Paradise Valley (Virgin River #7)(74)

It was a logical decision for him. Virgin River was a quiet, decent town. There were people there he thought highly of—Mel and Jack being two. Preacher was an oddball, but good-hearted and helpful. Paul Haggerty was a stand-up boss. Of course, he’d had no expectation that they’d come to respect him, but to his amazement, they were perfectly friendly toward him. And the job with Haggerty—pure luck. If he’d been Haggerty, he’d never have hired himself. But it was working out great. There was plenty of overtime when he wanted it. Haggerty paid a fair wage and the benefits were good. The men he worked with were quality crews. Haggerty had high standards.

It didn’t leave him much spare time, but what was he going to do with spare time? He’d always been a loner, something that intensified when he was growing pot. It was a habit he was slowly trying to break—it made sense for him to come out of the darkness and have people in his life, like he used to. They might not trust him, but he trusted them. They were transparent, to the last one—not real complicated, living authentic lives, invested in their families and friends, protective of their own, their town. So he had begun to slowly enter their world. He picked up a packed lunch from the bar every morning at about 6:00 a.m.—Preacher made it the night before. Then a couple of nights a week he’d take dinner and a beer there and catch up on local gossip and national news on the bar’s TV. The rest of the time he either worked or tinkered around the rental house.

His father taught him something real useful when it came to fixer-uppers—always do what shows the most first. So the first thing Dan did was replace the window glass in that one broken window and reinforce and repair the front porch. Took him a day and a half. Then he hired some of Haggerty’s boys to scrape and paint the house while he painted the porch—he wasn’t going up on those ladders. Dan wasn’t about to invest in a new roof if he didn’t own the place, but he did have the existing roof repaired so he wouldn’t drown in the next big rain.

Next, he pulled weeds, threw down some topsoil, tore out the cracked sidewalk with a crowbar and shovel and put down patio stones instead. He planted flowers along the front of the house. A little daily sprinkling and some spring sunshine and he had a green yard bordered by colorful flowers and a pretty little yellow house, trimmed in white.

Once he was inside, which was about three weeks into his tenancy, he could work evenings when he felt like it. He tackled the easiest and most visible stuff first. He washed the nicotine off the living-room and dining-room walls, patched and painted. He borrowed a big industrial floor sander from Paul and turned the living/dining area into a beautiful L-shaped room in about ten days with paint, stain, varnish and floor wax. He scrubbed up the stone fireplace and it was looking good. Then he scrubbed down and painted the bedroom—it took only a few evenings. The only furniture he had was a bed and a small table with two chairs that he left in the dining room while he tore apart the kitchen.

He’d been in Virgin River six weeks, in his little rental for just over four, and he was really pleased with what a minimal amount of money and some work could do. The kitchen was going to take more than a couple of weeks, and would be a lot more expensive than the work he’d done so far, but he was making good money and he’d take it slow. He scraped off the old, damaged linoleum floor and removed all the cupboards, since some were already missing doors and they were too old to be a standard size. He ripped out the counters, keeping just the sink and moving the appliances away from the walls.

He got rid of the old, peeling, yellowed wallpaper, textured the kitchen walls and was painting away a Sunday afternoon when there was a knock at the door. He went, roller in hand, and opened the door. “Well,” he said, grinning. “My landlady. Funny, I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

“The house,” she said. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were huge. “Good God!”

“Oh, is it okay?” he asked her.

She shook her head and he thought, for a second, she was going to say he’d gone too far and she hated it.

“I never even imagined it could look like this. It’s incredible. When I pulled up, I thought I had the wrong house.”

He grinned at her. “I should probably stop. If I do a good enough job, you’re going to want it back and I’ll be in the camper shell again.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “I’m never living here again.”

“I’d given up on you. I asked Jack if he thought you’d be back and he said he didn’t really know. He thought there was a chance you’d just let the house go. Can’t imagine why you’d do that….”

“No, you probably couldn’t. Chalk it up to some bad memories.”

“Must have been horrific,” he said, and she merely nodded.

The house wasn’t the only thing that looked different. She was looking pretty good herself. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been hauling trash all day, but even after that, she had strong looks that held up. He put her at somewhere around thirty. Maybe five foot six or so. Slender but not skinny; long legs, good hips. She had an unfussy style—hair that curled under just above her shoulders, makeup he could see her freckles through.

“I’m owing you rent,” he said, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. But she just walked past him into the kitchen.

“Holy cow,” she said. “Stripped bare.”