The Husband Project

“No, not a soul. I bought the house from the estate. She left everything to the Methodist Church and they sold it to me. Lock, stock and barrel.” He looked around the living room with some satisfaction. “Totally furnished, which is what you requested. I had Shelly—she lives in one of the cabins at the café, you’ll see them when you eat there—clean out the clothes and personal items, but we left the rest to keep it homey. The church took the canned goods for the food bank.” He glanced at his mug. “Except the coffee, I guess. It lasts forever in the freezer. You can hire Shelly to clean and do errands, if you want. She’s reasonable and can use the money.”

Sam liked the sound of that. “Can I hire her to get some food for me?”

“Probably not. She broke her arm a few weeks back and I don’t know if she’s driving. I’ll give you her number. There’s a little market, more of a convenience store— Thompson’s, no relation—on Main Street across from the library. They do real estate, too, if you decide you want to buy something. Anyway, the market doesn’t deliver, but you can walk there. How are you doing? I thought you had a broken arm.”

“Cracked ribs,” Sam said, figuring his injuries would get him out of interacting with people. He wanted to do nothing more than write the damn book and feel sorry for himself. “And a bit of trouble with my heart. I was— Well, never mind.” He didn’t want to go into the details. He felt stupid enough as it was.

“No car? Or you can’t drive?”

“Both, for now.”

“I heard you had a little trouble yesterday.” The redheaded mayor took another sip of the coffee and grinned at him. “Stealing wood from Lucia.”

“Ah,” Sam said. “She’s already complained?”

Jerry laughed and shook his head. “Twitter. You saw the babysitter? Thumbs like a machine, according to her grandfather.”

Sam’s head began to throb. “I mistook the shed for mine.”

“The photo of you in the snow was grim, but now that I know you’re okay—”

“Photo?”

“Told you,” Jerry said. “The kid’s technologically advanced. But I guess they all are these days. Sorry.” He reached into his pocket, which was buzzing, and retrieved a cell phone. “Hello?”

Sam drank the rest of his coffee as fast as he could without burning the inside of his mouth. He needed the caffeine. He also needed food. Lots of food. Enough food to last him until the first of April, when he could leave this place and go back to his day job.

“It’s fine,” Jerry was reassuring someone. “He’s okay, a perfectly nice guy. I’m here with him right now.”

So the incident yesterday had been blabbed all over town. Typical, of course. Sam had lived in villages along the Amazon and knew how fast news traveled.

“Tell you what,” Jerry said, radiating good cheer and agreeableness. “He and I are going to have breakfast.” He paused to listen. “Where else? You can meet him then.” Another pause. “Well, okay, next week then.” Pause. “Yeah, that’s Thursday at seven. You got the email.”

Sam heard Jerry say ”Fine” and “No problem” a few more times before Jerry clicked his phone shut and apologized. “Sorry. Member of the town council.”

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “I imagine you’re a busy man.”

“I just returned from L.A., as a matter of fact.” He set his coffee mug on the mahogany coffee table. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard about our town project.”

“Uh, no.” Sam’s headache intensified, as did the ache in his chest. He really, really didn’t want to hear about the town project, whatever it was. Had he seen half a loaf of bread in the freezer? Was there any lasagna left? “Where did you say the market was, Jerry?”

“Two blocks away, around the corner on Main. But it’s closed on Sundays in the winter.”

“Damn.”

“What do you need?”

“Food, of any kind. I’ll call Theo and see if—”

“Hold on a sec.” He opened the phone and hit a number. A few seconds later he said, “Hey, Luce. It’s me, Jerry.” Pause. “Great. I’ll have a meeting Thursday to update everyone— Yeah, I’m home.” Pause, with a glance at Sam. “Thanks for doing that. Hey, you’re going into Lewistown today, right?” Pause. “What time?”

Luce? It didn’t take a genius to understand that Jerry was talking to the black-haired neighbor.

“Can you pick up some groceries for my renter while you’re there?” Pause. “Just the basics, I guess. He can give you a list.”

Sam caught Jerry’s eye and shook his head. Oh, man, he didn’t want to give her a list. He didn’t want her to do him any more favors. He didn’t want to be in her debt any more than he was, despite the fact that her kids and her dog cost him a painful night.

Okay, he’d slipped first, at the beginning of the attack. And he’d hit his own head on the wood when he fell. And he’d yelled, although more out of frustration with his own weakness than in pain. He’d been rude, which wasn’t how he usually conducted himself.

He was sure she was a very nice person—he knew she was, because she’d built up the fire and brought him dinner even after he’d yelled at her children. He expected her husband to knock on the rear door and tell him to back off. He would definitely apologize. Grovel, even. Because he would be living here for three months and maybe she’d make lasagna again.

“What do you want? Eggs? Meat? Milk? Bread? What?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t want to put her to any trouble.”

Jerry ignored him and spoke into the phone. “He doesn’t want to put you out. Just get him the basics, enough for a couple of days. I’ll drive him into Lewistown later in the week if he’s up to it. Okay?” Pause. “Thanks.”

He flicked the phone shut once again, tucked it into his pocket and picked up his coffee mug. “There, you’re all set.”

Sam realized he’d had no input in this. Frustrating. “I didn’t want to bother her,” he reiterated.

“No bother,” Jerry said. “She goes into town every Sunday to take her mother-in-law to church. They were just leaving. If she couldn’t do it, I’d drive over there myself. Can’t have my new tenant starving to death.”

“I don’t want Mrs. Swallow running errands for me.”

“Mrs. Swallow is her mother-in-law. You’re talking about Lucia, the goddess of baking.”

“The what?” First the “pie lady,” now a goddess. An interesting neighbor, all right.

“She went to school for it with Meg, who owns the café. Between the two of them, no one in this town goes hungry.”

Good news, Sam thought. “How far away is this café?”

“One block east and two blocks south. You can almost smell the bacon from your front porch.” Jerry leaned forward. “You’re looking a little rough there, pal. Are you sure you’re okay? Getting some food in you would help, but are you really up for a walk? I can get you something and bring it back here.”

“Food would be good, if the café’s not too far away. I could use the exercise.” He looked down at his sweat pants and socks. He could probably lace up his boots if he did it real fast. “Let me get some clothes on.”

“Good. Pardon the cliché, but we’ll kill two birds with one stone.” Jerry sipped his coffee and leaned back on the sofa as though he planned to spend the day there.

“What do you mean?” Sam paused in front of the bedroom door.

“You need to meet some of your neighbors and show them you’re normal, just a regular guy who’s not going to cause any trouble.”

“Why would I cause trouble?”

“For starters, your coming here is suspect. I mean, who moves to Willing in the winter?”

Sam shrugged. He wasn’t going to explain about the man he’d met on the flight to Miami. He’d sound like an idiot.

“Second,” the mayor cheerfully continued, “you’ve been searched for on the internet. People like the writer, adventurer, documentary-maker thing, but they don’t completely trust it. It could be a cover.”

“A cover for what?”

“Who knows? Criminal activity, insanity, government plots.” Now it was Jerry’s turn to shrug. “Hey, I’m just the landlord here. You seemed okay to me or I wouldn’t have rented the house to you.”

Sam doubted that. They’d traded emails and had one brief phone conversation. The check for three months’ rent had been cashed. Sam turned back to the bedroom, where the purple violets on the wallpaper greeted him.

“But the biggest thing,” Jerry said, slurping coffee, “is who you’re living next to.”

The violets would have to wait another minute. Sam gingerly turned around again. “What does Lucia have to do with it?”

Jerry cradled his coffee and looked very, very serious. “She’s a widow. She’s a good person. She doesn’t date. And her pie crust will make you weep.”

“A widow?” The beautiful Lucia Sparrow, who baked like a goddess and could handle a woodstove and three boys, was single? What was wrong with the men in this town?

“Yep. So don’t mess with her unless your intentions are honorable.”

“My intentions?” He chuckled. “My intentions are...nonexistent. What are you, her father?” He couldn’t help laughing at his landlord again.

“Hey, this is no joke. If anything happens to Lucia because of me...” He picked up his jacket and gave Sam a warning look. “I’d never win another election.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sam promised. “For your sake.”

* * *

JERRY DEBATED BETWEEN a booth or a stool at the counter, since the old guys weren’t in their regular spots. Being Sunday, the café wasn’t filled with regulars the way it was on a weekday. Well, Sam would meet the old guys soon enough.

“Could we sit at the counter?” Sam asked, seeming to read Jerry’s mind. “Easier to get on and off.”

“The ribs are bad, huh?”

“They’re taking longer to heal than I want.”

Jerry introduced him to Shelly, who wore a battered cast on her arm and had her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her belly appeared to have tripled in size since the accident, yet she seemed to still enjoy working for Meg. She certainly seemed thrilled to see him and his guest.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m really good,” she said, holding the coffee carafe in her good hand. “I get the cast off in two and a half more weeks.” She twinkled at Sam. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Sam said, sounding a little out of breath, though they’d walked slowly on the shoveled sidewalks.

“Shelly, I’d like you to meet Sam Hove. He’s new in town.”

“I know. Everyone’s talking about you. I saw some of your videos on YouTube last night. Awesome stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“Those rivers looked spooky,” she said, shuddering momentarily as she placed two coffee mugs in front of them. “I’m glad I don’t live in those places.”

Al hurried out of the kitchen to shake Sam’s hand and introduce himself. “Man, I saw that show on the giant catfish a couple of years ago. I’ll never cook catfish again.”

“Catfish?” There were people who watched shows about catfish? Well, then, viewers were going to love a show about Willing, Montana.

* * *

“CAN I DO IT?”

Lucia, busy organizing groceries on her kitchen counter, glanced at her oldest son. “Not alone. But you can come with me.” Or the four of them could walk over together. The boys could wait outside, carry wood and give Boo some time to run off some energy in the yard.

“I want to do it by myself.”

“Sorry, pal,” she said, but not about to explain the reason that mothers didn’t let their little boys go to strangers’ houses.

“Why not?”

“We don’t know anything about Mr. Hove,” she said, rearranging the supplies she’d purchased for her new neighbor. “Except what we read on the internet.”

“Yeah, we do. He’s famous.”

“Remember? You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

Davey sighed. He’d heard that a hundred times. “But Grandma said he was famous.”

“Well...maybe a little famous.” Marie had printed out a biography off Wikipedia and a spotless people search report she’d actually paid money for. As she’d said, it didn’t hurt to be careful. But Lucia thought the man lived an exciting life. He’d produced documentaries for various cable channels that specialized in adventure shows on jungles and strange fish. They’d discussed him all the way to Lewistown, the three boys asking questions no one could answer. She’d finally distracted the kids when they were in the fish section of the supermarket. There, questions about where frozen shrimp originated had replaced questions about the mysterious neighbor.

“Maybe he could come to school. You know, talk about the jungle and stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I ask him?”

“Maybe. When he feels better.” Lucia doubted that would be anytime soon. The man couldn’t even take his own boots off. Now that had been an interesting little moment yesterday. She wouldn’t even tell Meg about it because of how silly it would sound: “I untied his boots—the most intimate moment I’ve had with a man since the night before my husband went to war.”

“Mom,” her son said. “Mom.”

“What?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I apologize. I was thinking about dinner,” she fibbed. She was thinking about Sam Hove’s blue eyes. “There,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “I guess I have everything he’ll require for a few days. Maybe even a week.”

“I need more points,” Davey, still angling to do the job himself, said. Lucia admired his competitive spirit but wondered if this Random Acts of Kindness project was something he worried about too much. Davey was her quiet son, the philosopher of the trio.

“You could shovel Mrs. Beckett’s steps.”

“She’ll just yell at me.”

Yes, she probably would. “You’re right. She’s not worth the points.”

“I think she likes being mean,” he said, but Lucia could see him considering whether being yelled at was worth a point or two on the Kindness scoreboard.

“Some people do,” she agreed. Her eight-year-old was wrestling with big concepts now. She wanted to hug him, reassure him that people were good and kind and life was fair and the world was his oyster and all that, but the truth was a little harsh: mean people existed and weren’t worth the do-good-things points.

Davey pondered that for a long moment, while Lucia dug through her purse for the grocery receipt. She’d kept Sam’s food separate from hers. It wasn’t the first time she’d delivered food next door: Mrs. Kelly had become more dependent on help that last year she’d lived in town. Lucia had agreed to Jerry’s request to pick up supplies for the new neighbor—after all, the man was practically an invalid, and she was going to the store anyway—but once in the middle of the IGA with three lively boys and a horde of intense Sunday shoppers, she’d wished she’d refused.

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