Paradise Valley (Virgin River #7)(47)

He took a quick look at what one would call the master bedroom. It was really an awful-looking little house that had the potential to look nice—barely big enough for a couple and one child. He could spend some time checking the structure later, but for now it appeared all its ugliness was merely cosmetic. Some elbow grease would make it civilized, but some remodeling talent could make it quaint.

“How much?” he asked her.

She was stunned. “You’re kidding me.”

“I thought maybe I could do a few things around here to make the place presentable if you give me a break on the rent. I’m a builder by trade. You thinking you might sell it someday?”

“I don’t know. I know I’m not interested in living in it—I work in Eureka. But I just found out the house was my responsibility, so…I guess I’ll either rent it, sell it, or let the state take it for nonpayment of taxes.”

“Shew,” he said. “You really do have some thinking to do. Listen, here’s the deal. I’ll pay you some rent and take care of the utilities. If you give me a break on the rent, I’ll see if I can fix it up a little bit. If you decide to sell it and I make you an offer, you’ll deduct my materials and labor from the price. Think about that.”

Her eyes just grew wider. “You can have it for two-fifty a month. Do whatever you want. You can’t make it any worse, even if you’re the worst builder in America.”

“Two hundred,” he said. “That should pay your taxes. Give you time to think. But you have to let me have it for a year, to make it worth my while to do some things to it. And I’m not the worst builder in America.” He grinned at her.

She put out her hand. “Deal.”

“You have some kind of contract?” he asked.

“Nope. Try to be a nice guy about this and if you decide to abandon the place, lock up and let Jack know. Mrs. Sheridan has my number in Eureka.”

“Well, Jesus,” he said, taking off his hat and running his hand over his short hair. “Don’t you want to know my name?”

“Sure,” she said. “What is it?”

“Dan Brady.”

“I’m Cheryl Creighton. Be a good neighbor, will you? I think the last people who lived here were a lot of trouble.”

“And who would that be?”

“Me. Us. My parents and I.”

He chuckled. “Would you like to seal this deal over a drink?”

“No, thanks. I don’t care for a drink. Do you drink a lot?”

“Me? I’ve been known to have a beer or two.”

“Get drunk a lot?” she asked.

He frowned, having no idea what her issue was. Maybe she came from a hard-drinking family and it put her off in a big way. “I get drunk not at all,” he said. “It’s not convenient. But I like a beer sometimes. That going to be a problem?”

“Gee,” she said. “That must be nice.”

“Huh?”

“Get the utilities taken care of right away. Get them in your name. I’ll come back out in a couple of weeks or a month and if you still want to live here, I’ll pick up your rent check and give you an address to mail it to me.” She wiggled a key off her key chain, handed it to him. “If you change your mind, give the key to Jack.”

No first and last months’ rent? No security deposit? he wondered. Then he realized a security deposit on this dump was ridiculous, but you’d think she’d want to get a month’s rent out of him. He pulled out his wallet and peeled off five twenties. “Here,” he said. “That’ll take care of the rest of the month. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything bad to your house. And I work for a guy from town, so I’m not going to steal from you or anything.”

She actually gave a huff of laughter. What could he possibly steal? The forty-year-old stove and refrigerator? “Yeah, good,” she said. “Well, at least you’ll get the ugliest hot shower of your life.”

“Hey, that will be a good thing,” he said.

She gave a curt nod, turned and left. He just stood there a minute, totally perplexed. She was a little messed up from cleaning out this dump of a house, but there was no concealing her basic good looks, trim figure. But there was also no concealing the unhappy person inside.

And then he heard her truck depart from the front of the house. Her business was done here.

Since her one-night visit to Virgin River, Muriel had tried to talk to Walt every day, but occasionally she’d miss one. By mid-April she’d been working on her movie two months. They had started some sound-stage filming in a fake farmhouse built on a studio lot, and there was a lot more of that to do. But now came the real deal. The cast and crew were moving to Montana to film on location. This was her perfect opportunity for another escape. While most of the company moved on to set up, she could take some time and arrive when they were ready for her. Given her experience, trusted professionalism and—oh, yes—she was the other big star, she could take a break. No production company Lear this time, so she got a ticket on a private commuter and flew into the little Garberville airport. One of the ground crew gave her a lift out to her house.

Lately, whenever she’d talked to Walt, Muriel had been hearing something distant in his voice. Maybe it was just his loneliness with her being away. Or maybe he was unwilling to compete with her career. Maybe, regardless of what he said, he’d expected her to say no to a fantastic acting opportunity to stay home with him, proving her love. Given the number of men she’d been through in her life and her independence, she could just say Phhhhttt—get over it. Everyone gets a life, bub, not just the boys.