Prospect Street (15 page)

“Unpacking can only interest anybody for so many hours a day.”

“I'm sure you picked up Remy's antagonism. She doesn't want to be here.”

Since he made a habit of getting out of relationships before they progressed toward antagonism, he had nothing personal to offer. “Kids get over things like this, don't they?”

“Do you have children?”

“I've never been married.” He caught a new look of assessment in her eyes and realized what she must be thinking. “Not because I don't like women, Faith. Let's put that one to rest.”

She had pale skin that turned pink with very little provocation. “Well, let's just say that no one would accuse me of being a good judge on that point.”

He freed the cork and nearly filled the glasses she'd set out. It was a Pinot Grigio he'd enjoyed before, aged to perfection and definitely not a bargain vintage. He handed her a glass and watched her eyes grow rounder at the size.

“What do I know? But it strikes me you should never have had to judge. Everything should have been out in the open. Right?”

She made a face that took ten years off her age. “You'd think so. But people can lie to themselves as well as to the ones they're supposed to love.”

He decided that if that was true, David Bronson must have been the grandmaster of repression. “You asked about me.”

“Thank you. I did.” She held up the wine in toast.

He gave her the CliffsNotes version. “I work with computers. Grew up in California, went to school in Chicago, moved here in my twenties to seek my fortune. The capital's been good to me.”

“Why here?”

“I was born here, and I'd never been back. So I came to sightsee and stayed. The computer field wasn't as crowded here as it was in the Silicon Valley, and I thought I had a better chance to make my way.”

“Did you?”

“I'm my own boss, which is what I hoped for.”

“Tell me about your house.”

He could feel himself relaxing, which was the first warning he'd been tense. “It's a real beaut. The first time I saw it, I knew it was waiting for me. The market wasn't as active then as it is now. At that point plenty of people had seen the potential, but no one wanted to do the work or spend the money.”

“And you did?” Faith took the takeout cartons from the bag and set them on the stove. “This is more than curry, Pavel.”

He shrugged. “A little rice. A little dahl. A little chutney. Naan to scoop it up.”

“I'm overwhelmed. Thank you.”

“Is it still hot?”

She checked. “Lukewarm, and I'm afraid I don't have a microwave.”

“I eat it cold.” He could see that didn't appeal to her. “Does the oven work?”

“We'll find out.” She set the dial. “I'll warm up the bread in here and heat the curry on top. There's only one good burner and one that could serve as a slow cooker. The rice and lentils will be all right the way they are.”

“My home-cooked meal will have to wait, huh?”

She laughed. “So you bought your house knowing you had to renovate?”

“What you're facing here is daunting, but at least you don't have to tear out a century's worth of bad renovations.”

She scooped the rice into a casserole dish and put the bread on a cookie sheet. Then she poured the curry into a saucepan and set it on the stove before she picked up her wine again. “What kind of problems did you face?”

“Rooms reconfigured and subdivided with cheap paneling. Ceilings lowered. Fireplaces plastered over. The outside was the worst. Somebody decided they liked Arts and Crafts better than Queen Anne and tried to convert. Someone else layered asbestos siding over the exterior. I've never been quite sure how they got that past the city.”

Fixed pupils were the usual reaction to his renovation sto
ries, but Faith looked interested. He decided not to push his luck. “Anyway, I started with the outside. Most people question that, since I had to live with the interior the way it was. But maybe you'll understand when you see what I've done.”

“You didn't do the work yourself? Not all of it?”

“Most of it, actually, except for removing the siding. If you get to know me better, you'll see what a high tolerance I have for chaos.”

She no longer looked merely interested; she looked fascinated. Faith Bronson was a princess among women. “Enough,” he promised. “I'm done.”

“Spoilsport.” She checked the oven and seemed happy with what she saw. “I'm going to clear off the dining room table. This one is hopeless.” She nodded toward the table by the window, which was piled with dishes and pans.

“Why don't I look around a little while you do? That's what I came for.”

“Terrific. It sounds like I'm in good hands.” Their eyes met, and she laughed a little, her cheeks coloring again. “I guess I should say my kitchen's in good hands, huh?”

He realized he was watching a woman's transformation from “married” to “single.” Obviously Faith was feeling her way.

“Don't worry, both you and the kitchen can trust me.”

“Let me clear that table.”

He poked around while she was gone, although there wasn't much to see. One glance at the wiring in the pantry and his hair stood on end. Something had chewed through the insulation around a makeshift splice, and disaster was imminent.

“You've had rats or mice,” he called in to her. “And this wiring is lethal.”

She came back into the room. “Should we evacuate?”

He was busy tracing the wiring to its source. “No, just don't use this outlet for anything.” He pointed to one just to the right of the stove. “In fact, if you have some duct tape I'll cover it as a reminder.”

“Let me see what I can find.”

She came back a few minutes later with a roll in hand. By then he was under the sink, peering up at the plumbing.

“I'll cover the outlet,” she told him.

“You're going to need an electrician, Faith. This room is a time bomb. Once you get a refrigerator and plug it in, the whole place could blow. Nothing's been done here for a long, long time.”

“My mother couldn't face dealing with the house.”

“The scene of the crime? The kidnapping must have affected all of you in countless ways.”

“The house was almost never mentioned, for one. For that matter, the kidnapping was never mentioned. What facts I know I learned from other people. And what
they
know they probably learned from newspaper accounts.”

“That surprises me.”

“It wouldn't if you knew my parents.”

That last sentence was muted. He wasn't sure he'd heard it right. “Politicians know how to keep secrets better than anyone else.”

She changed the subject. “I guess this isn't a job I ought to tackle by myself.”

He slid out from under the sink one vertebrae at a time. “Not unless you're an engineer.”

“It's fixable, right?”

“Oh sure.” He was sitting on the floor now, looking up at her. “And so is the plumbing.”

“Give it to me straight.”

“Good news? The plumbing isn't going to set the house on fire. Bad news? You might need an ark.”

“How much time do I have to build one?”

“A while. Take care of the wiring first. But before you call a pro, you'll need to know exactly what you want. Are you planning to add a dishwasher? Garbage disposal? Change the floor plan in here?”

She looked overwhelmed. “I'm not even unpacked yet.”

“I wouldn't unpack too much if I were you. Just the essentials. Once they start the renovations—”

“I can't afford anything big. Plumbing and wiring, but I think I have to keep the cabinets I have and go from there.”

Pavel liked looking up at her. Angles changed everything. From this one he had a better view of the subtle curves under a shapeless blouse and slacks. “Let's just pass a few ideas back and forth over dinner.” He got reluctantly to his feet. “Let me wash up.”

She was in the dining room dishing out two equal portions of everything when he emerged from the bathroom. He drew a deep breath and his mouth began to water. “I ate at six, and I'm ready to eat again.”

“It's heavenly. I had to sample some to be sure it was hot enough.”

“I'll make a list of all the best takeouts. You'll need it until the kitchen's in shape.” He took the seat she didn't and picked up his fork.

“You know, this is awfully nice of you. All of it. You don't know me from Adam.”

“I think I can tell the difference.”

She laughed that sultry Dietrich laugh again. “I know we have a rat, by the way. Remy saw one.”

“Do you have traps out?”

“No, but we have a call in to the exterminator, and a cat.”

He looked up. “Think that'll do it?”

“I don't know. But I'm afraid I might catch the cat in a trap if I put one out. She's small and wild.”

“You have a wild cat living in your house?”

“In the attic, but for all I know she finds her way around while we're sleeping. She has to feed her kittens.”

“Kittens?”

“Funny, huh? When I was married, David wouldn't let the children have pets. Now they have a houseful. Cats, rats, kittens…”

“Your husband didn't let the kids have pets?” He was pre
disposed to dislike David Bronson for any number of reasons. Bronson's sanctimonious attempts to make the world over in his own image. A marriage filled with lies, and a wife who must have been devastated by them. But this seemed worse, somehow. The act of a tyrant.

She must have read his thoughts, because she laughed again. “Pavel, David had allergies. Whatever he did or didn't tell me, he's a terrific father. He even tried shots so they could have a dog. They just didn't help.”

“Are you always that good at telling what other people are thinking?”

She finished most of her curry before she answered. “It comes from being the only child of impatient parents. I always had to determine which way the wind blew.”

“That's a pretty good insight.”

“I'm just full of insight. More than you'll ever want to hear. All gleaned in the last few months.”

“I know how your children feel about living here. How about you? You were vague this morning.”

She sipped her wine, as if gathering her thoughts. “You said you work with computers. You're not a journalist by some chance, are you?”

“Am I doing research for an article on the Bronson family crisis?”

“Something like that.”

“No.” He sat back, the dinner a memory. “Our business is with the Internet. And any writing that gets done in my office is done by somebody else.”

She relaxed visibly. “No book in this, I guess.”

“Not unless you've invented a new computer language or virus. I'm just a neighbor.” He felt badly putting it that way. It left out more than it said. If he were just a neighbor, he wouldn't be sitting here now. He wouldn't have made Booeymongers a second home over the years, or happened by the house when Faith's piano needed rescuing, or brought her flowers and dinner.

If he was simply any old neighbor he wouldn't be sitting in the house where Hope Huston had been kidnapped.

“A good neighbor.” She started to smile; then she turned her head, peering into the kitchen. In a moment she was on her feet, sprinting through the doorway.

He was only one step behind.

The kitchen was rapidly filling with smoke. Faith jerked open the oven door, and flames shot from the bottom heating element. Pavel shoved her forward and the door snapped shut.

“Don't open it.” He pinned her to the range with his body as he leaned forward to turn the oven dial to the off position. Then he pulled her away.

Faith looked shaken. “I had it on warm. There's nothing in there but the leftover bread. How could it have caught on fire?”

Pavel was watching the flames die to nothing through the window on the oven door. “It wasn't the bread. The element just went. And the thermostat's probably shot. That thing must be thirty years old, at least.”

“I don't believe this!”

He still had his hands on her arms. She was shaking, but her eyes blazed. “It's okay,” he said. “It's burning itself out. Nobody's in any danger unless you turn it on again.”

“Well, that's too bad. I have more insurance than I have money.”

He tried not to laugh, but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't help his next response, either. He pulled her close for a bear hug. “Faith, it's okay. Stoves aren't that expensive. I'll go shopping with you if you need a hand.” He set her away from him. “Okay?”

She looked dazed. Only then did he realize what he'd done. They were practically strangers, even if he did know everything about her, and he'd pulled her into his arms like an old friend. Or lover.

“I'm sorry,” he said, without one trace of real regret. “You just looked like you needed a hug. Hugs are a failing of mine.”

“You're sure the oven's all right?”

“I promise. I can unplug it if that'll make you feel better.” He didn't wait for permission. He put both hands on the oven and wiggled it forward until he could reach the electrical cord. One glance behind the stove and he shook his head. “Call the electrician tomorrow, Faith. I'll come back with a list of contractors in the morning. You'll need somebody who knows how to secure the needed permits fast.”

“Maybe I really shouldn't have brought my children here.”

“Deal with the safety issues right away, then you can take everything else one step at a time.”

“It gets better, doesn't it? Somewhere along the way?”

He wasn't sure exactly what she was asking, but he didn't think she was simply talking about renovations. “Everything takes time. You have to enjoy the journey.”