little better, but my anxiety about just who I might bump into when we go into town today has ratcheted up to a million. I wasn’t kidding when I told Chris I don’t like people, and I wasn’t joking about wanting to become a hermit. Running into people like Joan was inevitable in a town this size. Not everyone was as two-faced or insincere, it’s true, but sometimes the pity was worse than the condescension. By the time I reach the dining room I’m feeling so tense my neck has seized again.

Naturally, Chris notices. He notices everything.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I frown.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Chris, for Christ’s sake. I’m just a little sore from painting the ceiling yesterday.”

‘And scared to go to town.’

“Sit,” he orders, gesturing to one of the stools around the kitchen counter .

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” he smirks. “Let my fingers work their magic. I can see you can hardly turn your head.”

“Seriously,” I groan, doing as he’s bid but shaking my head the whole time. “I’ll be fine. And you know, if you squeeze too hard my head will pop right off. It happened to my sister with just the tiniest bit of pressure from her masseuse.”

“Bullshit,” he laughs. “Now stop it. I trusted you with my wing,” he spins the stool around so I’m facing away from him, his warm hands resting on my shoulders, “the least you can do is return the trust.”

“I trust you,” I sigh, as his fingers begin to knead my tense muscles, his breath stirring the curls near my ears and the pleasure from his massage sending long-forgotten signals to other parts of my body.

“Do you?” He murmurs close to my right ear.

My skin goosebumps at his proximity, my nipples hardening almost instantly. I’m glad I’m facing away from him, because I know my face has turned tomato-red.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Then trust me when I say you don’t have to worry about people talking about you when you go to town,” he says gently. “Or what they think. You’re a beautiful, strong, independent woman, Merri. You just seem to have lost your confidence somewhere along the way.”

I close my eyes as the muscles in my neck begin to unknot and the desire I’d felt as his breath caressed my ears gradually morphs into pure bliss.

“Chris, you say the nicest things, but you really don’t even know me.”

“I knew you the moment I saw you,” he says quietly, spinning my stool around to face him.

“Nobody ever really knows anyone,” I mutter.

I open my eyes abruptly when he parts my knees and leans so he’s standing between my legs, but his smirk and quirked eyebrow set me at ease.

“Calm,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing gentle circles around my temples. “Close your eyes. Be still, be calm, be Merri.”

I sigh a long, deep sigh as all my muscles relax and the headache that had been building up behind my eyes disappears. When his fingers finally leave my temples I open my eyes and stare up at him.

“Where have you come from?” I whisper.

“Heaven,” he smiles. “But where am I going? To the hardware store!”

He raises his arm as though he’s just rallied his troops and declared we’re about to march on the enemy.

In some ways we are, but, I shake my head at his lunacy, I couldn’t ask for a better comrade.