Page 3 of Big and Grumpy
"Probably," I agree, but there's no mockery in it. "City folk usually do."
"Hey now, I'm not completely helpless. I can change a tire and jumpstart a car and program a universal remote."
"Universal remote?"
"Don't underestimate that skill. I once saved Christmas by figuring out how to get my uncle's new TV to work with his ancient cable box."
For the first time since she's moved in, I almost smile.
As I work on replacing the broken support post, I remember how Orson helped me build this section of the porch years ago. My quiet cousin is handy with tools, though most people don't realize it since he spends so much time on his fitness training. We spent a weekend putting in these posts, making sure they were properly anchored for Alberta winters.
"This post was actually installed by my cousin Orson and me about five years ago," I find myself saying as I examine the break. "Strong guy. Could probably hold up the whole roof himself if he needed to."
"Is he the one who stopped by yesterday?"
"No, that was Boone. He's the... energetic one. Orson's the quiet one. Lives on the other side of town."
"Sounds like quite a family."
"They're decent enough. For cousins."
By the time I finish the repairs, it's well past noon and I've consumed more coffee and cookies than I have in the past month combined. The porch is solid now, better than it was before the branch fell, and Marigold has spent the morning being surprisingly good company.
Not that I'm admitting that out loud.
"All set," I say, packing up my tools. "Should hold for another fifty years or so."
"How much do I owe you?" she asks, reaching for her purse.
The question irritates me more than it should. "Nothing. Neighbors help neighbors."
"At least let me pay for materials—"
"I said nothing." My voice comes out harsher than I meant it to, and I see her flinch slightly. "Don't need your money."
Her expression shifts from grateful to hurt, and something in my chest tightens uncomfortably. I grab my toolbox and head for my cabin before I can say something even stupider.
"Thank you," she calls after me, her voice quiet now. "Really. I appreciate it."
I don't turn around, don't acknowledge her thanks. But as I reach my own porch, I can't resist one glance back. She's standing in front of her newly repaired porch, looking small and alone, and the sight bothers me more than I want to admit.
I tell myself it's not my problem. I didn't ask for a neighbor, and I sure as hell didn't ask for one who makes me want things I gave up on two years ago.
But that night, as I lie in bed listening to the silence, I find myself wondering what Marigold is doing in her cabin across the clearing, and whether she's as content with solitude as she pretends to be.
In the distance, I hear the faint sound of Boone's four-wheeler, probably showing off for some tourist he's picked up in town. The sound reminds me that I need to call Jake at the hardwarestore tomorrow to see if my special order of imported hinges has arrived. Jake's been holding my orders for years, ever since the divorce, when I couldn't bear to go into town and face the pitying looks.
"Damn it," I mutter to the empty room. When did I become the town hermit?
three
Marigold
Thenextfewdayspass quietly, but I find myself developing a new morning routine: coffee on my porch, where I have a perfect view of Holt's cabin and his daily wood-splitting ritual. I tell myself I'm just enjoying the mountain air, but the truth is I'm hoping for another glimpse of my grumpy neighbor.
On Monday morning, I leave a plate of blueberry lemon muffins on his porch with a note:Thanks for everything. Hope you like them! - M
I watch from my kitchen window as he discovers them, sees him pause to read the note before taking the plate inside. A few hours later, I find the empty plate on my porch with a simple "Thanks" scrawled on the back of my note.
