Page 209 of Share with Me

“I only earn minimum wage.”

“Income is income.” Brinley thought Ivan could do better than roughly eight dollars an hour.

“And I’m homeless.”

“You what?” Brinley recoiled away from Ivan.

“For now. Actually, I’m buking with Matt temporarily. Once I earn enough income I can rent my own place.”

Brinley shifted on the steps. “As you know, I’m in the real estate investment business. Just so happens I have a house for rent.” One of many, but there was one particular house she had in mind.

“A house?” Ivan shook his head. “I can’t afford to rent a house. A trailer, maybe.”

“I’ll rent youone roomin the house. I’ll even throw in a complimentary stove. Two hundred a month.” Brinley would have to pay the eighteen-hundred-dollar remaining rent amount each month herself, but it was nothing if it meant that Ivan had a place to stay.

“Two hundred dollars for one room? That’s cheap. But why?”

“I don’t want to see you living under a bridge.”

“So you do care. For the record, I’ve never lived under a bridge, at least not yet.”

Brinley dug up her iPhone from her jacket pocket and swiped it a few times. “I’ll have my rental manager call you. How can she contact you?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“That bad, huh?” Brinley wanted to say that reloadable disposable cell phones were cheap these days, but she didn’t want him to think she was telling him what to do. He’d rather learn it by himself.

“Have her call Matt’s shop.”

“That’ll work.” Brinley studied him. “Are you ever going back to music?”

“Maybe someday.”

“God has given you a gift, Ivan. I can’t imagine His letting it go to waste. He began a good work and He’ll complete it. Trust God.”

“Yes, I’m learning that.”

“I’ve heard very few people play the violin like you do. Well, there’s—never mind. You’re better looking.”

“Haha.”

“And if you need a job in a music studio—”

He lifted a hand. “You’ve helped me enough, Brinley. Let me figure out my career on my own.”

“Just trying to help.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You going back to therapy?” Brinley asked.

Ivan nodded feebly.

“You have to if that wrist is going to get back into shape.”

“I know. I’ll find a way.”

Brinley prayed that he would. She decided to make sure he did. East Beach Therapy Center was in the phonebook. If her memory served her right, she had seen its CEO at some of the historical functions in town. A generous grant for a rehabilitation program for injured musicians would move his mountains. Seriously, she didn’t have to go that far to get Ivan back into therapy, but it would help many more musicians than Ivan alone.

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