Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(131)

For a week in the spring and another in the fall, she’d bring a whole crew in to work the flower beds, clean out fountains, and do general repair. But because of the need for secrecy, Lisa did Albright’s place by herself twice a week the rest of the year. Sometimes, Richard Albright came out and joined her. The first time he’d done it, he’d introduced himself as Rick and told her she was supposed to find things for him to do. So she’d done as he asked. He hadn’t known anything about plants or landscaping—or even mowing—when he started. It took her six months to figure out that “Rick” who came out a couple of times a month to work with her was Richard Albright, multibazillionaire who was the most notorious “escapee from justice because he was rich” on the planet.

She’d thought about it for maybe five seconds and decided to keep on treating him the same way she always had. They grew to be friends. About four years in, she realized the reason that the last four men she’d dated had been so boring was because she was comparing them to the funny, smart-mouthed guy who trimmed blackberry bushes with her. She wasn’t an idiot. There was no way someone like him was going to be interested in his groundskeeper; she didn’t mind. It just hadn’t seemed worthwhile to keep dating once she knew, so she stopped.

It had been tough, not saying anything, but Lisa was tough-minded. And it was easier to have an unrequited love than to get all fussed and dressed and go out on dates every Saturday with men she was never going to fall in love with. So she’d quit dating, quit dressing up—and on the whole she was happier than she’d been before.

•   •   •

“I thought this was about a ghost,” I said. “Much as I enjoy—enjoy is the wrong word, sorry—as much as I am willing to listing to your painful romance story, there isn’t much I can do for you in that area.”

Lisa blinked at me. “Right,” she said. “Sorry.”

Zack put his hand on hers, where it rested on her car door. She gave him a tremulous smile and started her story again.

Two days ago, Lisa had mowed half the lawn, gone through two water bottles, and set out for the bathroom in the stud barn. The matter was of some urgency so she was dismayed to see an “Out of Order” sign on it. Taped to the bottom of the sign was a sheet of lined paper.

“Lisa,” it read. “Sorry. Well woes, apparently. Should be okay by next week. If you need to use the facilities, come on up to the house. —Rick.”

Had it not been urgent, she’d have just packed up and gone into town. As it was, she headed up to the main house and rang the doorbell. She’d planted the azaleas on either side of the door where they’d be sheltered from the cold and wind. She’d grown the hanging baskets and hung them herself.

And she’d never been inside the house, not in eight years.

“Hey,” Rick said, answering the door. His hair was ruffled as if he’d been dragging his fingers through it. His shirt had a hole in it, just left of his navel.

In short, he looked like he did most of the time he was out working with her. But his bare feet were on marble tiles, and the ceiling was ten feet or more over his head. Hanging on the entry wall behind him was an oil by a Western artist who’d died a hundred years ago and was well enough known that even Lisa, who had no interest in art of any kind unless it was green and growing, had heard of him.

And suddenly it wasn’t her buddy Rick who was standing there, but a bazillionaire who she was bothering, and she couldn’t open her mouth and make noise come out.

He looked at her, and instead of looking haughty as she’d half expected, his mouth curved up.

“Bathroom,” he said, stepping back. “Come on in, Lisa. Down the hall, first left, past the hot-tub room, and through the next set of doors. Or you could take the third left, fourth right, or up the stairs and, since there are more bathrooms than bedrooms, I expect you could find one.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Not a problem. It’s just me, here. I only need one bathroom at a time.”

But she’d already passed him and headed for the first bathroom he’d told her about. She’d been mute. She’d mumbled. And the third thing she tended to do when she was uncomfortable was babble. Given that she really had to pee right now, she really, really didn’t want to babble about that to the man she loved from afar.

When she turned to the left, there was a floor-to-ceiling glass wall on her left with a sliding glass door. On the other side of all that glass was a room filled with ferns and a huge hot tub. The cover was a deep brown that contrasted with the bright green ferns and the pale off-white of the tile on the wall and matched the dark brown marble tile on the floor. Daylight for the ferns drifted down from a pair of skylights and illuminated a statue of Pan in the corner.

The sly old faun was raising his pipes to his wickedly sensuous mouth, and he gifted the rest of the room with a distinctly Grecian look. She waved a hand at the statue because it seemed . . . polite and hit the bathroom with a sigh of honest relief that not even the imposing acres of marble and wood and things expensive that were all over that room could detract from.

She finished up quickly, washed and dried her hands, and opened the door. She turned her head to say good-bye to Pan—and screamed.

“I’m kind of embarrassed about that,” she told me. “And I’d rather not have to confess to screaming like a B-movie queen, but—” She shrugged.