feel better about being alone with Soledad in the big house.
âThen you use the long stick, not that ladder?â the housekeeper challenged.
âYes. No more ladder . . . after this one section,â Corinne added softly, to avoid Soledadâs keen hearing.
Just one more section next to the door, and sheâd be finished with the trim. The rolling would go much faster. Maybe next week, once the room was cleaned, they could even move in some of the secondhand furniture that Corinne had found here and there.
Scratching her nose with the back of her paint-spattered hand, she walked over to an old radio and found some music that might step up her speed. The lyrics of the songs were in Spanish, but it was the beat Corinne was after. When she couldnât sing all the words, she just bebopped along with the tune.
âBa, bada, bada . . .â
The ladder wrinkled the drop cloth over the wooden floor as she lined it up with the next section of wall in need of paint. Kicking the wrinkles into submission, she steadied the paint can on the cockeyed rack and began her climb. As a precaution, she braced one hand on the open door to the foyer.
âLa, la-la, la, la-laâoops!â She caught the paint can just as it tipped toward the wall. Since there was only a quarter or so of sunshine yellow left, it didnât spill. God was so good.
Braced against the last few of the top rungs, Corinne considered the tipsy rack and dismissed trusting it. But if she held the can in one hand, brush in the other, her steadying hand was gone, unless . . .
Carefully, she balanced the can on the top edge of the door, while leaning it at a right angle against the frame. With Squeaky leaning against it, the arrangement would work fineâas long as she didnât hit the can with her elbow.
Just fine, she assured herself, after testing its stability with a dip of her brush. Taking care not to get any yellow on the white ceiling that sheâd rolled the week before, Corinne angled the bristles just so, dragging them along with focused precision. When the paint gave out, she leaned back to examine her handiwork. Perfect. Not a smidgeon of sunshine on the ceiling. Replenishing the brush with a second dip, she eased it up to pick up where she left off.
âBa, bada, bada badaââ
âAnybody home?â
The male voice hardly registered before the door bumped against the ladder. Squeaky lunged sideways, taking Corinne with it. Dropping her brush, she somehow managed to hang on to the ladder and gain footing on the floor in time to catch the ladder from crashing. Instead it folded, mashing her hand. With a pain-induced dance, she let the ladder fend for itself.
âOw-wow-wow-wow-wow!â
âWhat theâ?â Mark exclaimed.
Clutching her damaged hand in its partner, Corinne ceased her footwork to stare in astonishment at Mark Madison. Mouth agape and eyelids closed, he stood like a half-human statue. The other half was sunshine yellow.
Her brain froze at the bombardment of reactive thoughts. What is he doing here? The floor! Paint was getting on the beautiful hardwood floor where the tarp had been shoved aside. How could so little paint spread so far?
Somehow her body went on automatic pilot. She dropped to her knees and began mopping up the floor with the paint-soaked tarp around Markâs Rockport deck shoes, but all she managed to do was smear shoes, floor, and all.
Exasperation boiled over logic, determined to vent or bust. âHavenât you ever heard of knocking?â
CHAPTER 5
The question gave Mark pause as he slogged through confusion to determine what had just happened. With wet paint seeping into his ears, he wasnât certain heâd heard right. Had he done something wrong?
Wiping the fresh coat of paint from his eyes with his fingers, he saw a young woman wallowing in the paint that puddled at his feet, her dark ponytail swinging from her frenzied mopping. She was a
âThen you use the long stick, not that ladder?â the housekeeper challenged.
âYes. No more ladder . . . after this one section,â Corinne added softly, to avoid Soledadâs keen hearing.
Just one more section next to the door, and sheâd be finished with the trim. The rolling would go much faster. Maybe next week, once the room was cleaned, they could even move in some of the secondhand furniture that Corinne had found here and there.
Scratching her nose with the back of her paint-spattered hand, she walked over to an old radio and found some music that might step up her speed. The lyrics of the songs were in Spanish, but it was the beat Corinne was after. When she couldnât sing all the words, she just bebopped along with the tune.
âBa, bada, bada . . .â
The ladder wrinkled the drop cloth over the wooden floor as she lined it up with the next section of wall in need of paint. Kicking the wrinkles into submission, she steadied the paint can on the cockeyed rack and began her climb. As a precaution, she braced one hand on the open door to the foyer.
âLa, la-la, la, la-laâoops!â She caught the paint can just as it tipped toward the wall. Since there was only a quarter or so of sunshine yellow left, it didnât spill. God was so good.
Braced against the last few of the top rungs, Corinne considered the tipsy rack and dismissed trusting it. But if she held the can in one hand, brush in the other, her steadying hand was gone, unless . . .
Carefully, she balanced the can on the top edge of the door, while leaning it at a right angle against the frame. With Squeaky leaning against it, the arrangement would work fineâas long as she didnât hit the can with her elbow.
Just fine, she assured herself, after testing its stability with a dip of her brush. Taking care not to get any yellow on the white ceiling that sheâd rolled the week before, Corinne angled the bristles just so, dragging them along with focused precision. When the paint gave out, she leaned back to examine her handiwork. Perfect. Not a smidgeon of sunshine on the ceiling. Replenishing the brush with a second dip, she eased it up to pick up where she left off.
âBa, bada, bada badaââ
âAnybody home?â
The male voice hardly registered before the door bumped against the ladder. Squeaky lunged sideways, taking Corinne with it. Dropping her brush, she somehow managed to hang on to the ladder and gain footing on the floor in time to catch the ladder from crashing. Instead it folded, mashing her hand. With a pain-induced dance, she let the ladder fend for itself.
âOw-wow-wow-wow-wow!â
âWhat theâ?â Mark exclaimed.
Clutching her damaged hand in its partner, Corinne ceased her footwork to stare in astonishment at Mark Madison. Mouth agape and eyelids closed, he stood like a half-human statue. The other half was sunshine yellow.
Her brain froze at the bombardment of reactive thoughts. What is he doing here? The floor! Paint was getting on the beautiful hardwood floor where the tarp had been shoved aside. How could so little paint spread so far?
Somehow her body went on automatic pilot. She dropped to her knees and began mopping up the floor with the paint-soaked tarp around Markâs Rockport deck shoes, but all she managed to do was smear shoes, floor, and all.
Exasperation boiled over logic, determined to vent or bust. âHavenât you ever heard of knocking?â
CHAPTER 5
The question gave Mark pause as he slogged through confusion to determine what had just happened. With wet paint seeping into his ears, he wasnât certain heâd heard right. Had he done something wrong?
Wiping the fresh coat of paint from his eyes with his fingers, he saw a young woman wallowing in the paint that puddled at his feet, her dark ponytail swinging from her frenzied mopping. She was a
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