More Than Neighbors. Janice Kay Johnson

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      “I wish you’d show me how to use your tools,” the boy said wistfully.

      Gabe cringed at the idea of those uncoordinated limbs anywhere near a whirring saw blade. Hand tools, though...

      “Whatever he says, you cannot pop over here whenever you feel like it and bother Mr. Tennert,” Ciara said. Her sigh was almost surreptitious. Did she have as hard a time crushing the kid’s hopes as he did? Gabe wondered.

      “Make it Gabe,” he suggested, glancing at the boy. “Both of you.”

      They beamed at him. “Oh,” the mother said. “My name’s Ciara. Did I tell you that?” She spelled it for his benefit, and he nodded. Spelling never had been his strong suit.

      “I could give Mark a few lessons in using hand tools,” Gabe suggested, even as he thought, What the hell? “Unless you’re hiring someone to come in and do a sweeping remodel of your house, maybe he could take on a project or two. Learn how to strip and sand windowsills and moldings, say. The doorknob on the front door could use to be replaced.”

      Her expression changed slowly to one of suspicion. “How do you know?”

      “When Ephraim got old, he needed somebody to check up on him.” He shrugged. “Make sure he hadn’t fallen, that he’d gotten out of bed, looked like he’d been eating. I drove him to some doctor appointments, too.”

      “Oh.” She looked almost disappointed, but her face had softened, too. “That was nice of you.”

      “I’d known him a lot of years,” he said simply, although that wasn’t all there was to it. Ephraim had expressed gruff sympathy after Ginny and Abby were killed, then went back to treating Gabe the way he always had. He didn’t stare at Gabe every time he saw him with pity or avid curiosity, which made seeing him tolerable at a time when Gabe was avoiding everyone else.

      “If you mean it,” she said slowly.

      Mean what? Then he remembered. Oh, hell. He’d offered to teach her son to swing a hammer and apply a scraper and use sandpaper and maybe a handsaw. He considered himself a decent man; he didn’t hurt people’s feelings on purpose, and was rarely rude. Mostly, he limited the amount of time he had to spend with them, which allowed him to be polite when he was forced into company.

      Well, this time he’d give a lesson or two then make excuses. Maybe start closing the barn doors when he was working instead of leaving them standing wide open. Or tell Ciara that he didn’t want to be bothered. She could be the bad guy so he didn’t have to be.

      “A little time with Mark won’t kill me,” he said, and couldn’t help wondering at the expression of astonishment she wiped quickly from her face.

      “Why don’t you give us your phone number, so Mark can call and find out a good time instead of just showing up?” she suggested.

      He had some business cards in a drawer and took one out. He handed it to Mark, who stood closer. “You won’t lose that?”

      “It’s really your phone number?” The kid inspected the card then turned it over as if he expected it to squirt water at him or produce a toy gun with a flag that said, Bang. What was with these two?

      “It’s really my phone number.” He glanced at the boy’s pretty mother. “You might want to post it when you get home, in case you have an emergency.”

      She thanked him. He escorted them out, reminding himself he was being neighborly, that’s all. Not so different than with old Ephraim. A single woman and a twelve-year-old boy might have a crisis they didn’t know how to deal with. He got the feeling they were coming from a very different environment than a county with barely over forty thousand residents. Most Seattle suburbs probably had that many people. Here, those forty thousand people were spread over one hell of a lot of empty land. Seemed to him Colville, the biggest city in the county, didn’t even have a population of five thousand. Goodwater claimed a grand total of 1,373 people, which put it in the largest few cities in Stevens County. That didn’t include the homeowners outside the city limits, of course, but still, living here wouldn’t be anything like what these two knew. Gabe had to wonder why in hell they’d made a move so drastic. Had Ciara even seen the house before she bought it?

      Gabe watched them leave, hoping he hadn’t bitten off more than he was willing to chew. As he walked back into his workshop, he frowned, trying to figure out why he’d made an exception to his usual No Trespassing philosophy.

      Maybe it was because the boy seemed so...needy. Yeah, that was it. And yes, he was odd, no question, but seemed unaware of it. At least, he’d shown no sign of being aware until Gabe had expressed his willingness to give him some time. Then he’d seemed perplexed, as if he wasn’t used to anyone welcoming him.

      Gabe gusted out a sigh. Yeah, that had to be it. His offer had nothing to do with the boy’s mother. In fact, he stood by his belief that he’d be better off not seeing her any more than he could help.

      * * *

      IT DIDN’T TAKE Gabe twenty-four hours to regret his offer.

      That happened when, late morning, his mobile phone rang. Unfamiliar number, but local. He always tried to answer in case he was going to pick up a new contractor or client.

      “Can I come over now?” an eager voice asked. “This is Mark,” he tacked on belatedly. “You know. I live next door.”

      Gabe almost groaned. But...hell. He was at a logical stopping point. “Sure,” he said. “But this is a working day for me, so you can’t stay long.”

      “Okay!”

      “Make sure you tell—” Realizing he was talking to dead air, Gabe gave up.

      Because he was paying attention today, he heard the soft sound of bicycle tires on the asphalt not five minutes later. The kid popped into the barn. Nothing unusual about his attire for a boy his age: jeans, a plain T-shirt and, in his case, red canvas Converse shoes. His sandy hair was spiky and disheveled.

      “I want to learn to make something,” he announced.

      Not what Gabe had had in mind, but he reluctantly conceded that it wasn’t a bad idea. It would give the boy a sense of achievement. The high point of Gabe’s day in high school had been shop class, where he’d been introduced to woodcrafting. Mark wouldn’t get anything like that as long as his mother insisted on homeschooling.

      “We can aim for that,” he agreed.

      “But what can I make?” The boy gazed trustingly at him.

      “A box.” That had been his first project in shop class, and thanks to a good instructor and his own perfectionist nature, it had ended up beautifully constructed. He kept it in his bedroom and was still proud of it.

      Mark brightened. “You mean a wood box? I like boxes. I could keep stuff in it.”

      “That’s the idea. But we won’t start on it today. You need to practice on scrap wood first.”

      He was a little surprised to discover how quickly Mark took to measuring and how much pleasure he took in the tools Gabe showed him. Most kids that age would want to be slap-dash. When Gabe gave him a challenge, Mark measured СКАЧАТЬ