Maggie Moves On(23)

“I might not be able to move tomorrow,” Marta groaned. She was lying on her back in the grass, icing her fresh blisters with the beer bottle. She was also smiling.

“You better be able to move,” Silas teased. “We’re just getting started.”

“I’m old. I get second-day soreness after a good workout at the gym. Two days from now, you guys are going to have to help me off the toilet.”

“My knees were knocking so bad up there I lost feeling from the waist down,” Billy quipped. He’d lost the green pallor after managing to finally find his footing on the sunporch roof. They’d make a roofer out of him yet, Silas bet.

The remedies flew fast and furious.

“Best thing to do is stretch when you get home.”

“Take an Epsom salts bath.”

“Nah. Ibuprofen. A lot of it.”

“You guys are complicating things. You just go home, open the biggest bottle of alcohol you can find, and drink it until you fall asleep.”

“You did good work today, Marta. You, too, Billy,” Silas said.

“Thanks, boss,” Marta said. “And thanks for the opportunity.”

“To a good first day,” he toasted.

“To a good first day,” they all echoed, raising their bottles.

“Wrap up those blisters for tomorrow with some Neosporin, Marta. Keep ’em wrapped and clean, and they’ll callus in no time,” Maggie told her.

“From manicures to calluses,” Marta said wryly, examining the chips in her purple fingernails.

“No reason you can’t have both,” Maggie pointed out.

It was a tough transition for anyone to make from cushy office job to physical labor, Silas knew. But Marta wasn’t complaining. He liked it when people were too busy making things work to feel sorry for themselves.

One by one, the crew members started to pack up and head home. Some to nurse sore body parts. Some to make dinners and check homework. Some to coach soccer or shower for date night.

They all had their own lives and stories, and Silas appreciated that they shared hours of their days with him, with each other. Kinship wasn’t just the name of his home; it was their way of life.

Maggie stood and began collecting the empties. “Thanks for a hell of a first day,” she told them.

Travis scrambled to help. “Hit the bricks, kid,” Silas said, nodding toward the driveway with mock sternness.

“I don’t mind,” he insisted, shooting puppy-dog eyes at Maggie’s retreating back. “I can stay and help clean up.”

“I know for a fact that your mom is expecting you home for your brother’s birthday dinner,” Silas said. “And that you’re the one pickin’ up the cake.”

Travis winced. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

“You can stare at her all day tomorrow,” Silas promised. “Your brother only turns sixteen once.”

With his young charge on his way, Silas gathered the rest of the empties and followed Maggie around the front of the house to the garage.

It was a detached two-bay building with carriage house stylings that needed a little love and a lot of paint.

She hooked an elbow under the lid of the recycling bin and, in a slick move, flipped it up into the air before dumping the bottles inside with a satisfying crash of glass. The economy of her movements intrigued him. It was like watching an athlete perform.

“Hang on,” he called. “Last load.”

She held the lid for him, and he deposited his armful.

“Do you host happy hour at the end of every day?” she asked. “Because I might need a bigger bin.”

“First and last day only. Unless the client requests it,” he said with a wink. “Are you asking me out for drinks, Maggie?”

“Aren’t you ever off duty, Sly Sy?”

“Not where you’re concerned. You’ve got my number. I keep hoping you’ll use it.”

“I’m not anticipating any landscaping emergencies,” she told him as she wiped her palms on the seat of her pants. “It was a good day.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” he agreed as they walked companionably back toward the house.

“I like what I saw from the crews,” she told him. “You all take care of your own. Lou didn’t have to hire Billy. You didn’t have to hire Marta.”

“Just being neighborly,” he insisted.

“Fingers crossed the shower upstairs is up to this task,” she said, looking down at her dirt-streaked arms.

“You’re staying here?” That was news to him.

She hooked her thumbs into her front pockets. “Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

She had a point. If he’d bought an eighteen-room mansion, he’d damn well be sleeping in it even when it was more haunted house than home.

But it did create a bit of a problem for him. “Now, Maggie. I need to say something, and I don’t want you to take it in a misogynistic kinda way.”

“Oh boy,” she murmured.

“I sure would feel more comfortable about you staying here all by your lonesome if you had a damn front door.” He pointed toward the front door leaning up against the wall.

“Silas, I hope you don’t take this as me being a hard-ass bitch. But at this stage of the relationship, I’m not really concerned about making you feel more comfortable.”