Color of Loneliness (6 page)

“Yeah, that’ll work,” Myra replies.

“Two o’clock,” he repeats before hanging up.

“Bye,” Myra says to the dial tone, noting that Porter appeared to be quite right about the not-friendly thing.

Myra wonders how Dylan Lawson manages to get new business if he’s as short with all his customers as he was with her. She decides that his demeanor means nothing so long as he can do a good job on the repairs. Smiling at the prospect of once again turning Grampie’s place into a home –
her
home – Myra gets back to the business of unpacking boxes.

CHAPTER 4

ORANGE, FRUSTRATION

Myra stares down at the toilet, plunger in hand. “
No
,” she shouts as she hears a gurgling sound. Screaming obscenities, she jumps back as water cascades over the toilet bowl and onto the floor, splashing her socked feet. “This cannot be happening,” she mumbles under her breath.

After numerous unsuccessful plunging attempts, she finally gets the water in the toilet to go down. She uses every towel she owns to mop up the mess on the floor. Carrying the soaked, heavy towels to the basement, she throws them into the washing machine.

Once she gets a load started, she turns and looks around. No visible light enters the two small windows; a thick layer of dirt and cobwebs, and what looks like bushes on the outside, completely masks them both. Dirt and dust cover the concrete floor. A single bulb hanging in the center of the room serves as the only light. Several standing racks of shelving units filled with paint cans, bug sprays, and an assortment of boxes covered in dust line the walls.

The creepy-looking basement looks like something straight out of a horror film. Afraid that at any minute something might jump out and grab her, Myra, with her heart racing, makes a mad dash for the staircase. Hanging on tightly to the railing, her wide, frightened eyes watch the basement behind her as she quickly scrambles up the rickety stairs.

* * *

Myra picks up her cell and dials her friend.

“Myra…” Susie says before she coughs and wheezes loudly in Myra’s ear. “I am so sick. I’m dying.”

“You sound terrible. What’s wrong?” Myra patiently waits as Susie proceeds to practically cough up a lung in her ear.

“Tucker was sick last week with the flu. I think he caught it at school or something. So I disinfected the shit out of everything and bragged about how I never get sick, and now…” Susie stops again to hack some more. “It just hit me all of a sudden, out of nowhere. And I’ve had vomiting and diarrhea to top it off. It’s been coming out both ends, at the same time. I’ve had to sit on the crapper with the trash can in my lap barfing and shitting simultaneously. And I’ve had to change my drawers like five times because I shit myself. No, I meant to say I’ve had to throw away five pairs of rotten cottons because no way in hell am I touching those putrid, shitty things. Instead of Jeff running to buy me drugs, he’s going to have to make a panty run,” Susie says with a giggle which turns into another massive coughing spell.

Myra laughs while Susie coughs. “You poor thing. I wish I was there. I can’t do anything to help.”

“You do not want to be anywhere near me right now, trust me. Oh God, the hurl is here. I gotta go,” she says hurriedly before immediately hanging up.

* * *

At two o’clock on the nose, Myra hears the sound of tires crunching on the gravel of her driveway. When she opens the door, she just stands there with her mouth slightly gaping, frozen and unable to move as she stares at the contractor.

His brow furrows and his eyes flash with anger. “You wanted an estimate?” he asks in a gruff voice.

She straightens her shoulders. “Oh, oh yes, please come in,” she says, moving to the side so he can pass. He towers over her as his tall, lean frame enters her living room.

Once again, her ability to speak seems to have disappeared. Continuing to gawk at him and tugging on the hem of her sweater, she clears her throat, trying to get her voice back. “I’m probably going to need a new roof,” she says in a timid voice as she gestures with her hand and starts walking towards the stairs. “It’s leaking upstairs in the master bedroom so, I’ll show you,” she mumbles as she turns her head for a quick peek to see if he’s following her.

She prays she doesn’t fall up the stairs.

Somehow she manages to make it to the master bedroom without embarrassing herself. “Right there,” she says as she points to the ceiling in the corner.

Cold eyes meet hers. “I’ll need to get up on the roof to take a look.”

“There’s a ladder in the garage…”

“I have my own ladder,” he snaps back, cutting her off before he turns and exits the bedroom.

Frowning, Myra just stands there staring, not sure what to make of the incredibly attractive but seemingly hostile man. She continues standing for a few more moments as she listens to his work boots stomp down the stairs and out the front door.

* * *

As Myra waits on the contractor to finish looking at the roof, she sits on the couch, nibbling on her already chewed fingernails. She continues chewing and gnawing on her cuticles until she accidentally makes one of them bleed. When she hears his heavy boots on the porch, her heart rate kicks up a notch. She quickly pinches her finger to stop the bleeding as she stands and opens the door.

His eyes lock with hers. “Your roof’s in terrible shape. Everything’s gonna need to be replaced, including the decking,” he says, his tone sharp as he reaches his hand up and scratches at his unshaven chin.

“I was afraid of that,” she says, her eyes still on his. For some reason, she can’t look away. The hostility and harshness in them startles her yet somehow she finds herself drawn to them. She can feel her face warming as her gaze drops to the floor and her fingers play with the sleeves of her oversized sweater.

“What else?”

“Um…” She quickly clears her throat. “I’m having a problem with the plumbing. The toilets keep backing up, and the bathtub and shower will probably need to be replaced. We’ll have to go back upstairs,” she mumbles, gesturing towards the stairs. He follows after her again, and she swallows heavily as she opens the bathroom door for him.

When he steps past her, she doesn’t know where to stand or what to do so she ends up waiting kind of half in the doorway and half in the hallway. She tugs constantly on the sleeves of her sweater as she watches him, feeling awkward and out of sorts.

“What did you put down this damn toilet?” he angrily mumbles under his breath.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“Nothing.” The animosity rolls off of him in waves.

Frowning, she continues waiting and watching as he inspects the bathroom. The uncomfortable feeling she had earlier still lingers but now she feels like a nuisance or almost an aggravation to him, which doesn’t make sense because he should be the one trying to make a good impression to get hired for the job.

Not wanting to make contact again with those hate-filled eyes, she keeps hers focused on his clipboard when he turns to face her. She continues to watch it as he tucks it under his left arm and shoves his right hand into his coat pocket.

“Anything else?”

She hums and nods before silently walking down the stairs, holding tightly to the railing. “The kitchen needs work,” she says, as they enter it. “The cabinets are in really bad shape.” She points to the fallen door leaning up against the wall.

“Do you want to replace them?”

Pursing her lips, Myra looks around at the cabinets and the worn linoleum on the floor, all of which has to be as old as the house itself. She realizes the whole space needs an overhaul.
“Yeah,” she says with a sigh.

Dylan sets the clipboard down on the counter and pulls a measuring tape off of his tool belt. Myra chews on her fingernails again as she watches him measure and jot notes on his clipboard. When he occasionally tucks the pencil behind his ear, his hair curls around it. Every time he uses the tape measure, he lets it snap back into position, the noise echoing noisily in the silent kitchen. She watches as he does more scribbling with a scowl on his ruggedly handsome face.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is that all?”

“No,” she says, getting the strange feeling that for some reason he doesn’t want there to be anything else. “I’m also having trouble with the electricity. My lights flicker on and off, and sometimes they just shut off altogether.”

They make eye contact for a moment before he looks back down at the clipboard. “Sounds like some faulty wiring,” he mumbles, scribbling again. “Where’s your breaker box?”

“In the basement, I think,” she says as she walks towards the basement door and opens it.

Myra flips on the light switch and takes in a deep breath. She grips the railing fiercely and carefully walks down the decrepit stairs, hoping she makes it to the bottom unscathed.

“I think it’s over…” She stops speaking when complete darkness sweeps the room.

“That’s what I was talking about,” she whispers.

“Hang on,” Dylan mumbles. She hears keys clanging together and some kind of a clicking sound
.
She exhales heavily when she sees a small light focused in her direction.

The light moves away from her as Dylan turns, leaving her in the dark as she hears his heavy boots plod loudly across the concrete floor.

“Wait,” she calls out. “I’m afraid I’ll fall down.”

Myra can feel his irritation and annoyance without even seeing his face. It practically fills the room. He turns back towards her and doesn’t say a word as he holds out his arm.

With her heart pounding, she rests her hand lightly on his arm, gripping his coat, and holds onto the rail for dear life. Within seconds, they make it safely back upstairs just as the lights come back on.

* * *

Dylan heads back down to the basement by himself to check out the breaker box. Setting his clipboard on one of the shelves, he stretches his arms above his head. From the moment she opened the door, he knew from one glance at her startled expression what she was thinking. He constantly gets calls from women to change light bulbs, clear clogged drains that aren’t clogged, or check out mysterious wiring problems that don’t exist just so they can ogle his ass or blatantly throw themselves at him. Dylan hates the fact that women find him attractive. He just wishes he were average looking. He does not want attention from any woman period.

His current profession and his looks are a lethal combination. He thinks back to Mrs. Marshall who called him for a clogged drain, which was a fucking lie. He turned around to find her sitting in a kitchen chair in a miniskirt with her legs spread open wearing no panties. He got the hell outta there so fast he left burnt rubber tracks on her driveway
.

Rubbing his hands across his eyes, he picks up his clipboard. He knows this customer – he frowns as he searches for her name,
Myra Sommers
– legitimately has a house that seems to be falling apart around her, but he still can’t help but feel she just wants to use it try to get in his pants. He tells himself that he just needs to keep his walls up high and keep them well fortified.

After inspecting the wiring situation, he reluctantly climbs back up the stairs.

* * *

“I’ll work up a written estimate and get back to you in a couple of days,” Dylan says before he turns and walks swiftly out the front door before Myra even has a chance to reply.

She frowns. “Okay. Thanks for your time,” she calls out after him as she steps up to the door and stares at his retreating figure.

He doesn’t bother responding as he quickly gets in his truck. She watches the truck as it backs out of her driveway and disappears down the road.

* * *

Myra walks the short distance to Jim’s house and knocks on the door.

“Why, hello,” he says in greeting with a wide, happy grin. “Come in, sweetheart.”

“I made you some cookies,” she says as she grins back and holds up a plate. “A little
thank you
for all of the hard work you did helping me with my many boxes.”

“Perfect. I’ll pour us some milk.”

Moments later, they sit down at the table. “Mmmm, these are delicious,” Jim says in between bites. They sit quietly enjoying the cookies and the companionable silence.

Myra feels Jim’s thoughtful eyes gazing at her. “What?” she asks.

“You look so much like your mother,” Jim says with a gentle smile on his wrinkled face. “Do you remember much of her?”

“Not a whole lot. I wish I could remember more.”

“You’re just as beautiful as she was.” Myra drops her head bashfully as she stares at the tablecloth. “She was so warm and full of life. She was a lovely person on the inside and out. And she loved you so much. Always remember that.” Myra nods as she feels a knot forming in her throat.

“So why are you back in town?” Jim asks.

Myra’s stomach drops as her gaze darts to his. He nods, giving her an encouraging smile. She stares back down at the pattern on the tablecloth. “Well, I wanted to… start writing my novel,” she stammers.

“No. I want the real reason you’re back here.” Jim lifts a bushy, grey eyebrow at her.