The Handy Man

I watched Hank McGrath for a few moments as he finished putting in a new seal under the stool in my bathroom.

The old seal had begun leaking during the night, leaving me not only with a monumental puddle on the bathroom floor but also with a soggy carpet in the hallway.

In a panic, I called maintenance at 6:00 on this Saturday morning, and Hank was here by 7:00, a smiling hunk of a man with curly black hair and flashing dark eyes. But this wasn't the usual maintenance guy, whose name was Alfred, a kindly gray-haired gentleman. Handsome Hank explained that Alfred was his uncle, who was on a two-weeks' vacation. Hank was filling in.

As I watched Hank now, appreciating the back muscles rippling under his T-shirt, he turned around to face me, wiped his hands on a rag, smiled—my heart lurched—and said, "That does it.

Stool secured and water vacuumed out of the hallway rug." His head tilted; his nose lifted. "What smells so good?"

"French toast, eggs, and bacon—if you've got time for breakfast. I really, really appreciate your help. I was in the middle of a disaster."

He shook his head and looked genuinely disappointed. "I can't. Got a lady in 310 whose air-conditioner has conked out." Then he unleashed a devastating smile. "Wish I could. I never get home cooking anymore. Raised on a farm where Dad taught me how to fix anything, but it was my sister who learned to cook. "

With that, gathering the water vac and his tools, he disappeared from my apartment. His handsome good looks, smile, and friendliness intrigued me. I collapsed on my couch and called my BFF Angie, who'd recently married and lived below me in 121.

"You know what you should do?" she said after I told her my Handsome Hank the Handy Man story.

"What?"

"Break something, Hannah. Or clog up the dishwasher. Call maintenance again. Have your place steaming with the smell of a pot roast, maybe."

"Don't be silly."

"He's single, girlfriend. And he's not just a handy man. He's an electrical engineer who's helping out his uncle for a couple of weeks."

"How do you know that?"

"He was here yesterday. They're putting new smoke alarms in all the apartments. I took one look at him, saw his ringless left hand, thought of you, and started pumping him. I told him I knew the hot, single woman in 210. He should check you out."

I cringed. "You didn't!"

"I did. I intended to call you this morning." She paused for a second.  "Phone maintenance. Tell them you need a new smoke alarm right away."

I blew out a loud breath.

"You don't have much time, Hanna. He's got only a week left on the job."

No way could I fake a call to maintenance, but I did call again—for a legitimate reason. Sunday night while washing dishes I lost my birthstone ring down the kitchen sink drain. The building supervisor said he'd send a man over to take a look. I could expect him sometime after 4:00 Monday afternoon after I was home from work—I'm a paralegal.

The next afternoon, after I set a bag of groceries on the kitchen table, a knock sounded at the door. I opened it.

"You called?" Hank said, and smiled, a box of tools hanging from his right hand.

"I'm in trouble again," I admitted, totally embarrassed.

 Hank worked the gooseneck under my kitchen sink loose in no time. As I held out my hand, he tipped the pipe—and out tumbled the ring into my palm. "My birthstone ring," I said, beaming. "My parents gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday."

"It's beautiful, but you should probably have a jeweler clean it."

I sighed. "I hope you don't think I'm a nuisance. "My calling on Saturday, then on Sunday."

"I'm glad you called—I was debating about calling you."

My head tilted. I'm sure I looked surprised. "Seriously? But why?"

"They're putting new smoke alarms in every unit. You're not scheduled yet"—he cleared his throat—"but I thought maybe I'd...jump ahead of the schedule..." His voice trailed off.

His words sunk in slowly: jump ahead of the schedule. That meant he'd wanted to see me again, maybe as much as I'd wanted to see him. The smoke alarm—his excuse.

I cast a glance at the bag of groceries on the table, then at Hank. My heart rate spiked. "Homemade tacos tonight for supper," I said. "Are you game?"

His smile was the biggest one I think I'd ever seen. "I'm off the clock," he said. "And I'm game."

                                           The End

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Apartment for Rent

"I'm Shannon O'Brien," the man standing at my front door said when I answered his knock Monday morning. "You have an walk-up apartment for rent?"

"Yes, I do," I said, and gulped.

I'd hoped I'd be able to rent the apartment to a woman about my age—forty—but the person standing in front of me was a solidly built, red-haired man about forty, dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a black polo shirt.

"Melissa Parker," I said, stepping with him into the sunshine, catching the faint scent of his spicy cologne. "The stairs are on the side of the house. I'm interested in having a long-term renter."

Why I hadn't written Women Only in my newspaper ad? As handsome as this man was, he could be a fugitive, right? Or a con man.

 "I expect to be here quite sometime," he said, smiling, his startling blue eyes making my pulse spike. "I've taken a position as an English Professor at Belmont College."

My head tilted. "Our local college?"

"Your local college, indeed."

We trooped up the stairs, and I showed him the one-bedroom apartment, all self-contained and fully furnished. "Beautiful," he said, looking at me with those blue eyes. "More than I'd hoped for."

I gulped again.

Surely he was talking about the apartment.

In no time, he agreed to sign the lease, paid a security deposit and a month's rent in advance. We chatted a bit. He said he taught previously for fifteen years at a big Midwestern university but longed to escape the hype and headlines. He yearned for a small-town atmosphere, where he could finish the novel he'd been working on for the last two years. He was divorced long ago.

Of course, I told him my husband had died three years ago. We'd rented the apartment to Belmont College students, but I was tired of the hassle of renting and re-renting. My children—Todd and Theresa—had married and settled elsewhere.

By evening, he'd moved in his personal belongings, all crammed into a big SUV and a small U-haul. That night I had a hard time falling asleep. From the movements I heard upstairs, I knew Shannon was awake, too. I found the man intriguing, and while we'd talked, I felt myself relaxing and actually liking him. But how silly of me. I'd just met him. Besides, I was independent and perfectly happy alone. My job as an office manager of a big insurance agency and my income from the apartment more than paid my bills and then some.

Wednesday afternoon when I came home from work, I found Shannon standing in the backyard, eyeing the covered charcoal grill hunched under an oak tree, a picnic table nearby.  He cleared his throat. "Um...would you mind if I used your grill.

I love cooking out, but haven't done so in quite awhile. I bought hamburger. And a bit of charcoal."

"Help yourself," I said. "I haven't used the grill in ages. The grate might need cleaning."

"I'll be happy to do it." Then he knocked me off balance when his blue-eyed smile flicked over me, and I nearly fell over into the grass when he added, "Would you like to join me?"

I couldn't find my voice.

"Only burgers," he said.  "Nothing fancy. I bought lettuce and tomatoes. Mustard, catsup, and mayonnaise."

I don't know what happened. I sucked in enough air to stay calm and heard myself telling him I'd prepare baked beans and a salad.

"A feast!" he said, and we laughed.

Sitting at the picnic table across from Shannon in the shade of the oak tree, chatting while we ate, I enjoyed a most wonderful meal. He told me about his novel, a mainstream romance set in a small town like Belmont. When I told him I devoured romances, he asked if I'd critique his. "I'd be happy to," I said.

As we finished eating, he said, "Funny how a burger tastes so much better cooked over charcoal."

"I agree," I said. "I've been eating way too much fast food lately."

His blue-eyed gaze rose to meet my eyes. My heart lurched. His lips moved. What was he going to say? "I'm a master of the sparerib," he said. "Slowly grilled for hours. I make my own barbeque sauce..." He seemed to hesitate. "How about Saturday, early evening. Um...unless you have plans with... someone."

Heat crept into my face. "There's no one," I said. I swallowed. I didn't tell him that I'd never even dated after Jason's death. Still, I knew at that moment I wanted to know red-haired Shannon O'Brien better.

"Is it a date?"

As I hesitated, a bit of fear flickered in his eyes.

Deep breathe. "It's a date," I said.

And then he smiled again.

The End

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Bus Stop

I see her every morning, Monday through Friday, 7:05 A.M.—sun, rain, or snow. I'm a bus driver. The bus doors glide open with a swoosh, and she hops aboard with a bright smile, regardless of the weather. "How are you today, Mr. McCarthy?" she always asks.

"Fine, thank you, Ms. Davis."

She knows my name because I wear a nametag that says: FRANK McCARTHY.

I know hers because one day maybe six weeks ago she flat-out told me: "I'm Ann Davis. I don't think it's fair I should know my driver's name but you don't know mine. I mean, after all this time."

I wonder if she's hitting on me. Naw. Me? Frank McCarthy? Driving a bus for twenty years, since I was twenty myself. I don't think so. But with my hands on the steering wheel she sees I don't wear a wedding ring—if she's interested. And when she pays her fare I see no ring on her finger, either. She looks to be my age.

Us meeting like this every morning has been going on three months now; it's when I first took over this route. I pick her up on the corner of Grand and Locust streets. She never misses the bus, but sometimes she's late. I wait because I know she'll show. She's always apologetic and says, "Thank you, Mr. McCarthy. Thank you very much!"

"You're welcome, ma'am."

She dresses in nice skirts, blouses, and low-heeled shoes. I watch her from the big rearview mirror above the bus's windshield as she finds a seat. I don't watch everybody, but I watch her.

She jumps off ten miles later across the street from Richland Industries, a place where they design and manufacture high tech instruments for the military. I figure she's a secretary or receptionist or an engineer, maybe.

I also figure she takes the bus to work every morning because she's a persons who believes in saving the environment. Using public transportation is her way of helping. I like that.

Driving a bus, you get lots of time to think. I'm thinking all the time now how can I get to know Ms. Ann Davis better? But there is no good answer. I can't talk to her personally when she boards my bus, people behind her. I can't pass her a note with my telephone number on it. That might insult her; she might report me, and I'll lose my job. I have an idea where she lives. I could find her telephone number in the directory, but a call might get me fired, too. Besides, I'm a widower, five years now. Dating again scares me crazy.

I take a week off in the spring. I plan to do a lot of work around house. On Friday morning, my last day off, I'm out in my pickup headed for the hardware store, passing Locust and Grand streets, when I spot Ann standing on the corner, her head swiveling frantically, left to her right. I glance at my dashboard clock: 7:10 A.M.

Oh man!

She's missed her bus.

Rick, my sub, didn’t wait for her.

I swing my truck around—a U-turn in the middle of Locust—and pull up at the bus stop. I hop out and dart to the sidewalk. Ann's blue eyes nearly pop out of her head when she realizes it's me—Frank McCarthy, the bus driver. "Need a ride to work?" I ask, smiling.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. McCarthy! Yes, I do. I really do!"

She hops into my truck with me, and my heart starts pounding.

We chatter like kids about the nice weather, her job—she's a receptionist—and my job. I'm right about why she rides my bus. She's helping save the environment. She's a widow. In no time, I'm dropping her off at Richland Industries with her saying, "See you Monday, Frank!", and I realize to my sad disappointment I haven't even asked for her telephone number. I've blown my chance. Stupid!

But wait!

She called me Frank.

That means something, doesn't it?

I make a decision.

Monday morning, when she scampers aboard my bus, I'm holding my breath. I'm clutching a note in my right hand that reads, "May I call you? Please don't be offended."

To my surprise, we both extend our hands at the same time and end up—get this!—exchanging notes. My hand trembles a little. After the last person boards the bus, I quick peek at her note. "Call me," it says and includes her telephone number.

Now I'm a little breathless.

After I pull away from the bus stop, I glance at Ann in my rearview mirror. She's seated to my right, only five seats back. She's looking up into the mirror, too, smiling at me.

The End
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