Only Billy Young seemed immune to Tekla’s shrill complaints. Ryan’s thirteen-year-old apprentice seemed more amused than angered. Joe had seen Billy, more than once, turn away, hiding a little smile at the storm of Tekla’s raving. Joe watched Billy now as the boy put away the shovels and a pick from where he’d been digging a new water line. The tall boy looked older than thirteen, his brown hair trimmed short and neat, his thin face, high cheekbones, and black eyes hinting at his trace of Native American blood.
Finished cleaning up, Billy wheeled his bike from beside the garage and moved on up the drive to the street to wait for Charlie Harper. This evening, even Billy had had enough of Tekla.
The chief’s wife often picked Billy up after work, when she came down from the ranch on an errand. Charlie and Max Harper had been Billy’s guardians since his grandma died; they hadn’t wanted to see him go into foster care. Max usually dropped Billy at work in the morning, throwing his bike in the back of his pickup. The bike got him to school for early afternoon classes; then he was back at work again, on the school’s part-time apprenticeship arrangement. Now, as Tekla raised her voice louder, Billy wheeled his bike farther away, up the street. She was insisting on different flooring, when the new floor was already down in three of the six rooms.
“This is not what I ordered,” Tekla shouted.
“This,” Ryan said, “is exactly what you selected.”
“It is not. You’re lying! You’re a liar!” Tekla snapped. “You got this cheap stuff at some discount sale!” Her accusation made every hair on Joe’s body bristle. Crouched as he was on the roof, he found it hard not to leap straight down on Tekla’s head.
“I don’t lie,” Ryan said softly, her green eyes steady. “You cosigned for the flooring yourself.” She picked up a square of the sleek golden wood where a pile of scraps had been tossed on the porch; she showed Tekla where it was stamped on the back: “Same manufacturer, same style number, same color: antique oak.”
“I don’t believe you. Where is the order?”
Ryan pulled both the order and the delivery bill from her pocket. She held them so Tekla could look, but she didn’t hand them over.
Tekla said no more. Joe dropped down onto the truck hood trying to keep his angry claws from scratching Ryan’s red paint. He longed to dig them into Tekla. Ryan was beautiful and kind and Joe loved her; but Tekla’s harangues sent her home every night with a headache, in a cranky mood that cut through both Joe and Clyde, that cowed Rock and sent the little white cat to a far corner—until Ryan got herself under control. Until she did her best to smile, and the household turned sunny once more. Now when Ryan glanced up at Joe, he laid his ears back and licked his whiskers, telling her, Screw the woman. I’m hungry, it’s suppertime! Dump Tekla and let’s move it! His tomcat scowl said it all.
Ryan tried hard not to laugh. Tekla looked at her strangely, but at last she turned away and wheeled Sam to their van. Sliding open the side door, she pulled down the ramp and helped him in. Joe watched her fold the wheelchair and secure it beside him. Tekla might be small in stature, but she was strong; and she seemed to take adequate care of Sam—adequate physical care, anyway, if you could discount her spirit-bruising sarcasm. Their son, Arnold, was kinder to Sam than Tekla was. At least he acted kinder when he stopped by after school; he seemed far closer to his father than he was to Tekla.
Though somehow even Arnold gave Joe the twitches. As nice as the kid could be to Sam, there was something hard inside him. Something about Arnold Bleak that mirrored, exactly, the deep-down enmity of his mother.
Joe watched the van pull away, watched Ben head up the street for his small coupe, patting his coat pocket as he always did to make sure his phone was there and the little spiral-bound notebook that contained his building measurements and notes. Watching Ben, Joe edged from the hood of the king cab around through its open window and dropped to the front seat. At once Ryan joined him, slipping in through the driver’s door, leaving Billy to wait for Charlie, leaving Scotty to lock up.
“How do you stand her?” Joe said as she started the engine. “You could break the contract.”
She looked at Joe, frustrated. “With Sam in a wheelchair, they need this remodel. At least he’ll have a convenient bath and bedroom. They have to be cramped in that little place they’re renting.” Her patience sounded kind and forgiving, but when again she glanced at Joe, angry tears filled her eyes. Ryan, who never cried. Who was usually high-spirited and in charge of a situation. “If she could just be civil,” she said. “If she could just try . . .”
On the seat Joe snuggled closer and laid a soft paw on her arm. “You know she does it on purpose, you know she likes hurting people. Don’t let that scum get to you with her power trip, you’re better than to listen to her.” Looking up, his eyes held Ryan’s. “She won’t take you down, you have more style, more everything. You can laugh at her.”
Driving, Ryan smiled, and wiped at her tears. They were a block from home when she pulled over to the curb and gathered Joe up in her arms. Burying her face in his fur, she was silent for a long time, dampening his gray coat with her tears, needing a little time-out, needing Joe as she tried to get herself under control.
But suddenly she began to laugh. She laughed against Joe, she held him tighter, then held him away, laughing in his face, her teary green eyes bright with amusement. “You’re right, tomcat. I can growl at her just as good as you can,” and she hugged him harder. “If Sam can’t silence Tekla, if he won’t silence her, then maybe I will.” She stroked and hugged him. “Why not? I can unsheathe my claws just as well as you can.”
7
Tears still dampened Ryan’s cheeks as she pulled into the drive—but she was still smiling, cuddling Joe close on her lap. Above them, bright reflections from the lowering sun flashed across her upstairs studio windows. She and Joe sat a moment enjoying the sight of their comfortably remodeled house, Ryan scratching Joe Grey’s ears as she shook off the last of her anger. “Guess we have it pretty good, don’t we, tomcat?”
Joe gave her a nudging purr. “Guess we do, now that you’ve added a little pizzazz to the old cottage. And to the family,” he said, grinning. “Now that you’ve civilized Clyde,” and that did make her laugh.
The Damen house had started out some fifty years earlier as a one-story weekend bungalow. It was now a spacious two stories with more air and light, and a touch of Spanish flavor. It still amused Joe that the renovation was what had pushed the romance into high gear as Ryan and her crew worked on the remodel and Clyde often worked with them. What better way to get to know a person than working side by side, exhibiting your worst temper when you hit your thumb with a hammer, as Clyde was inclined to do, or when the wrong materials were delivered, nudging Ryan’s temper. What better way to know someone than when a project turned out exactly right and they could share that glow of pleasure. As the couple learned each other’s moods, as they began to see the truth of what each one was about, the romance bloomed.
Now, gathering Joe up in her arms and swinging out of the truck, Ryan hurried inside. Setting him down in the hall, she didn’t go into the kitchen to kiss Clyde as she usually would, but headed upstairs to wash away the last of her tears. Joe heard the bathroom door slam as he followed the smell of spaghetti into the kitchen; then soon he heard the shower pounding.
“In a temper again,” Clyde said, moving around the big table laying out napkins and silverware. “What does Tekla want now? Gold-plated doorstops?”
“Wants to rip out the new floors,” Joe said, leaping up to the kitchen counter. “Said that floor wasn’t the one she ordered.”