Pleating for Mercy

supuesto,” he said, then quickly added, “Sure.”

As he turned to set it down on the antique desk next to the workroom, I scrounged for my glasses, finding them on the seat of the settee.

When he turned, I got a clearer look at him. Still tall, maybe six feet one. Still wearing a rear-facing ball cap. A Longhorns cap, which meant he couldn’t be all bad. Still swarthy. Puerto Rican, maybe? No, Mexican. And a goatee.

One thing was for sure. He was handsome as all getout, but in an arrogant, Rhett Butler kind of way.

“I’m Will Flores,” he said again. “Your great-grandmother arranged a standing handyman appointment with me. Every Tuesday, I come by to do whatever repairs are needed.”

Right. Like I was going to buy that. I kept my purse at the ready. “I’ve been here for almost two months. That’s eight Tuesdays. So, where’ve you been?”

Before he could answer, I continued. “You’re pretty unreliable. Loretta Mae wouldn’t have tolerated that.”

“I’ve been out of town on business. Happens every now and then. Loretta Mae didn’t have a problem with it.”

“Handyman business? Uh-uh. Loretta Mae expected people to be dependable.”

“No, not handyman business, and I am dependable.”

“When it suits you.”

“All the time.”

We went back and forth until steam was ready to come out my ears. Why would Meemaw have agreed to some half-cocked arrangement with this guy—

And then it hit me. I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Oh, no, Meemaw. No, no, no.”

The sheers on either side of the front window fluttered. God almighty, this was a fix-up from the great beyond. Meemaw wanted me back home and here I was. She wanted this handyman to come around weekly and here he was. Now, lo and behold, here we were, together.

Somewhere, Loretta Mae was nodding her head in complete satisfaction.

Will gave the windows a quick examination. He shook his head. “There’s no place a draft could be coming from. I sealed those windows myself.” He turned back to me, the right side of his mouth quirking up. “Looks like you have a ghost in the house, Cassidy.”

With those ten words, my world came to a staggering halt. My mind raced. The gathering room had been Loretta Mae’s favorite spot. I spun, taking a careful look around, absorbing every detail and comparing them to the details of the past. Even with the addition of my things, the room maintained the same feeling it had when Meemaw was right here.

Dappled sunlight shone through the front window. The warm mustard color of the walls and the antique furniture made it cozy. The magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table and two pairs of flip-flops, one black, one brown, sat side by side right next to the front door. The pictures hanging on the display board were perfectly aligned. Everything was just as it should be. As it always had been.

Will said something and I registered him going from window to window, but I was too distracted now to pay attention. Loretta Mae always said she’d wanted me home in Bliss so she could spend more time with me. Recently I’d felt drafts of air and heard doors slam when all the windows were closed. Could it be . . . could she really still be here in the house?

It was an impossible idea. Goat-whispering and a bionic green thumb were a far cry from haunting. Even for a Cassidy woman. And yet . . .

I could test the theory, couldn’t I? If she was really here, would she materialize if I asked her to?

The idea stuck with me. I dug in my purse until I found my little portable sewing kit, something I carried at all times. Inside was a mini pincushion with a needle, a tape measure, and spools of white and black thread, all for emergency clothing repair. Grabbing the black thread, I set it next to Will’s hammer on the antique desk.

“Meemaw,” I whispered, feeling more than a little ridiculous. “If you can hear me, move the thread.”

I held my breath and waited, my eyes glued on the spool. It didn’t budge. I forced a little laugh, but tears pricked behind my eyelids. I’d wanted it to move. I wanted Loretta Mae to be here with me.

There was a slight disturbance in the air behind me. “Meemaw?” I whirled around and saw . . . Will.

My shoulders sagged and my hopes deflated.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

“Nobody.”

His left eyebrow angled down as he peered at me. He looked like he thought I belonged in the loony bin. Maybe I did. I eyed the thread again. It was exactly where I’d placed it. I had to face that Meemaw was gone.

I blinked away the tears that threatened and regrouped, directing my emotions at Will. This stranger was still in my house, and was apparently accustomed to coming and going as he pleased. That was a habit that needed to be broken. “About whatever deal you had with Meemaw—I don’t need a handyman.”

Which was a complete lie. I needed a handyman, bad, but not one Meemaw picked out for me.

“I’m not—”

He stopped when I held my hand out. Then, as understanding dawned, he dug the house key out of his pocket and set it on my palm.

As I wrapped my hand around the key, what he’d started to say sunk in. “You’re not what?”

He turned his hat around. “A handyman.”

Not what I’d expected. “You’re not a . . . Then why did Loretta Mae hire you to come repair things?”

His eyes had darkened and his smile faded. “I got the impression you and she were close.”

I bristled. Who was he to pass some sort of judgment on my relationship with Meemaw? I could almost hear her laughing, but it was just the sheers fluttering again.

My heart stopped. The sheers . . . again. And it did sound like laughter. “We were close,” I said as I moved stealthily toward the window.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Then I’m surprised you don’t know about our arrangement, since it involves you.”

I whipped around. “It involves me how?”

“Loretta Mae didn’t hire me, Cassidy. We negotiated.”

The sheers had fallen still again. The room was full of anticipation, as if it were holding its breath, waiting to hear the bomb he was about to drop.

He folded his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, looking like he was enjoying this showdown a little too much. “We agreed that I’d do repair work around here in return for you giving my daughter sewing lessons.”

I stumbled back, not because Will Flores had a daughter, which meant he also had a wife, which was good. I had other things to think about. And not because he’d told me about the sneaky deal he and Meemaw had made behind my back.

No, my knees buckled because the shoes that had been neatly lined up next to the front door were now staggered in a footprint pattern.

Oh, my God. Meemaw hadn’t moved the thread. She’d moved the shoes.

Chapter 16

Will ran his hands around the window frame one last time. “No draft,” he pronounced with finality.

“That’s a relief.”

“She’s itching to get back at it,” he said over his shoulder.

I’d lost the thread of the conversation. “Who’s itching to get back at what?”