The Fix-It Man Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Description

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Also by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  An Impractical Passion Excerpt

  Gone with the Nerd

  About the Author

  The Fix-It Man

  VICKI LEWIS THOMPSON

  The right man for the job…

  California teacher Zach Wainwright doesn’t know a socket wrench from needle-nosed pliers, but landing a job as a live-in handyman for a widow is the answer to his prayers. He’s a smart man. Surely he can handle the small maintenance needs of a little old lady in exchange for a peaceful, inexpensive room while he’s in Illinois working on his doctorate.

  Widowed Diana Thatcher’s struggling with a creaky old house and two boisterous daughters aged twelve and thirteen. An elderly scholar who can pay rent and make minor home repairs sounds perfect until she discovers he’s a bronzed Adonis. His handyman skills are questionable, but he shows a talent for mending broken hearts. Unfortunately, her family doesn’t need a temporary patch. They need a man who can build a foundation for the future.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE FIX-IT MAN

  All Rights Reserved © 2015 by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  ISBN: 978-1-940515-14-4

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Kellie Denison at Novel Graphic Designs

  http://www.facebook.com/novelgraphicdesigns

  Formatting by Heart to Hard Drive

  http://hearttoharddrive.com/

  First edition published July 1986 as Harlequin Temptation #113, by Harlequin Enterprises

  Second edition (updated and revised) published March 2015 by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  For my Aunt Etsy, who lived in a white clapboard house in Springfield, Illinois. She let me play her piano even though I didn’t know how and she let me lick the paddles on the ice cream maker. She would have loved knowing I grew up to become a romance writer.

  One

  “Mother, I hate to interrupt you in the middle of Harold’s lesson, but—”

  “Mom! The toilet’s running again!” shrieked Allison from the top of the stairs.

  “I’m telling her, bimbo!” shouted Laurie. “Now the whole neighborhood knows about it.”

  Oblivious to anything but the sheet of music in front of him, Harold blew diligently on his tuba. Oompah, oompah, oompah. Diana kept time with one hand and pushed her hair back from her face with the other. “Did you wiggle the handle?” She kept her focus on Harold’s technique.

  “It flops around. I think it’s really broken this time.”

  “Mom! You’d better get up here!”

  “She’s coming, Allison! Will you be quiet?” Laurie turned and raced up the stairs to enforce her command.

  Diana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then glanced apologetically at the small boy holding the giant instrument. With a downward wave of her hand she ended his puff-cheeked rendition. “Continue working on measure seven, Harold. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

  “But Mrs. Thatcher, measure seven only has one note, held for four beats.”

  “Then work on measure eight,” Diana said, one ear tuned to the sound of running water and the other to her daughters’ vehement arguing.

  “You didn’t tell her loud enough,” Allison insisted as Diana mounted the stairs. “How’s she supposed to know it’s an emergency if you say in this little voice, Mother, I hate to interrupt. Sounds like you broke your little toenail, not like the whole house is about to be flooded from—”

  “The windows are all open, Allison,” Laurie said through clenched teeth. “And you’re up here shouting about toilets. Gross.”

  “What’ll be gross is if this thing overflows, and—”

  “Make way, ladies.” Diana pushed past them to the upstairs bathroom. Shoving the sleeves of her green gauze blouse to her elbows, she lifted the chipped porcelain tank top and bent over the mysterious inner workings, then jiggled the chrome handle on the side of the tank. Water continued to pour through the interior. “Go away girls,” she said wearily. “I’m about to swear.”

  “Is it going to flood?” Allison asked, her blue eyes wide and her blond ponytail bouncing.

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll have to call a plumber.”

  “Uh-oh.” Laurie took her younger sister’s arm and propelled her down the hall. “Come on. You know how she gets when we have another repair bill to pay.”

  The chiming of the doorbell floated up the stairs.

  “One of you could answer the door while I figure out how to turn the water off to this thing,” Diana called after them.

  “I will,” Allison replied as her sister dragged her away. “And Laurie can direct Harold for a while. After all, he’s just a beginner.”

  “Fine.” Diana crouched on the linoleum floor and searched for the shut-off valve. God, it was hot upstairs. If only one of the electric fans worked. “Damn you, Jim,” she muttered. “I can handle lonely nights and the girls. But I can’t fix the stupid john!”

  Tears mingled with her mascara, and her eyes stung as she found the valve and turned it angrily. They weren’t tears of grief. She’d wrung those out months ago. Now she was just plain mad – at Jim for dying, at the house for being old, at money for being scarce and most of all at the toilet for breaking down. She treated herself to a colorful string of expletives.

  “Mom, are you crying?” Allison stood uncertainly in the bathroom doorway.

  “No, honey. This is just…sweat. I can’t remember a July this hot, can you?” She fumbled for a tissue and dabbed at her swimming eyes.

  “Nope.” Allison looked unconvinced. “I hate to tell you this, on top of everything, but Mrs. Eckstrom was at the door.”

  Diana plopped down on the edge of the old tub. “Not Beethoven again?”

  “Her rose bed is a shambles, she said, and if we can’t keep Beethoven penned up, she’s calling the pound.”

  “Oh, damn.” Diana looked up guiltily. “Oops. Sorry, sweetheart.”

  “That’s okay. Laurie’s tying him to the clothesline. Want me to fix the fence? I could work Dad’s saws. I know I could.”

  Diana smiled wanly. “And fix the toilet and the electric fans and the kitchen faucet? And paint the windowsills?”

  “Well, maybe not all at once, but—”

  “Allison, you’re a talented girl, but I know what we need around here.” She slapped her hands against the knees of her white slacks and stood up. “And I’ve just decided what to do about it.”

  “What?” Allison trotted after her. “What do we need, Mom?”

  “A man. I’m placing an ad right this minute.”

  “An ad for a man? Freaky!” Allison followed her down the stairs. “Laurie, Mom’s putting an ad in the paper for a man.”

  “She is not, bimbo. All right, Harold, let’s try the last four measures again.”

  “She is, too! Ask her.”

  “Mother?” Laurie stopped directing. “You are calling
a plumber, right?”

  “As soon as I place this ad.” She picked the phone up off the side table and glanced at Harold, who had stopped playing and was watching them all with curiosity. “Harold, I’m sorry, but I need to cut your lesson short. I’ll give you a longer lesson next week to make up for this one.”

  Laurie tossed her dark bangs away from her face. “What ad?”

  “For a live-in handyman who’ll do basic maintenance in exchange for an inexpensive room and all his meals.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Laurie’s gray eyes, a shade darker than Diana’s, narrowed suspiciously.

  “Yes, she would,” answered Allison with a smug grin. “I told you she was doing it.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Thatcher.” Unnoticed, Harold packed up his tuba and lugged it out the door.

  “Mother! You’re going to let some strange man we don’t know sleep and eat here?” Laurie wailed. She rested her hands on her hips. “Why not hire a woman?”

  “Because we already have three females living in this house, and we could use a little male energy to balance things out.” Diana noted the genuine concern on her daughter’s face, and lowered the phone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll do a background check on any applicants and get complete references. But wouldn’t you like to have the fence repaired so Beethoven doesn’t get out almost every day?”

  “I bet I could fix it,” Allison said.

  “Maybe after you take shop in seventh grade, but the job needs to be done now. And how about the toilet? I hate to think what kind of bill the plumber will send us, but any handyman with a lick of sense could fix that in no time. And if I don’t have to pay out of pocket for those types of expenses, we would have more money for other things.”

  “Like clothes?” Laurie’s gray eyes shone with interest. “I saw a really neat outfit at White Oaks Mall.”

  “We’ll see, but yes, we might have more money for things you girls want. Maybe a new pair of drumsticks for Allison. And your flute could use a little repair work.”

  Laurie stood silently for a moment, her dark head bent in thought. “It would just be weird, having a strange man living here.”

  “He wouldn’t be a stranger for long. Besides, what if he turns out to be sixty-five years old? He could be like a live-in grandpa.”

  “Oh, Mom, you wouldn’t consider somebody that ancient, would you?” Allison looked horrified.

  “Of course I would,” Diana said. “Besides, age has nothing to do with it. If he’s clean and respectful and knows how to fix things, what difference does it make if he’s got white hair?”

  Allison rolled her eyes. “A lot. He’d probably complain every time I practiced my drums or played my music a teensy bit too loud or wanted a slumber party.” She perched on the arm of the couch. “Your music lessons aren’t so quiet, either, Mom. What about the Bad News Brass every Friday afternoon? Those three boys could blow the feathers off a chicken.”

  “Yeah,” Laurie chimed in. “And what if the fix-it man disturbs us? Susie’s grandpa lives with them, and he gets up early on the weekends and starts whistling. I couldn’t stand that. I need my sleep.”

  “I know what,” Allison said. “Don’t get anybody older than you are. That’s plenty old.”

  “Watch your tongue, young lady.” Diana tugged Allison’s ponytail.

  “Yeah, bimbo. That wasn’t nice. Mom’s not old.”

  Allison’s blue eyes shifted uncomfortably. “I know, but lately it seems…”

  “What?” Diana asked.

  “Well, you act older than you used to.”

  “Is that so? Maybe because I am older.”

  “Not that old. Even Mrs. Eckstrom says it’s a shame for someone as young as you not to have a—”

  “Allison,” Diana interrupted sternly. “We’ve had this discussion before, and I know where it’s leading.”

  “Yeah, quit trying to marry Mom off. She might pick someone we didn’t like.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  “Besides, it’ll be hard enough getting used to a fix-it man. I don’t want to start thinking about a new father.”

  “Exactly.” Diana smiled. “I have no marriage plans. And if the man I hire doesn’t work out, we can find someone else. Simple as that. What do you say?”

  Laurie took a large pink comb from her back pocket and ran it through her short hair. “I still say his being here will change everything.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “Oh, who cares?” Allison said. “I think it’s a great idea. I’m tired of the fans not working and the toilet running and Beethoven getting out all the time.”

  “Me, too,” Diana said. “I’m placing the ad. Who knows? Maybe I won’t have any takers.”

  * * *

  Secretly, Diana wondered if there was anyone who would be enticed by her offer of low rent and free meals in exchange for handyman duties. The first caller admitted to being seventy-five years old and complained on the telephone about his arthritis. Scratch one prospect. The second sounded way too young. Anybody who used Allison’s favorite “freaky” in every sentence didn’t qualify as a reputable handyman. But the third man intrigued her, and she decided to set up a face-to-face interview.

  She’d forgotten to ask his age, but he had sounded mature. His primary reference was the California high school where he’d taught until this year, when he’d taken a personal leave to finish his doctoral dissertation on Abraham Lincoln’s Springfield years. She called the school, and heard nothing but praise for the character of Zachary Wainwright.

  A high school teacher. A Lincoln scholar. She imagined horn-rimmed glasses and tweeds, a shy manner and a sunken chest. Zachary Wainwright sounded like the perfect maintenance man and the perfect boarder. She just hoped he wouldn’t object to a little noise now and then. She had to admit the Bad News Brass took some getting used to.

  She set the stage carefully for the interview. She sent the girls across the street to spend the morning at the Nelson Center pool, so that their presence wouldn’t make the poor man nervous, or suspicious about a possible noise problem.

  She’d chosen to wear a soft white shirtwaist with a touch of lace at the collar. Despite the damp heat of the morning, she wanted to look cool and poised. She’d stated she was a widow in the ad, but she’d decided not to mention her daughters or her age, preferring to keep her situation somewhat vague until she knew more about her prospective tenant.

  Trying to ignore the steady tick of the grandfather clock, she wandered the living room, surveying the carved black walnut furniture. Her mother-in-law had insisted that the antiques stay with the house when she and Jim had bought it fourteen years ago, and as a young bride, Diana had been delighted. Now she found the dark wood and the hand-crocheted antimacassars a trifle depressing.

  When the doorbell chimed, she smoothed her dress and felt a quiver of trepidation, almost as if she were going on a first date. Ridiculous! He should be the nervous one, not her. But she’d never invited a stranger to live in her house before, and it was proving to be an unsettling prospect.

  As she walked toward the front door, she could see his silhouette dimly through the frosted glass, and he appeared bulkier than she imagined a Lincoln scholar would be. And taller. But that might be a trick of the shadows. With a smile of welcome, she opened the door.

  How long they stood facing each other, she didn’t know, but her smile was completely gone by the time he spoke.

  “Mrs. Thatcher? Or are you her daughter?” He raked his fingers through sandy hair that had been streaked blond by the California sun and dampened by the Illinois heat.

  She knew instantly that this man didn’t spend all his hours huddled over books. Nor was his chest sunken, nor were his deep blue eyes—made bluer by a dark tan—rimmed by thick glasses. He held a pair of sunglasses in one hand, but she would bet money they didn’t correct a vision problem.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m Diana Thatcher.”

  “The widow?” he cr
oaked. “I expected white hair and a cane.”

  “And I expected thick glasses and a tweed sport coat, Mr. Wainwright,” she said, realizing how illogical her imaginative picture had been.

  “In this heat? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Her gaze swept over the man who stood on her front porch looking like he’d just stepped off a beach. His light blue T-shirt was tucked into white cutoffs, and the ragged fringe dangled over tanned muscular thighs that tapered to well-formed calves and ankles. She wouldn’t have been surprised at bare feet, but instead he wore a battered pair of blue running shoes without socks.

  “How old are you, Mr. Wainwright?”

  “Getting older every time you call me that. How about Zach, before I begin to gray at the temples?”

  She resisted the urge to smile. “All right, Zach. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four, Diana.”

  “Really?” She would have pegged him at twenty-eight, tops. Instead, they were the same age.

  He nodded soberly. “Really.” He reached up and wiped a trickle of sweat from his temple. “If you don’t mind, could we possibly continue this fascinating discussion inside? Your living room has got to be cooler than this porch.”

  His comment made her remember her manners, and she stood back from the door. “Inside isn’t much better, I’m afraid, but we can sit down. Would you like some lemonade?” Why was she offering him lemonade? Why not tell him straight out? No, thank you, Mr. Beach Bum. I can’t have someone like you sleeping in the guest room.

  “Love it.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the kitchen, only to hear his voice right behind her.

  “I’ll help. Where do you keep the glasses?”

  She jumped. “The cupboard left of the sink. But you don’t have to help.”

  He grinned, and she stared in fascination at the beautiful smile spreading slowly across his bronzed face. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m lazy.”

  “Oh.” The steady drip of the kitchen faucet was the only sound in the room.