Chapter 11: Porch Only

I moved back into my own house on Saturday, with Jo, a locksmith and a beagle.

The locksmith changed all four locks in forty minutes and charged me one hundred and sixty dollars.

I paid him with part of the five hundred I had won at the airport.

It felt right.

Travis parked his car across the street at noon and stayed there.

I watched him through the front blinds, slumped behind the wheel with a fast-food bag on the passenger seat.

"Should I call the police?" Jo asked, holding a mug of ginger tea out to me.

"He hasn't done anything."

"He's stalking you from a Honda."

"He's sitting in a Honda."

"Althea, that's how it starts."

"It started in March," I said. "This is just where it ends."

She laughed so hard she had to put her tea down.

The kitchen smelled like lemon cleaner.

Jo had scrubbed every surface Shelby had touched.

My big suitcase had come back on Thursday, left on the porch.

It had a note taped to the handle that said only, Sorry.

I had not answered it.

At two o'clock a gray truck pulled into my driveway.

Padraig got out with a toolbox and a plank of oak under his arm.

He walked straight past Travis's car without turning his head.

"The front step is loose," he said, when I opened the door. "I've been meaning to fix it for a year."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know."

"Padraig, my mother-in-law sent you."

"She did not." He paused. "She suggested it."

I let him in.

He tore out the old tread in about three minutes, and the whole porch shook.

Jo took one look at his forearms and announced she was going to the store for ice cream.

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