Must Like Spinach Page 9

  He’s glad for some time to himself, if only to wrap his head around other ways he might’ve been mistaken.

  How many times has Peggy suggested that Tyler is hardworking?

  And how many times has he mentally raised a disbelieving eyebrow, sure he saw through his pretense?

  Finding out he might be wrong is disconcerting. If Tyler doesn’t come back from checking up on Peggy because he’s fallen asleep, Jon guesses he can live with it. Night shifts have got to be exhausting, and now that he thinks about it, the few times he’s seen him in the mornings, he has looked about ready to hit the sack. Jon feels wide-awake by comparison, especially now that he’s showered and dressed, wearing sneakers instead of going barefoot. He gets to work with a broom, his primary concern that Peggy doesn’t get to see this wreckage again. And he decides as he sweeps, he’s almost certain that Tyler would do the same thing.

  Fragments tinkle as he sweeps, but a couple of longer pieces roll free that are largely intact, if cobwebbed with cracks. If they were Peggy’s grandmother’s, no wonder they shattered. Anything made of glass that old has got to be extra fragile and hold a whole lot of history. Maybe he can save a couple of them. It’s a thought that drives him to cradle the larger fragments very carefully and set them on the potting table rather than tossing them right into the trash.

  He sweeps more debris gently into piles that he cautiously inspects like a beachcomber picking through a tideline. Finding another almost-complete bauble spurs him to keep searching. Tyler finds him sorting through his finds when he finally returns bearing coffee.

  He pauses inside the garage doorway. “Wow. You’ve been busy.” He crosses the space and sets a cup down at Jon’s elbow. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to leave all this to you,” he says. “Peggy….”

  “Is she okay?”

  Tyler’s face does something complicated, and he takes a quick sip of his coffee before admitting, “I’ll have a better idea when she wakes up.” He bends to pick up one of Peggy’s mules that Jon’s already shaken hidden shards from. The heel he traces with a finger is a couple of inches high at least, and he blows out a long breath that echoes ones Jon’s already let out. “I guess it could’ve been a lot worse.” He sets the mule down again and rubs at his eyes like he’s still dog-tired. “I was about to ask what made her think climbing a ladder was a good plan, but she’s….”

  “Too upset?” Jon offers.

  “Probably.” Tyler shrugs and adds, “She does this thing when she’s shook up. Changes the subject and tells a familiar story instead? You know what I mean?”

  Jon frowns and then slowly nods. He’s been on the receiving end of Peggy repeating herself more than once or twice in the last week. Now that he thinks about it, it happens whenever she’s faced with tricky questions. “She did that to me just yesterday.”

  “Yeah?” Tyler cocks his head. “She snowed you?”

  “Oh yeah.” He cradles his cup of coffee. “I asked about hiring someone to take care of repairing the stairway.”

  “Let me guess.” Tyler smiles, and no matter how Jon squints, he can’t see anything but gentle humor in it. “She gave you the whole history of the street and how she watched the stairway get installed brand new in 1960, rather than admit there’s a problem?” His smile brightens when Jon agrees before fading when he points at the broken decorations. “She told me all about those. They’re pretty much all she has left from her family. It’s kind of heartbreaking for her.” Tyler sighs and looks around, his gaze lingering on the pile of debris Jon swept up. “I really would’ve done that, only….”

  “Only you just got done with a night shift and from dealing with Peggy.”

  “Yeah, and with checking over barefoot idiots.” Tyler’s smile dims and flickers, as if teasing Jon is a minefield that still needs clearing.

  “Thought you said I was a hero.” Jon meets his eye, so he sees the moment Tyler’s gaze drops from his face to his chest before jerking upward again.

  “The jury’s still out on that,” is all he offers before neatly changing the subject. “What is it exactly that you’re doing?”

  The piles of glass Jon collected now sparkle in the sunlight flooding through the back window. “I wondered if there was anything here I could salvage.” He glances Tyler’s way, who now stands a whole lot closer, his shoulder brushing Jon’s as he reaches for a curved segment that’s only missing a tiny sliver.

  “You think any of this is worth saving?” There’s skepticism in his voice, but Jon also hears a note of hope. “Jeez, she’d love it so much if we could put some of them back together.” He pokes through the pile and delicately pulls out another fragment, frowning when it isn’t a match. “I have to go nap soon, but I can come back before I have to start work after lunch.”

  “You’re going back to work that soon?”

  “Yup.” Tyler cracks a huge yawn. He selects a large piece of green glass and whoops when he finds a match. The angel painted on its surface is only missing one wing. “Maybe it’s true what they say about guys like me.” He digs through the pile and finds a third piece, letting out a small sound of satisfaction once his angel has both wings.

  “What do they say?” Jon prompts.

  “That there’s no rest for the wicked.”

  For the very first time since arriving, Jon’s not sure that’s a fair descriptor.

  VOICING HIS concern about the exterior stairs has Jon set on solving the issue. He leaves Tyler and Peggy to nap in peace and heads out to a home-improvement store. The aisles are filled with tools of every description, but now that he’s close enough to touch them, he has no clue what he needs. Business is brisk—every clerk he sees is already helping out other weekend renovators, so he steps outside for a moment where cell reception’s better so he can Google a solution. The number of how-to sites that pop up are overwhelming. He scrolls through instructions describing how to drill safely into wood or brick or siding. But he also reads dire warnings about selecting the wrong fittings. His grumble of frustration is cut short when someone calls him by name.

  It’s Eric, dressed in a faded Seahawks T-shirt instead of business wear and minus his flock of interns. “Hey there, Mr. Fournier.” His grin is so wide as he pumps Jon’s hand, like bumping into him at Lowe’s has made his entire weekend. “What’re you doing here?”

  Jon slides his phone into his pocket. “Please—Jonathan is fine. And I’m just trying to figure out what I need to work on the place I’m renting.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Eric’s guileless expression turns serious. “That the place across the street from the pizzeria you took us to? It sure looked like it needed some TLC. What is it exactly that you’re repairing?”

  “The stairway.” Now that he’s taken a quick look online, he’s not even sure it’s a problem he can remedy on his own. It’s a two-man job at least, according to the websites. He’ll call someone next week and ask Peggy’s forgiveness afterward rather than her permission. “Think I better leave it to an expert.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place for that.”

  Jon doesn’t get to explain that all the clerks in-store are busy. Eric simply raises a thumb and finger to his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle. It’s not hard to see whose attention he’s attracting. Carl Snyder gets up from his knees in the flatbed of a truck across the lot and turns around to face them.

  “No,” Jon says, but Eric simply repeats something he said already.

  “There’s nothing the big guy doesn’t know how to fix up.”

  That might be true, but if Carl’s body language is anything to go by, Jon’s the last person he’d assist. Still, he lumbers slowly over, hands shoved deep in the pockets of well-worn jeans, as if he’s about as reluctant to shake hands as Jon is to share his problem. A low-pitched, “Hey,” is all he offers.

  Jon nods instead of speaking.

  Eric ignores the subtext of their body language and simply enthuses. It’s ridiculous how he exudes good humor, like he only expects the be
st out of the world instead of grudges and bad feelings. “You think you can help out, Mr. Fournier, big guy?”

  Their simultaneous responses of “For Christ sake, call me Carl, kid” and “Jonathan, please” at least fracture the ice. Carl tugs his hands out of his pockets and plants them firmly on his hips above a low-slung tool belt. “What’s the problem, Jonathan?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Eric acts like he hasn’t heard him, speaking over his quiet assertion by launching into a description of Jon’s home. Considering that he’s only seen the apartment from the opposite side of the street, he must’ve paid real close attention. “Mr. Fournier’s renting an apartment that’s a deathtrap.”

  “It’s not that bad.” It really isn’t. Besides, the benefits outweigh the risks by a clear margin.

  Eric’s eye roll is extravagant. “Please. No one’s taken care of that place since the Reagan administration.” He switches from astute to pleading as he speaks directly to Carl. “It’s the place Mr. Fournier drew on the meeting room window? The one with all the dollar signs above it? It really does need demolition.”

  Carl’s incredulous. “You actually live there?” Maybe he doesn’t see Jon’s mute nod. “I thought all of that was bullshit.” His eyes narrow, but his next words are wary, like he’s used to Eric pulling his leg. “Come on, now. You’re telling me a big-city consultant lives somewhere low-class like that? I bet the job came with a hotel allowance. Who would turn that down for the dump that you drew?”

  “That’d be me,” Jon admits. “I… uh… it’s got a big backyard, and… and I missed working outside.”

  It’s an honest admission that affects Carl’s expression, changing it from derisive to something a whole lot more interested. It’s right there in the way his posture shifts and alters—like the tight coil of a fiddlehead fern, his tension slowly unfurls. “Is that so?” He relaxes even further when Jon simply nods. Carl’s shoulders gradually drop, and his brow unfurrows. It’s amazing how he changes, right there in front of his eyes, switching from the unhappy middle manager Jon’s watched for weeks into the happy construction worker that he’s glimpsed in photos. That impression is confirmed for sure when Carl’s next question is gruff but almost kind. “What is it exactly that you’re trying to fix up?”

  Eric interrupts. “We could go take a look. It’s not that far from the shelter. We could drop off our supplies, then come over and take a look today—”

  Jon’s “No” is emphatic and has instant impact.

  Carl coils tightly again, any friendliness starkly shut off.

  Jon backtracks as fast as he can. “I mean, Yes. I’d really appreciate your advice, only Peggy—” He struggles to explain his living situation. “The woman I rent my apartment from just had an awful morning. She’s elderly, and I don’t think….” Jon meet’s Carl’s eye and speaks to him directly. “Any other time and I know Peggy would love to meet you, but honestly, today? I’m not sure she could cope with more people on her doorstep.” He bites his lip, half aware as he does so that Carl’s gaze is still cool. “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I can’t impose on you, really. Not on your weekend, anyhow.” He parrots words he’s sure Carl meant when he overheard them. “Weekends are for doing stuff you like, not helping out corporate, know-nothing assholes.”

  Hearing his own description of Jon must make a difference. Carl snorts like he’s holding back laughter, stiff angles of his shoulders slowly dropping like a glacier gradually thawing.

  “Throw in some food and I’ll spare you some time.”

  Jon jumps on that suggestion. “I heard the diner across the street does a mean brunch. I’ll check it out and let you know.”

  Carl’s almost-nod is noncommittal.

  “I’d really appreciate it. I’m only here for a few months, but I worry she’ll break her hip on the stairway after I’m gone.”

  “Is that right?”

  Jon nods, but when he adds a helpless, “I can’t let that happen,” Carl finally smiles directly at him.

  Chapter 11

  IT’S A while before Jon gets to the diner to check out its brunch menu. Work absorbs him so completely that between adding to his reports and keeping an eye on Peggy, another week’s gone before he knows it. She really likes it when he reviews his notes on his laptop at her kitchen table, so he goes ahead and does that most evenings while she chatters in the background. And if he watches her carefully as she potters, that’s nobody’s business but his. Anyhow, no one else is there to mock his close attention.

  Tyler’s conspicuous by his absence.

  Jon doesn’t mention it or ask nosy questions. Peggy talks about her boy enough, that would be redundant. Besides, now he knows Tyler’s got to be some kind of nurse; his being gone so often or asleep during the daytime makes a whole lot more sense.

  It explains her lowered voice when she opens the front door on Sunday morning.

  “Tyler got in so late, Jonathan,” she whispers. “He only got to bed an hour ago. I know I promised to make you breakfast, but I don’t want to disturb him.” Her face pinches, and she blurts, “I think he lost a patient.” She folds her hands carefully around a catalog she carries. “Why don’t you go get brunch at the diner instead? It’s the best in the whole city!”

  He nods. “I can do that.” Then he goes ahead and does some blurting of his own. “Want to keep me company? Is that a new seed catalog you have there?” He nods toward her hands. “We could look through it together, if you like.” If anyone had said a month earlier that he’d volunteer to spend time with an old lady, he would’ve laughed in their face. But somehow this is different. Peggy’s different, so he persists. “You wouldn’t really make me go eat on my own, would you?”

  Her gaze flickers between him and the ceiling a few times, hesitant like a new mom worrying about leaving a sleeping infant, so Jon offers another reason. “Didn’t you say he got in late? Tyler wouldn’t want you to wait hours before eating just in case the sound of cooking woke him.”

  “Okay,” she finally allows and raises a hand to her hair, curls glossy and immaculate as always when she pats them. “Why don’t you go ahead while I make myself presentable? They get busy,” she warns. “There might be a wait for a table.”

  “I don’t mind.” He shrugs the shoulder his laptop bag is slung over. “I’ve got this. I can always work while I wait.”

  “Work? It’s Sunday, Jonathan!” She’s scandalized enough to pull at the strap until he gives it up. Peggy puts his bag by the hall table and pushes the catalog into his hands instead. “Go. Shoo! I’ll be right over.”

  “You sure?”

  Peggy’s expression pinches. The last time he noticed the same look, she’d needed to double check one of her envelopes before agreeing to eat out. Maybe he can remove a budgetary worry at least. “My treat,” he says, leaving before she can argue. He crosses the street, looking back a few times until an approaching truck honks to make him hurry. She’ll be okay crossing the street on her own, he tells himself. So what if he’s seen her shocked and shaky? She’s been fine all week since then. Walking a block on her own is likely important to her. Still, he looks over his shoulder one last time when he gets to the diner, hesitating again.

  The door opens, and Jon steps aside as a group leaves, clearly disgruntled if their sour looks are a measure. So much for this being the best diner in the city, like Peggy stated so firmly. Nothing about their grumbling says they’re happy. From the doorway he also spies a boy eyeing dry-looking eggs like they’re poison, while his mother pokes at flaccid French toast, frowning as she does so.

  Despite what look like quality issues with the food, the diner’s undeniably more crowded than the last time he ate pie here. A spot opens at the counter, and Jon slides onto a stool.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Uh….” Now he’s seen it first hand, the French toast he wanted isn’t quite as appealing. “What’s good?”

  “Everything.” The server must notice Jon
’s skepticism. “Well, maybe not everything, today,” she admits, and inclines her head toward the kitchen where an older guy sweats over a grill. “The short-order cook didn’t turn up this morning or call in to warn me. Frank’s doing his best, but….” Her lips press hard together before she says, “Nope. This isn’t working.” She pulls a phone from her apron pocket and taps out a text message one-handed while also pouring Jon a cup of coffee. Her glance his way is fleeting, as is her final comment. “Sit tight, hon. I’ll come get your order when someone’s here who can cook it.”

  She’s a crisis-management case study in action.

  He sits back, fascinated.

  The waitress is strategic, thrusting her carafe of coffee at another server. “Refill whoever looks like they’re about to leave before their order’s up. Tell them I called in the cavalry and that their food’s coming. And,” she quickly adds, “tell them their orders will be on the house if they’re not happy when they get them.”

  Jon’s eyebrows rise at that decision. She could end up spending a whole lot of the owner’s money. But perhaps it’s simply a clever offer—one that will turn out to cost nothing and keep bad reviews off Yelp. He nods as he watches her take control of the whole room, crouching next to booths and smiling up at patrons as she makes excuses. She uses first names more often than not, like she’s sharing a problem with friends rather than placating strangers. Scooping up a chubby baby, tired of sitting in a highchair, is a masterstroke of genius. She carries him between tables, playing peek-a-boo with patrons, while the baby’s older brother follows, all of six years old and so proud when the waitress lets him carry her pad of tickets.

  The waitress returns from begging patience. She’s made a whole lot of promises so far, but now that she’s done smoothing ruffled feathers, can she actually deliver?

  He watches her make it happen.

  She checks in on the guy working the grill first and shuffles tickets for him. “This one, Frank. Then these pancake orders. Only not so well-done, okay? Use the timer.” She washes her hands and works beside him, scrambling eggs like a pro, throwing in shredded cheese and scallions. When she looks up to shout for service, her cheeks are pink from the heat.