The Husband Project

He’d tried to tell her he liked being quiet. He told her he liked The Quiet, as if it was a place he could escape to: The Quiet, like The Beach. The Desert. The Mountains.

She wrote a note to his mom suggesting he have his ears checked.

When he told his mom about The Quiet, she’d listened very carefully. He liked that about his mom. She listened harder than anyone he knew. He bet his dad liked to talk to her. Sometimes, if he concentrated real hard, he could hear his dad’s voice. When he was in bed at night, he’d pretend he could hear the murmurs of his mom and dad talking. He’d remember his mother laughing a little bit, his father teasing her, the noise of the television or the water splashing in the sink as the dishes were washed.

He liked those sounds.

But now he was stuck with listening to Tony and Matt fight over who had the best Matchbox car while Tony’s favorite television show blared in the background. Kim’s thumbs were flying over her cell phone, which impressed Davey no end. At this rate he’d be twenty before he ever got his own phone.

And who was the man in the snow?

“I didn’t mean to knock him down,” he told Kim. “Boo kinda bumped me and I kinda bumped the man.”

“I know,” Kim assured him. “You’re not exactly the violent type.”

“What type am I?”

She glanced up from her phone and gave him the once-over. “You’re a cute, geeky boy, but geeky in a good way, you know?”

Davey guessed that was okay. “He said he broke his ribs.”

“Nah,” she said. “I think he was just being dramatic. He looked like the type.”

“You think this’ll count against me?”

Kim tilted her head and considered the question. She knew all about the third grade project, knew that Davey wanted to win the prize. “You have the rules somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see.”

Davey pulled out his notebook and removed a carefully folded sheet of blue paper from the inside pocket of the binder. He unfolded it and handed it to Kim. “I don’t think it’ll count against me, but I’m not sure.”

Kim read it carefully, moving her lips a little as she did. She shook her head. “There’s nothing here about penalties.” She handed it back to him. “Just a warning that you can’t, well, arrange things so you can get a point.”

“Yeah. I didn’t get that part.”

Kim thought for a second. “It would be like making a big mess in the kitchen, without anyone knowing you did it. Then you clean it up, like you’re surprised there’s a mess. That doesn’t qualify as a Random Act of Kindness.”

“It has to be random,” he said, trying out the word on his tongue. “Random Acts of Kindness.”

“Yep.” She grinned. “Like when you see I don’t have a cookie and you know I like the ones with the red sprinkles and you sneak one in front of me when I’m not looking.”

Davey grinned back. “You talk a lot, but that’s okay.”

He gave her two, both with red sugar sprinkles, the biggest ones he could find in the plastic box.

* * *

SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL, but that was the least of his problems. He’d been around beautiful, black-haired women before, though this one was exquisite. Petite and delicate, with that waterfall of silky hair and greenish eyes that twinkled with good humor. The problem was his feeling that she was pure steel. Her sons had not argued with her when she’d told them to go home. The hellions had done what they were told, however reluctant they were to leave her with a firewood thief. He looked forward to meeting her husband. He pictured a soft-spoken giant who took orders well and behaved himself.

He’d never felt so helpless in his adult life.

She wasn’t getting the message to leave him alone. In fact, she’d ordered him to have a hot shower—after checking to make sure there was hot water, a slip-proof mat in the bathtub and fresh towels—and she’d carried his two duffel bags into the bathroom. She’d even unzipped them to save him the trouble of bending over to do it.

When she’d left the bathroom, he’d managed to kick out a clean pair of sweat pants and a long sleeved T-shirt.

“Are you okay?” she called from the hall. He locked the bathroom door because he wouldn’t put it past this woman to walk in and make sure he’d washed behind his ears.

“Yes, but you don’t—”

“Good.”

He’d heard nothing after that, so he carefully stripped off his clothes and, with some dexterous toe action, removed his thick wool socks. He adjusted the water, eased his cold body under the shower spray and realized the pain pill had eased some of the ache in his chest. Hallelujah.

He was going to survive this day after all. He retrieved the new bar of soap he’d noticed earlier and, after scrubbing himself with a faded purple washcloth, stood underneath the hot stream of water for at least ten minutes before carefully stepping onto the bath mat that Lucia Swallow had put in place. Both bath towels had violets embroidered on the edges. He rubbed his hair with one towel and wrapped another around his waist.

And he spotted the electric heater imbedded in the wall. Thank you, Mrs. Kelly, he thought, pushing the buttons until a blast of hot air hit him in the knees. He stood there for long, blissful minutes as the heat fanned his legs and warmed his feet.

“Mr. Hove?”

Damn. He drew a deep breath, then regretted the action when a now-familiar pain caught him in the right side of his chest. “Yes?”

“Just checking,” she said through the door, her voice as cheerful as a nurse’s. “You’re okay?”

“Fine.”

“No dizzy spells or anything like that?”

“No,” he declared, gingerly pulling the shirt over his head. “I thought you’d left.”

In fact, he’d hoped like hell she had. He stood half-naked in a purple bathroom. There was no sound from the other side of the door, so he hoped she’d finally taken the hint and gone home to her kids and her cowed, silent, pathetic husband. Sam finished putting his pants on, but decided not to struggle with socks. He unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.

He smelled tomato sauce. Oregano. Coffee.

He inched down the hall and around the corner to the kitchen where Lucia Swallow stood in front of a microwave oven. Inside the oven a dinner plate rotated and sizzled, its wax paper tent flapping.

“I built a fire,” she said without turning around. She opened the microwave door and poked at the wax paper topping the food, then closed the door and turned the microwave back on. “It might take a while for the house to warm up, but the woodstove’s big and it should be fine for the night if you turn it down before you go to bed.”

“You carried wood?”

She turned and smiled at him. “How else would I fix the fire?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“My kids knocked you down.” Her smile had disappeared.

“Your kids didn’t break my ribs.”

“So who did?”

“It was an accident.” She stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. He felt about ten years old. “At work. I was hit by an Arapaima.”

“A what?”

“A fish.”

She frowned. “A fish broke your ribs?”

“A very large fish. And it cracked my ribs, not broke them. Three of them. Hurts like he—heck.”

“I’m sure it does.” A little furrow sprang between those delicate wing-shaped eyebrows.

“I’m actually doing fine. Healing according to schedule.”

“Even after falling in the snow?”

“Yeah. Even after that.” He didn’t feel any worse now than he had a couple of hours ago. In fact, after the hot shower and donning warm clothes, he felt better than he had in days. “The pain pill has kicked in.”

The microwave stopped groaning and pinged. Yes, he definitely smelled oregano and garlic.

“I assume you’re hungry?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sit.”

He sat. She placed silverware and a napkin in front of him, then uncovered a plate piled high with lasagna and meatballs.

“You’re kidding me.”

“What? You don’t like Italian food?”

“It’s not that. It’s...the best thing I’ve seen in weeks.” Since a plate of pasticho in Brazil, but he’d been in too much pain to really enjoy that meal.

“I made coffee.”

“How did you do all this so fast?”

“I’m a mother. I’m efficient. I had Kim—the babysitter—bring over a plate of leftovers.” She shot him a quick smile. “And you take very, very long showers.”

He picked up his fork and tasted heaven, Italian style. Meanwhile Lucia Swallow shrugged on her jacket, which she’d hung by the back door, wound a striped scarf around her neck, tugged on her thick suede boots and pointed to a piece of paper stuck by a flower-shaped magnet to the refrigerator. “Jerry left you a list of contacts, including someone who’ll deliver firewood.”

He nodded, his mouth full of pasta.

“You’re welcome to our wood until you get your own. I’ll have the boys stack some by the back door for the morning.”

He swallowed and attempted to thank her, but before he could get the words out, she was gone.

Thank goodness.

* * *

“WAIT A MINUTE, say that once more?”

“He told me I smelled like alcohol and my kids were hellions.” Lucia laughed again just thinking about it. Curled up on her couch with three children, a dog and four bowls of popcorn, she was ready to talk over the afternoon with Meg. Her best friend had had little free time for phone calls lately, so this was a luxury.

“And you said?”

“Well, I told him I’d been to a bridal shower.”

“Seriously, Lucia, you are too nice.” It didn’t sound like a compliment, and since Lucia had heard that description of herself before, she didn’t take it as one.

“I know. I should have lost my temper and hit him with a piece of red fir. I was rude to him, though.”

“Lucia, sweetie, you couldn’t be rude if you tried.”

“Wait until you meet him. He’s hurt, so I get the ‘injured male’ frustration, but he won’t exactly fit in around here. I mean, he’s got major attitude happening.” She moved a popcorn bowl away from Boo’s sneaky nose.

“What does he look like? How old is he? Did he really look sick?”

“He’s handsome, late thirties, early forties, maybe. And he really did look as if he was in pain. I felt bad about that. You should have seen him, a body in the snow, with the kids jumping around and Kim taking pictures with her phone.” Now Lucia’s boys were entranced with a movie about a reindeer, one of their very favorites. The kids seemed like little angels, but she knew better.

“Handsome,” Meg repeated. “I knew I should have come home with you.”

“My life needs some excitement. I wonder how he got here?”

“Have Mike interview him for the new arrivals section.”

“There is no new arrivals section,” Lucia pointed out.

“He could make one up, just so we’d know who this guy is. Remember a couple of years ago? The man with the snowmobile?”

“The one who was hiding from the mob?”

“He had no credit history. And he wasn’t very friendly.”

Lucia lowered her voice. “I don’t want some mobster hiding out next door, but this guy doesn’t even seem like he knows what he’s doing here.”

“Jerry will know. He gets back tomorrow. I’m going to email him now. Have you done a Google search on the guy?”

“I will later. I’m going to frost another batch of cookies as soon as I hang up.”

“Can I come over?”

“Of course—if you want to watch Rudolph again.”

“Maybe not.” She paused. “I loved my party.”

“I know.”

“I loved all my gifts, even the frog sponge holder. Especially the frog sponge holder. I don’t know how you find things like that.”

Lucia climbed off the couch and retrieved the empty popcorn bowls. “It takes talent to be tacky.”

“It’s a real gift,” Meg agreed. “You’re a thrift shop queen.”

“No, I’m a boozed-up bad mother with a vicious dog.”

Meg’s howl of laughter rang through the phone loud and clear. “If he only knew.”

“I do feel bad about the kids knocking him down.”

“They’re too little to knock anyone down. I don’t believe it.”

“Well, the snow was slippery. Davey said the man lost his balance, and Boo didn’t help.”

“Stay away from him,” Meg said. “At least until Owen gets back and can check him out.”

“I left a message with Jerry,” Lucia admitted. “I asked if he’d done a background check on the guy.”

“I’m going to do a Google search on him. If I find anything I’ll call you back.”

“You’re not coming over?” Lucia tried not to sound disappointed, but winter nights were long and she’d looked forward to the company.

“There’s another foot of snow on the ground,” Meg said. “I think I’ll stay home, look at bridal magazines and admire my gifts.”

“Pick out a cake,” Lucia said. “I need design ideas.”

The next time the phone rang, Lucia was washing cupcake pans. She dried her hands and checked the caller ID. “Hi, Mama.”

“Who is this man in the snow?” Marie didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“What man?” When in trouble, feign innocence. Her kids had taught her that.

“On Facebook. I’m friends with Kim.”

“You’ve friended everyone in town.”

“It’s nice. All my friends in Rhode Island do it. It’s how we keep in touch.”

“The man in the snow is renting Mrs. Kelly’s house,” Lucia explained.

“She was a nice woman,” Mama went on. “But no family. I always thought that was strange—not that I would say anything. But she was good to the boys, letting them come over and eat candy—not that I approve of too much candy. But it was good of her to be kind to them.”

“She was a lovely person,” Lucia agreed.

“Unlike the witch on the other side of you.”

“Mama!”

“Even her cat didn’t want to live with her. First her husband leaves and then the cat.”

“I think she’s a very unhappy person.” Lucia didn’t know why she was defending the woman. There wasn’t a meaner person in town than Paula Beckett. No one knew if she was seventy or ninety; she’d moved to Willing years before Lucia and Tony had bought their house. They’d attempted to befriend her, but she’d told them to stay on their side of the fence and not to have any wild parties, wild dogs or wild children. Lucia, holding her first adorable infant, had been shocked into silence at such rudeness. Her husband, a dangerous glint in his eye, had replied, “Yes, ma’am, and I’ll expect you’ll do the same.”

“I won’t waste any prayers on her,” Mama sniffed.

It was the ultimate rejection.

“The party was wonderful,” Lucia said, attempting to distract her mother-in-law from worrying about the neighbors. “Meg was thrilled.”

“She’s a good girl. And that Owen? A good man. He reminds me of Tony, big and strong.”

“He does a little.” Although her husband had been five-ten, a burly wrestler type and solid muscle. Owen, a rancher now, was taller. More basketball player than wrestler. And Sam Hove? Six-two, at least, and definitely in shape. She suspected he had spent a lot of time outdoors. His skin was tanned, his large hands calloused and scarred.

A boxer, she thought. He had hands like a fighter. What had he said about being hit by a fish?

“Stay away from that man, and keep the boys away until we find out more about him.”

Lucia promised and ended the call. Good thing she hadn’t told Mama about making the poor man take a shower.

CHAPTER THREE

CONTRARY TO THE MESSAGES he was receiving on Twitter, the posts on Facebook and the texts on his cell phone, Jerry Thompson was not harboring an escaped criminal inside his rental property.

Jerry fumed as he drove down Main Street late Saturday night. The lengths his constituents would go to avoid minding their own business never ceased to amaze him. He wasn’t in the habit of renting homes to questionable tenants, and he was as committed to keeping peace in his town as the county sheriff. So why was he getting those messages? What had happened to privacy? To benefit of the doubt? To the right to do business?

And what happened to the guy who was supposed to plow out his driveway?

Two words, George Martin had typed. Witness Protection.

Myth, he’d texted back. He’d heard that old story twenty times since he’d moved here. A mobster with a big mouth sent by the Feds to Willing to hide out until some supposed trial. But the guy had been too aggressive about his privacy and tried to run over a neighbor with his snowmobile. He’d disappeared after a brief court date in Lewistown and was never seen again. That was back when Gary Petersen still worked at the co-op and had sworn the stranger had no credit record and must have been living here under an assumed name.

Psychopath? Background? another text said.

All okay, had been his response. When had Meg Ripley turned into such a worrier?

Who is Hove? Aurora had sent that.

Writer! had been his reply. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Mean to Mrs. Swallow, Kim Petersen, one of Gary’s twin granddaughters, texted. With pictures of the guy in the snow surrounded by firewood.

Jerry replied with a Don’t worry text and knew he’d have more messages on his home phone. Marie Swallow had most likely called him ten times.

So his renter, if not dead of hypothermia or a victim of Neighborhood Watch, had gone from being a perfectly sane travel writer—if writers of any kind could be considered perfectly sane—to a psychopath thief with a possible head injury. He hoped the guy wouldn’t sue him.

Jerry was no stranger to drama and excitement, having activated the desire to gain publicity for Willing by attracting reality television to the town. More drama and excitement were coming. The last thing he needed were distractions, especially now that the bachelors were ready for dating and, he’d just learned yesterday in Los Angeles that Sweetheart Productions was primed for making a TV show.

He had to park in the street. It was dark, close to midnight and really, really cold. Bone-chilling and windy. The snow had stopped falling, but what looked like two feet of it lay piled up in front of his house, a huge Victorian that faced the small public park and boasted the only stained-glass windows in town. Built by a prospector who’d left South Dakota a rich man, the house had been intended for a fiancée who’d died of influenza before arriving in Willing for the wedding. Jerry bought it from its fourth owners, a gay couple from Oregon who loved the house but not the winters. Jerry loved everything about the beautifully restored home except that he lived there by himself.

He grabbed his suitcase and his laptop case, trudged across the lawn, up three wide steps and stopped in front of his door. A few minutes later he was inside, his boots kicked off onto a thick mat, his coat hung on one of the hooks placed near the door. He switched on a light, boosted the thermostat and welcomed himself home with two sips of single malt Scotch and a peanut butter sandwich.

Tomorrow he’d have to come up with some way to introduce his renter to the general population, which meant a breakfast at Meg’s. Sam Hove was a bit of a mystery. He’d said he was a writer who required a quiet place to work. He’d listed his occupation as a producer and director of travel films. How the heck could that be remotely suspicious? Jerry was looking forward to meeting the guy and hearing some interesting stories. Come to think of it, Sam Hove might be an attractive bachelor for the show. He could add a little international class that was missing in Willing.

No, bad idea. He’d likely overshadow the local men, and the show was all about Montana men looking for love. Sam Hove wasn’t looking for anything but big fish to catch and weird animals to film.

Mike could do an interview with him. That was easy enough to arrange. The rumors would stop, the holidays would keep everyone occupied, and then Jerry could go back to the really important matter of saving the town.

* * *

SAM DIDN’T HAVE the slightest idea where he was. He thought about opening his eyes, but even that small movement seemed like too much work. He thought he’d simply lie there in the queen-size bed and enjoy the warm blankets weighing him down. He was warm and out of the weather, two very good things.

Sam knew enough not to move. The ache banding his chest was a constant reminder to be careful. His head throbbed and his nose was cold.

Nose cold? Ah. Montana. The old lady’s house with the woodstove.

The wild kids. The barking dog.

The annoyingly beautiful neighbor.

Lasagna.

It was all coming back to him. The food was the only positive memory, though. Little Mrs. Swallow made a lasagna to remember. She’d also built a fire to heat his house, which he realized he should now do something about. He opened his eyes and, looking at the watch he’d worn to bed, saw that it was a few minutes after nine. In the morning.

Twenty minutes later he’d managed to add some logs, coax the fire into a roar and start a pot of coffee. There was, as Lucia Swallow had said, coffee in the freezer. He wrapped a lavender blanket around him and gazed out the kitchen window while he waited for the coffee to be ready. He’d never seen snow like this. He’d grown up in Florida, lived in England for a while, spent most of his time in South America. He knew monsoons, but blizzards? Not so much. He wanted to buy snowshoes and explore, but he’d have to heal first.

He was supposed to stay inside and work. Let his ribs knit. Plan the next project. Sam looked at the snow piled high in the backyard and realized someone had shoveled a path to the woodshed. But it wasn’t his woodshed and it wasn’t his wood.

Somehow the knock on the front door didn’t surprise him. Neither did the man standing on the porch. He was of medium height, tanned and wore a big smile, as if he and Sam were old friends.

“Jerry Thompson?” Sam guessed, opening the door to let him in.

“Yeah. Good morning.” He shook Sam’s hand and grinned. “Welcome to Willing. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

He stopped on the plastic mat just inside the door after closing it.

Sam took a step back. “Come on in.”

“I won’t stay long.” He glanced down at his snow-packed boots. “Don’t want to track all over the carpet.”

“I just made coffee,” Sam said. “And I haven’t had any yet.”

“I don’t want to intrude.” But he was already bending over to remove his boots, so Sam assumed the guy was staying. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything, had any questions, any problems with the house.”

“I’m going to need firewood, according to the woman next door. I don’t think she wants me to keep using hers.” He opened two cabinets before finding coffee mugs. He’d expected floral tea cups, but he found serviceable white mugs instead.

“Lucia? She won’t mind till you get your own.” Jerry followed him into the kitchen. “I heard you met.”

“Yesterday.” He didn’t elaborate. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Jerry. “I hope you like your coffee black. I don’t have any food yet.”

“No problem. You saw the note I left? You can call Hip for wood. He’s also our resident artist and EMT.”

“Theo’s cousin?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll phone him this morning. You want to take your coat off?”

“Well, sure,” Jerry said, turning back to the living room. “I stopped by to see if you wanted to have breakfast. If not this morning, then any morning when you’re up to it. You could meet some of the folks here in town.”

“I’m not really here to—”

“People in Willing always like to welcome someone new,” he said. “Most of the time.”

Sam eyed the old couch and decided not to chance it, but Jerry set his coffee on the glass table, tossed his thick blue parka on the couch and made himself comfortable amid the fringed pillows. Sam eased himself into the recliner and hoped he’d be able to get out of it without screaming in pain.

“How do you like the place?”

An interesting question. “It’s, uh, fine. Did Mrs. Kelly have any family?”