*3* Interview

*Grace*

Ella was upset when I told her I’m having another potential handyman interview last night when we met at the bar. She’d have been even more upset if she knew I’m offering free room and board for the work. Since it saves me the trouble and I’m a grown-ass woman, I let her think I’m just taking in a renter with a particular set of skills. Which doesn’t seem particularly grown-ass, but I really wasn’t in the mood for the argument.

I cast a final, nervous glance about the downstairs, sighing in disappointment at the threadbare rugs and furniture, worn finish on the stairs and floors. It’s an old farmhouse, I remind myself. You already warned him it wasn’t glamourous.

I don’t have high hopes that this Rob Zhao will be willing to work in exchange for such accommodations though. It just couldn’t be enough, even by comparison to the dilapidated slums of the east side of town near St. Mary’s. I rub my brow, frowning with disappointment—he was the best qualified and least creepy of the men who’d responded to my posting. Even his background check smacked of nice.

If he says ‘no’, you’re no further behind than you already were, I tell myself, trying again to ward off the disappointment. But I desperately want to be ahead instead of behind.

My brooding is cut short by an unfamiliar black sports car visible through the great room windows, moving slowly over the snow-dusted gravel road. One of the benefits of living in a small town, I think—you know everyone’s car, and if you don’t, it’s probably a stranger. Come to think of it, it’s maybe the only benefit of living in a small town.

I follow the sports car’s careful progress—the left at the stop sign, the slow crawl along the front fence—before it turns into the long drive up to the farmhouse. Ducking into the dining room, I stand back in the shadows, watching over the café curtains as the driver stands beside his black Mazda two-seater, his eyes skimming over my property.

I wait just out of sight as Rob Zhao hurries up the steps, then raps gently on the door before tucking his hand back in his coat pocket. To avoid seeming too eager, I count to thirty in my head, using the time to study his features now that he’s closer.

Of course the first thing I notice about him is he’s good looking. He has a broad brow, strong, hairless jaw, good complexion and a gorgeous head of straight black hair that sticks up in wild spikes that look, adorably, like cowlicks. Beneath defined black brows, his eyes are almond shaped, thin, with tiny folds at the corners, and he looks young—younger than someone who’d spent eight years in the Army immediately after high school. He’s average height for a man, which is a head taller than me, and though spare, he’s broad-shouldered and clearly strong. Except for the longish spikes of hair, he looks like the clean-cut military type.

He flips on a polite smile as I open the door, then his eyes and the grin grow a little wider. It’s a jaw-dropping, honest-to-God, drop-dead gorgeous dimpled smile of perfectly straight white teeth. “Hi. I’m looking for Grace Hammond,” he says.

Rob has a pleasant tenor voice completely lacking an accent and the most mesmerizing golden eyes I’ve ever seen. In combination with his smile, there’s no describing the impact he has, and I flounder—noticeably, of course— at the door before recovering and stepping aside. Cursing myself silently, I invite him in, “Yes. Come in. I’m Grace. You’re Rob?”

He seems reluctant to take his eyes off me, turning his body so that it faces me as he moves into the entry and as I close the door. His movements and mine feel like the beginning of an intricate dance. Between that dimpled smile and how intently focused his attention is on me, I’m hooked, unable to stop staring back. “You’re Rob, right?” My heart beats a little faster, my mind stuck in a loop. Please-be-Rob-please-be-Rob-please-be-Rob.

When I repeat my question, he snaps back to task. “Yes. Sorry.” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it and extends a large hand to me. “Rob Zhao. I appreciate you giving me an opportunity to meet you.”

His hand is warm, and he shakes mine with careful regard. This close, I can see his eyes are an unusual and striking honey color, the irises darkening at the edge to a rich chestnut brown. Something about them eases my nervousness, replacing it with a different agitation I haven’t felt in years. It must show on my face because his smile widens as he releases my hand.

But it’s not just the generosity of the smile, it actually feels warm. A part of my mind wanders off imagining what it must be like to kiss those lips, to cuddle against him. When the word ‘naked’ pops into my head unbidden, I realize I’ve started hyperventilating and my face feels hot.

Correction—all of me feels hot.

“This place is amazing.” Rob glances around the great room. His eyes flick about, taking everything in. “Did you just buy it?”

Gesturing for him to take a seat in the dining room, I follow. We’re moving about each other again, like binary stars in orbit around an invisible shared axis, and somehow reach the dining room together as a result. I’m surprised when he pulls a chair out for me, actually waiting until I take a seat. Raw attraction begins to metamorphose into a strange fascination and what did he ask me again? “I’m sorry. What?”

Rob gives me a sheepish grin, and I can’t help smiling back. He’s forgotten too. His eyes flick down, then towards the door, and I can see he’s replaying what happened in the eighteen seconds it took us to get here. “The house. Did you just buy it?”

“No. It belonged to my grandparents. It’s been in my family for years.”

“How fortunate.” He’s looking at my face again, kind of staring into my eyes, and I think I might actually swoon.

“Only two stories? Or is there a cellar too?”

Pull yourself together, Grace! “There’s a cellar. I use it as a pantry. There’s shelving down there, and a freezer. The furnace and laundry too.” When I realize I’m gesturing around as if he knows what I’m talking about, I tuck my hands in my lap, but they don’t stay long. Damn residual teacher behavior. “The bedrooms are upstairs. All three floors will need repairs. I’ll pay for all the materials of course, then provide room and board in exchange for your work.”

“So you want restoration work?”

“As opposed to what?” Did I actually just say that out loud? He must think I’m an idiot.

Rob glances around with a little shrug. “Remodeling. Or both.” When he looks back at me, his grin reappears. He’s just so likeable. “A lot of older places like this were modernized the most expeditious way possible—like your laundry being in the cellar. Not the most convenient when the majority of your laundry items are likely stored in the bedrooms or a nearby linen closet two-stories up. It’s a lot easier to remodel now than it was back then.” His brows flick up as he qualifies quickly, “Not that I’m in any rush to haul a washer and dryer up a flight or two of stairs.”

I couldn’t have hidden my pleasant surprise if I’d tried. I can’t stop smiling.

“Do you mind showing me around?”

Shaking my head, I rise. “Not at all. Follow me.”

As I lead the way through the lower story, Rob picks out most of the things I want repaired before I mention them. He suggests ways I hadn’t thought of that things might be restored instead of replaced and, noting a few things I didn’t mention, asks if those are on my list.

He’s knowledgeable without being condescending, honest about things he doesn’t consider himself qualified to do, and politely answers my questions about how he would do some of the work.

In addition to being mannerly and respectful, he’s humble and a good down-to-earth conversationalist. There’s something innocent about him, some fun spirit to him. As if he enjoys people’s company. Enjoys my company, and I can’t help but respond in kind.

Rob stops on the stairs behind me and asks, “Are these from here?” When I turn, I realize he’s looking at the framed photographs of the farm and my family hanging along the stairwell.

Funny, I think, I scarcely notice them anymore, then descend a few steps to indicate the photos in my reply. “Yes. The old barn—it was destroyed by a tornado the year my mother was born. The replacement barn and tractor. Bumper crops. Here—corn. This one was sugar beets.” I touch the frames to direct his attention as I speak, occasionally lifting one without removing it so I can give him the year documented on the back. Then I wonder why I think he’d even care.

“Is this the parlor?” Rob gestures to a photo of my grandmother sitting straight and upright at her piano. I’m sitting beside her on the bench.

“Yes. That’s my grandmother, Juliet. She used to play for the church on Sundays.”

He points to me in the picture. “Is this you?” When I nod with an embarrassed smile, Rob asks, “Do you play too?”

“I haven’t in years. I learned from her though.” I peer more closely at the photo. “I don’t know what ever happened to that old Mathushek. It was a beautiful piano. I loved that thing.”

He follows me up the stairs. “My room and the master bath.” I open the door near the landing, then close it quickly, apologizing, “Excuse the mess.” 

Across the hall, I open two doors, one to another bedroom and then the bathroom beside it. Though this had been Juliet’s room, it’s furnished now with a bed, writing desk and a tall armoire dresser, all of it a nuisance for me to get in there by myself.

“Bedroom and full bath.” I lead to the opposite end of the hallway where there are two additional rooms that occupy the upstairs space, positioned over the kitchen and dining rooms below.

The smaller of the two is furnished much like the first bedroom, the other is largely empty. When I open the door to that room, Rob peers inside. “May I? He gestures inside, entering when I nod.

I watch as his eyes skim the ceiling, following a path down one wall and along the floor. He seems to consider for a moment, then faces me.

“This used to be two rooms.” Confirming with me first, Rob moves toward the closet, opens it and looks around inside as if there’s something terribly interesting there.

“Yes.” I nod as Rob closes the door and returns to stand before me. With no further prompting from him, I add, “My grandparents originally lived across the street—well, the house has been demolished now. This place belonged to a family with four kids. To reach the back bedroom, you had to walk through the front one, so my grandparents took out the wall.”

Rob closes the bedroom door behind him as he steps into the hallway, and I back away immediately, leading the way downstairs. “The room’s awkwardly large now, but you don’t walk through another room to get to part of it. When I was little, it was my room—the back room was where my toys were.” Why am I telling him all this?

“You must have so many great memories living in a place like this.” Rob comments, following me into the kitchen.

Those memories are sloshing about in my head at exactly the instant he mentions it, and I feel rude when I come back to myself and realize he’s smiling and watching me.

“I do.” Leaning against the counter, I consider him again. It’s the way his smile touches his eyes, I think, staring at the fine mesh of lines at the outer corners that are the only sign of his age. His eyes make it feel like there’s no one else in the world. Which is kind of true in our particular circumstance, but I’ve never connected in quite the way I feel like we do. Though he seems genuine, I still wonder what’s motivating him. “Why are you so interested in this job?”

“It’s exactly what I need. I get a housing and book allowance as part of my GI Bill, but I’d like to save what I can of that money.” Rob continues quickly, before I can ask more details, “And honestly, the living options you offer are a significant improvement over what I have currently.”

The thought makes me cringe. He’d mentioned living on the east side of town around St. Mary’s. The area, commonly called the ‘student ghetto’ or ‘the war zone’, wasn’t far from my first teaching job at the elementary school where I met my ex-husband. I cringe again. “Significant? What kind of place are you living in now?”

Rob grins, clearly embarrassed, and looks up at the ceiling, searching his memory. “My best friend calls it a rat trap and says a moldy cardboard box in a condemned building would be an improvement. And he’s right. This looks like heaven. It’s quiet and suited to studying, plus I like the work you need done.”

By the way he looks at me as he says it, I believe him. “Ok. I think this will work out well for both of us.” I extend my hand for him to shake. “You can have any of the three available bedrooms upstairs you’d like. I’ll move the furniture out so you can move yours in—.” I stop abruptly when he shakes his head.

“I don’t have any furniture.”

“Why don’t you have furniture?”

“It’s included in the place I’m renting. I’ve only been discharged a couple years. I went from high school directly into the Army— they supplied everything. Then in college, the dorms are a lot like the barracks. After that, I just rented a furnished place to save myself the money and hassle.” Rob looks around, watching a few lazy snowflakes drifting to the ground through the kitchen windows. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and have a place like this someday. Then I’ll buy some furniture.”

*Rob*

After years in the military, I consider myself comfortable with GPS and getting around in new places.

But following the GPS directions to the Hammond farm, even coming from a place as small as the college community around St. Mary’s, I feel like I’m navigating every rat run and Bob’s Road in the county. In the stretch of about a mile, I’m certain I’ve passed the entirety of the town. The endless acres of snow-dusted fields along either side of this graveled road I’m driving are starting to make me worried I’ve missed it when suddenly a building drifts out of the gloom up ahead and to my left.

I ease off the gas and go from slow to crawl, studying the building as I draw nearer. The house itself is a narrow, boxy, two-story with gabled roofs and a generous wrap-around veranda that expands to a deck off the back. Though it’s long overdue for a sanding and fresh coat of paint, it’s in vastly better condition than most of the buildings in the neighborhood where I live and dwarfs them easily for the sense of sturdy reliability it retains.

As I pull along the front fence and into the drive, I’m feeling it. This is a great place. This is the kind of place that draws you back—a home—and I’m pleased even before I get out of my car. Though the farm, the house and the barn beyond obviously had seen some hard times and need work, the bones are good. Remarkably good, considering the age of many of these farmhouses. Judging by the style, this one’s likely close to a hundred years old.

Tucking my hands in my pockets, I take stock of the projects I can see. Fix the split-rail fences along the property’s periphery. The barn would need some boards replaced, a new shingle roof and a coat of paint. A tree near the house has damaged the siding and the roof, so that would need to be trimmed and the repairs made. And a few railings along the wraparound porch need replacing. If the inside is in the same condition, I’ll be surprised if there’s a year’s worth of work here for me.

A flake of snow drops on the back of my neck and I shiver, brushing frantically to remove the icy cold touch as I hurry up the steps to the shelter of the porch and knock on the door. A minute or so passes before the click of the lock draws my attention. I smile politely as it opens.

The woman behind the door is nearly as tall as me and sylphid. And in the seconds it takes for my mind to register her composite beauty, reflex has already bypassed brain and my smile spreads. She’s splendidly pretty, with the deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, plump lips and a gracile jaw. Her raven hair is twisted in a softly curling heap over one shoulder and contrasts sharply with her fine, porcelain-pale and smooth skin. I’m mesmerized so thoroughly, I forget what I’m doing here and stumble introducing myself. “Hi. I’m looking for Grace Hammond.”

“Yes. Come in. I’m Grace.” It’s the siren song voice from the phone call yesterday and my insides are jiggling around like Jell-O. I shake my head, half to clear it and half to make certain I’m not dreaming. This is just getting better and better, I think, then extend my hand to her, following her directions as she invites me in.

Inside the entry, I can see the place has hardwood floors, beautiful trim and molding. A steady fire burns in the sturdy, stone fireplace flanked on both sides by narrow, neatly stacked, upright wood racks.

Grace seems surprised when I pull out her chair for her so we can sit and talk for a minute. It’s distracting as hell because I’m already having trouble keeping my eyes off those lips of hers, but when she’s surprised, they part just a little. It’s uber-feminine and even sexier because she seems completely unaware of the impact.

To keep myself on track, I ask a few questions about the house and answer hers. At one point, something I say makes her face light up. I have no idea what pleased her so, but I wish desperately that I did, so I could keep right on saying things like it. Grace is luminous with it and that infinitely kissable pout of hers pulls into a smile that quivers in the most evocative way. I have to force my thoughts from my head.

She gestures with her hands as she talks, pointing the direction of things in the house relative to her position. I create a cognitive map from her movements, and when she starts to show me around, it turns out to be remarkably correct.

The farmhouse is organized around a spacious eat-in kitchen, with an emphasis on woodsy informality. To add counter and cabinet space, at some point a countertop bar with barstools along one side and undercounter cabinets on the other replaced the kitchen nook and a built-in kitchen desk occupies the opposite wall.

Grace glosses over a parlor, closed off from the rest of the house as we pass then we’re back at the entry and I’m following her up the stairs. The house has a practical, functional hominess despite the signs of age and wear, and I’m loving it more and more.

A few of the stairs are loose and creak as we start up, so I look for a quick marker to identify them later. The most readily available to serve are the framed photographs that line the stair well. When I realize they’re of this farm and the farmhouse, I ask her about them.

There’s one in particular, of an attractive, gray haired older woman—she looks like an older version of Grace—at an unusual piano, like a strange transition between a grand piano and an upright. Beside the woman sits a young girl with raven hair and familiar pixie-like features. The trim along the walls and the hardwood flooring in the picture seemed to fit the old farmhouse though the room wasn’t one I’d seen and I assume it’s the parlor.

A little embarrassed to admit the pixie-child is her, Grace smiles and moves on. Eventually, we wind up back in the kitchen. I simultaneously envy and revel in her having roots like this and can’t help smiling when her eyes look distant, remembering days past. Every time I look at her feels like a sucker punch and I want to keep looking.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I know it’s either Tim, Dan or Cameron, and what they want, so I let it roll to voicemail and try to keep Grace talking. Eventually, I even convince her to take me to the hardware store and buy supplies to get started on projects when I move in.

Since the space is available and I don’t have much to move in, Grace’s okay with me moving in as soon as I want. I’m paid up at my current place until the end of October, but I think I’ll eat the loss and spare myself anymore misery.

My last mid-term is Wednesday, and with Grace’s permission, after my test, this is where I’m coming home.

*Grace*

“He actually said that? That he’d be lucky to have a run-down old farmhouse someday?”

When I look hurt, Ella reaches across the table and puts a hand on my arm. “Oh, Gracie. I’m sorry. I don’t mean it that way. The farmhouse is wonderful, but it needs so much work. And it’s too big for you all alone. And too far away from—well, life.” Reaching up, Ella tucks an unruly raven curl behind my ear. “You’re gorgeous and single, Grace. Juliet died. Not you. Don’t go all Mrs. Havisham on me.”

No, Ella doesn’t mean it that way—she just doesn’t recognize the systemic, insidious nuances of her own small-town sexism. Or the subtle tint of my tarnished reputation as a divorced woman. I’d hoped Ella was the one person who might be supportive when I told her about hiring Rob, but if that isn’t the case, so be it. “I have to fix it up anyway, Ella. There’s no way I can get out of it with the shape it’s in.”

“That can’t be true. I’m sure Mr. Mueller would buy it as is. He’s been after it for years.”

That thought sends a shiver of revulsion through me. I polish off my beer, then tip my head at the bartender. When I draw a small circle over their table for another round, she nods once and gets to work on another couple drafts. “Mueller is the last person I’d want to sell to,” I reply to Ella. “When he bought the Joseph estate across from mine, he bulldozed the house to put in more crops.”

“So? The Josephs were all dead and the house wasn’t like yours, it was ramshackle.”

I barely suppress my disappointed sigh. There it was again. In Ella’s narrow paradigm, she considers it a compliment to label Juliet’s house ‘different’ even as she labeled anyone pursuing a life farming as ramshackle.

“It was not, Ella. That house was almost a hundred years old. It had good bones. Juliet’s is over a hundred years old and was constructed by the same builder. It might need some TLC, particularly after Juliet was ill for so long, but it’s strong, with a good foundation.” I wait as the bartender set a beer before each of us.

Ella nods with a small smile and a quiet sigh. “It always amazes me how quietly and deeply attached you can be, Gracie. It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”

I’m not entirely certain if I think that’s a compliment, but there isn’t going to be more discussion about it because the bartender is still standing beside our table, one hand propped on her hip.

“Gracie,” the bartender dries her other hand on her towel draped over her shoulder, “is it true you’ve got a man living with you?”

Flabbergasted, Ella stares at the bartender, answering before I can. “He’s a renter!”

I’m pretty sure I’ve glossed over the part about trading room and board for Rob’s work, and I think I’ll keep it that way. I certainly have no intention of sharing that I’m hiding a lock box full of cash inside a wall in the barn.

“The Gregors saw them together at the hardware store buying paint and new faucets this afternoon.” The bartender arches her brows at Ella, as though this is new information.

Which, if that old bat Margie Gregor was involved, it’s not. Between running the town’s social media pages and her husband as one of the three cops total this place has, that news has been broadcasting for at least a couple hours.

“Seems a bit fishy. Juliet passes away and barely a month later the young miss here is moving in a man.”

“Oh!” Ella rolls her eyes. “This town! For pity’s sake, he’s an Army vet. She needs someone who can help her make repairs to the place and he needs a cheap place to live while he finishes college.”

The bartender shrugs, and sighing dramatically, returns to the bar. Obviously, she’s disappointed that there wasn’t more to the story. Considering how cute and polite Rob is, she might have a point.

“I swear, the only thing keeping this hole alive is the gossip,” Ella snaps, disgusted. “The sooner you can get out of here, Gracie, the better.”

*Rob*

The music is loud and thumping when I arrive at the dance bar after leaving Grace’s farm and I can feel the bass deep in my chest before I enter the building. Making my way around the edge of the dance floor toward the table where Cameron and Tim wait, I watch with them as Dan tries his luck again with the blonde from last night. “How’s he doing?” I shout over the music, gesturing with a thumb towards Dan.

Cameron whistles, a high-pitched bomb drop sound that cuts through the music, then shakes his head. “Crashed and burned twice already. Shame you’ve missed the show. She just showed up, so she’s definitely not drunk enough to put up with him. What kept you? We’ve been calling for hours.”

“The interview ran late and it’s a bit of a drive.”

I keep to myself that I deliberately silenced the calls, refusing to be distracted by anything but Grace’s presence. Definitely won’t do to tell them I kept her talking about the farmhouse, and as indirectly as I could using the old photos hung along the stairs, herself, just for the sheer pleasure of looking at and listening to her.

I flag down a passing scantily clad server and order a beer, carefully keeping my eyes on the young woman’s face even as I note my friends obviously eyeing her body.

“How far away is it?”

“About a half hour drive from St. Mary’s. It’s an old farm.” I nod politely, thanking the server as she drops off my drink, earning a bright smile that promises me her best service the rest of the night.

“Half hour? Rob, what are you doing, man? You already live in the Styx to go to St. Mary’s. Now you’re ditching all civilization?”

Laughing, I take a sip of my beer, nodding toward the bar where Dan is standing alone. “Looks like he’s 0 for 3. And it’s civilized. There’s a hardware store. A diner. Three banks. A couple churches. It has a library and its own school district. There are even two bars.”

“There are two bars on this side of the street. On this block. Besides this one,” Tim counters.

“Both directions,” Cameron chimes in. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope, not kidding. It’s quiet. Good for studying,” I reply. My difficulty studying around distractions is well-known with this crew, and I can see them acknowledging that. “Besides, there’s more to life than drinking. Maybe if I’m further away, I won’t be going broke hanging out with you guys.”

Across from me, Cameron grimaces. “I feel you. That housing stipend didn’t go as far as I thought it would. Tim’s got an in at an equipment repair service between here and State. We’re picking up part-time work too.”

To shift the topic from myself even further, I pat Dan on the shoulder consolingly as he arrives at our table. “She’ll come around, buddy.”

“And if not,” Tim raises his bottle, clinking it when the rest are lifted to it. He gestures across the dancefloor of writhing, frenetic, mostly female bodies, “there are many other fish in the sea.”

Shaking my head, I take a sip to their luck before setting my bottle down. “Maybe not for some,” I reply enigmatically.