The Husband Project. Kristine Rolofson
and behaved himself.
He’d never felt so helpless in his adult life.
She wasn’t getting the message to leave him alone. In fact, she’d ordered him to have a hot shower—after checking to make sure there was hot water, a slip-proof mat in the bathtub and fresh towels—and she’d carried his two duffel bags into the bathroom. She’d even unzipped them to save him the trouble of bending over to do it.
When she’d left the bathroom, he’d managed to kick out a clean pair of sweat pants and a long sleeved T-shirt.
“Are you okay?” she called from the hall. He locked the bathroom door because he wouldn’t put it past this woman to walk in and make sure he’d washed behind his ears.
“Yes, but you don’t—”
“Good.”
He’d heard nothing after that, so he carefully stripped off his clothes and, with some dexterous toe action, removed his thick wool socks. He adjusted the water, eased his cold body under the shower spray and realized the pain pill had eased some of the ache in his chest. Hallelujah.
He was going to survive this day after all. He retrieved the new bar of soap he’d noticed earlier and, after scrubbing himself with a faded purple washcloth, stood underneath the hot stream of water for at least ten minutes before carefully stepping onto the bath mat that Lucia Swallow had put in place. Both bath towels had violets embroidered on the edges. He rubbed his hair with one towel and wrapped another around his waist.
And he spotted the electric heater imbedded in the wall. Thank you, Mrs. Kelly, he thought, pushing the buttons until a blast of hot air hit him in the knees. He stood there for long, blissful minutes as the heat fanned his legs and warmed his feet.
“Mr. Hove?”
Damn. He drew a deep breath, then regretted the action when a now-familiar pain caught him in the right side of his chest. “Yes?”
“Just checking,” she said through the door, her voice as cheerful as a nurse’s. “You’re okay?”
“Fine.”
“No dizzy spells or anything like that?”
“No,” he declared, gingerly pulling the shirt over his head. “I thought you’d left.”
In fact, he’d hoped like hell she had. He stood half-naked in a purple bathroom. There was no sound from the other side of the door, so he hoped she’d finally taken the hint and gone home to her kids and her cowed, silent, pathetic husband. Sam finished putting his pants on, but decided not to struggle with socks. He unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.
He smelled tomato sauce. Oregano. Coffee.
He inched down the hall and around the corner to the kitchen where Lucia Swallow stood in front of a microwave oven. Inside the oven a dinner plate rotated and sizzled, its wax paper tent flapping.
“I built a fire,” she said without turning around. She opened the microwave door and poked at the wax paper topping the food, then closed the door and turned the microwave back on. “It might take a while for the house to warm up, but the woodstove’s big and it should be fine for the night if you turn it down before you go to bed.”
“You carried wood?”
She turned and smiled at him. “How else would I fix the fire?”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“My kids knocked you down.” Her smile had disappeared.
“Your kids didn’t break my ribs.”
“So who did?”
“It was an accident.” She stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. He felt about ten years old. “At work. I was hit by an Arapaima.”
“A what?”
“A fish.”
She frowned. “A fish broke your ribs?”
“A very large fish. And it cracked my ribs, not broke them. Three of them. Hurts like he—heck.”
“I’m sure it does.” A little furrow sprang between those delicate wing-shaped eyebrows.
“I’m actually doing fine. Healing according to schedule.”
“Even after falling in the snow?”
“Yeah. Even after that.” He didn’t feel any worse now than he had a couple of hours ago. In fact, after the hot shower and donning warm clothes, he felt better than he had in days. “The pain pill has kicked in.”
The microwave stopped groaning and pinged. Yes, he definitely smelled oregano and garlic.
“I assume you’re hungry?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Sit.”
He sat. She placed silverware and a napkin in front of him, then uncovered a plate piled high with lasagna and meatballs.
“You’re kidding me.”
“What? You don’t like Italian food?”
“It’s not that. It’s...the best thing I’ve seen in weeks.” Since a plate of pasticho in Brazil, but he’d been in too much pain to really enjoy that meal.
“I made coffee.”
“How did you do all this so fast?”
“I’m a mother. I’m efficient. I had Kim—the babysitter—bring over a plate of leftovers.” She shot him a quick smile. “And you take very, very long showers.”
He picked up his fork and tasted heaven, Italian style. Meanwhile Lucia Swallow shrugged on her jacket, which she’d hung by the back door, wound a striped scarf around her neck, tugged on her thick suede boots and pointed to a piece of paper stuck by a flower-shaped magnet to the refrigerator. “Jerry left you a list of contacts, including someone who’ll deliver firewood.”
He nodded, his mouth full of pasta.
“You’re welcome to our wood until you get your own. I’ll have the boys stack some by the back door for the morning.”
He swallowed and attempted to thank her, but before he could get the words out, she was gone.
Thank goodness.
* * *
“WAIT A MINUTE, say that once more?”
“He told me I smelled like alcohol and my kids were hellions.” Lucia laughed again just thinking about it. Curled up on her couch with three children, a dog and four bowls of popcorn, she was ready to talk over the afternoon with Meg. Her best friend had had little free time for phone calls lately, so this was a luxury.
“And you said?”
“Well, I told him I’d been to a bridal shower.”
“Seriously, Lucia, you are too nice.” It didn’t sound like a compliment, and since Lucia had heard that description of herself before, she didn’t take it as one.
“I know. I should have lost my temper and hit him with a piece of red fir. I was rude to him, though.”
“Lucia, sweetie, you couldn’t be rude if you tried.”
“Wait until you meet him. He’s hurt, so I get the ‘injured male’ frustration, but he won’t exactly fit in around here. I mean, he’s got major attitude happening.” She moved a popcorn bowl away from Boo’s sneaky nose.
“What does he look like? How old is he? Did he really look sick?”
“He’s handsome, late thirties, early forties, maybe. And he really did look as if he was in pain. I felt bad about that. You should have seen him, a body in the snow, with the kids jumping around and Kim taking pictures with her phone.” Now Lucia’s