Between the clearing and the bay beyond was a clapboard cottage with a shake roof. The paint had been scraped away, yet traces of the former color—a ruddy beige—remained, giving the house a crusty appearance. Nat had mentioned prepping the place himself, which would easily have cost a couple hundred dollars. It must have taken days. Abigail wondered how much he owed this Duncan Thadlow.
The deal she’d struck with Nat was starting to seem unfair. All he had to do was move a few pieces of furniture, while she had indentured herself to a far more grandiose task.
“Don’t wait for an invitation,” he told her, getting out of the truck. Abigail followed.
Standing at the door to the cottage was a man with a thick brown beard so long it touched his chest. “Afternoon, Nat. Here to finish painting?”
“It’ll get done.” The man’s innocent question had rubbed Nat the wrong way. Repaying a debt in labor rather than cash wasn’t something he appeared proud of.
“Who’s your assistant?” Duncan asked.
“Oh, yeah, this is—”
“I’m Abigail. Or Abby. Whichever.”
She didn’t want to hear Nat Rhone say her name. That would make their arrangement too personal, as if they were friends instead of convenient acquaintances.
“Happy to meet you. Holler if you need anything. Besides help, that is,” Duncan deadpanned as he retired inside.
Not wasting a second, Nat said, “Get a ladder. We’ll start high and paint down.”
“Whatever you say.”
Abigail carried over one of a pair of ladders from the truck’s flatbed, as Nat hauled the cans of primer.
“Sorry. Forgot.” He took the ladder from her, propping it against the side of the house.
“Forgot what?”
“That ladder’s heavy.”
“Weren’t you just talking about assumptions?”
“Thought you might still be woozy from that ‘reading-related injury.’ Far be it from me to act like a gentleman.” Nat removed the tops from two gallon-size containers of primer and gave her a brush.
“Any tips?” Abigail asked.
“Tips?”
“On how to do this.”
“Put the brush in your hand and go like this.” He started priming.
“Always a pleasure to learn from a pro,” she said, trying to get in the last blow.
He ignored her. She did the same. It was going to be a long afternoon.
The sunny, windless day worked in their favor. The primer went on easily and dried rapidly. Abigail wished she’d brought her radio. Silence while she was alone was manageable. Silence with Nat Rhone was uncomfortable.
When the quiet became too much for her, Abigail volleyed a question. “What about the back of the house?”
“Duncan took down the shingles. Had termites.”
“Is he going to replace them? Winter will be here soon and—”
“You’d have to ask him,” Nat snapped.
Both returned to priming, inching inward along the side of the house so they would meet in the center. Once they did, Abigail checked her watch. An hour had gone by.
“That went pretty fast,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“Two hands are better than one.”
“Don’t you mean four?”
“Don’t know about you, but I can paint with only one hand at a time.” He took his ladder and his can of primer and went to the other end of the house.
They completed that side equally quick.
“Do you want to do the front before we break to eat or after?”
“Before. I’m not really hungry yet, if that’s what you’re asking,” Abigail replied.
“That wasn’t what I was asking, but fine.”
