Page 5 of Tinsel & Tools
After parking my truck behind my dad’s van, I climbed out, making sure to grab the latch and my tools. Before I even climbed the porch steps, I saw his boots on the stoop, and a few seconds later, the front door screen creaked open. He held the door as I came up the steps and motioned toward the kitchen.
“Did you get the latch?” he asked.
“Yes, I did.” I showed him that it was in my hand while I toed off my boots.
“We’ll swap the latch and tighten that porch rail while we’re here. It wobbles.”
“Sounds good,” I replied.
“There he is.” Mrs. Perkins waved from the kitchen doorway. “I have cookies. Help yourself before the family arrives tomorrow. My sister’s bringing her five, plus spouses and a couple of grandkids. Two of them have bottomless appetites, and the others barely nibble. There’s no middle ground.”
“Will do, once we fix everything up nice for you.” I smiled.
My father lifted the old pantry latch. The metal had bent just enough to miss the catch, and when he let go, the door eased open again. “We’ll swap the latch and reset the striker plate,” he told her. “You won’t need to barricade it with a chair after today.”
Dad crouched at the door while I set the latch and hardware on the counter.
“Hand me the drill,” he instructed.
I passed it over, then held the door steady while he installed the latch and adjusted the striker plate.
“Try it,” he instructed me.
I let the door swing shut and pressed the handle. The latch caught with a clean click.
Mrs. Perkins tested it herself, tugging on the handle twice, then once more for good measure. “Finally. I won’t miss tripping over that chair.”
Dad tucked the impact back into the tool bag. “That’ll hold. We’ll tighten the porch handrail too,” he added, already heading for the door. “The bracket screws are loose.”
When Mrs. Perkins’s attention shifted back to me, she had a huge grin on her face, and I knew what was coming. Since they knew I was single, the older ladies in town simply couldn’t help but play matchmaker.
“How’s your place?” she asked.
“It’s coming along. Working on the living room now.” The house I’d bought a few months ago needed work, but it was something I could afford, and I didn’t have to continue living in my childhood bedroom.
“You’re fixing it yourself because you come from stubborn people.”
“Because I come from handy people.” I grinned.
“That too.” She leaned a hip against the counter. “Is your mother still hosting on Thursday?”
“She is.” I headed out to help my father on the porch, hoping I was wrong about why Mrs. Perkins was making small talk with me.
My sister, Lauren, still lived in Brookhaven with her husband, Mark, and their daughter, Eliza. Lauren taught second grade at the same elementary school we’d both trudged through as kids. Eliza was seven, full of questions, and already ran circles around everyone with her opinions. On Thanksgiving, Lauren usually stayed in the kitchen with Mom while Dad, Mark, and I watched football. My turn to help came later, when something heavy needed moving or the fire needed more wood.
My father had already put his boots back on by the time I stepped onto the porch. I did the same and then moved toward him.
He tested the bracket and gave the rail a shake. “Hold it steady while I put new screws in.”
I braced the post while he ran the screws in with the impact then gave the rail a shake. He looked satisfied that it was secure.
Mrs. Perkins leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over her stomach. “My granddaughter Paige is coming in tomorrow on the noon bus from Boston. You should take her to Maple & Mug. Grab a cup of coffee.”
“Mrs. Perkins—” I started, and she lifted a palm.
“Bonnie, please. And no. Don’t argue. The bus station is only six blocks from Maple & Mug. I’m not asking you to fall in love. I’m asking you to be neighborly, drive my granddaughter up the street, buy her a coffee, and debate whether the maple pumpkin latte is better than the cinnamon mocha.”
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” I grinned.
