Page 9 of Blindly Yours

Darting to the corner, I grab the trash can. I shove under the torrent and then dash into the hall in my now-soggy stilettos.

“George!” I call to the eldest of my brothers who is on his way back from the kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee. “There’s a massive leak in my ceiling!”

He furrows his brow and picks up pace as he makes his way toward me. “Where’s it coming from?”

“I don’t know.” I throw my hands up in the air as I follow him back into my office. “A pipe or something.”

He sets his coffee down with a sigh and runs his hand through his straight, dark hair as he peers up into the hole, carefully avoiding the cascade of water that has tapered off only slightly.

“I guess you should call Joe?” I suggest, crossing my arms. Joe is the building’s longtime maintenance technician and one of my favorite people. He’s well into his fifties, balding, overly rotund, and he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. He always brings a smile with him to work, and I’m glad my family has held onto his business for so long.

George shakes his head as he peers into the trash can. “Joe is on vacation up in Duluth.” He pulls out his phone. “He gave me a number for his backup guy though.”

I sigh and lean against the wall. Joewouldbe gone today. The day the sky literally falls.

“Yes, hello, we have a ceiling leak,” George says into his cell. “Thirty-fifth floor.” He squints at the ceiling again. “Yeah, it’s a pretty steady stream. Five minutes? Ok, thanks.”

He pockets his phone and adjusts the already half-full trash can slightly. “He’ll be here in a few. In the meantime, I’d get all your important files out of here. The ceiling might open up even more.”

I huff and cross to my desk to grab the rest of my documents.“Happy Monday.”My voice oozes with bitterness. “That trash can’s gonna fill up fast. Can you put some sort of patch on it until he gets here?” George is over six feet tall, he could probably reach it if he stood on a chair.

He furrows his brow at the ceiling. “Patch it with what? I haven’t the slightest idea how I would do that. I’ll get another can.”

He leaves me alone and I peer into the hole again. I think the stream is slowing, but the trash can is almost full. I’m growing tired of the squishy, slippery feeling of my heels, so I slip them off and place them neatly under my desk. Then I unhook my laptop from its monitor, because letting the water destroy that is not an option.

I pull my chair into the corner and sit down with my computer, glaring at the ceiling. The drywall is starting to sag.

Minutes later, George’s footsteps reapproach in the hallway, now accompanied by another set. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” he says as he steps back into the room.

Behind him is a man I don’t recognize. He’s about the same age, height, and build as my brother, but the similarities end there. This man’s hair is a little lighter than George’s, and not nearly as tidy. And where my brother’s face is perfectly smooth and shaved, this man’s is covered with a thick, short beard.

“Rose, this is Nathaniel. He works with Joe,” George says.

“It’s just Nate,” the man corrects as he steps past me without so much as an introductory smile. He slings his workbag down heavily into the empty chair and crosses toward the leak, peering up into the ceiling and then down at the trash can. “You have another one of these?”

“Oh, yes.” George hands him the new can he’s been carrying.

Nate grunts a thanks and slides it under the stream while pulling the almost full original one up into his arms. He turns and shoves it in my direction. “You’ll want to dump this in the bathroom.”

I open my mouth and stare at the can, which is probably holding almost five gallons of water. If he thinks I’m going to lug that thing all the way down the hall to the bathroom, he’s seriously mistaken.

George steps up and takes it easily from Nate’s hands. “I’ve got it.” Then he leaves us alone.

Nate’s gaze meets mine for a few long seconds before it travels across my crisp white blouse and Burberry vintage wool skirt, and then down to my bare feet.

“Where are your shoes?” he asks simply.

I give him a sour look. “They were destroyed by the waterfall.”

He digs into his work bag. “I’m sure you can easily replace them.”

“They were 800 dollars.”

“Like I said. I’m sure you can easily replace them.” Wrench in hand, he steps around me and out the door. “I’m going to shut off the water. I’ll be back.”

I glance up at the clock. I still have another half hour before my next client arrives, so I tiptoe across the wet carpet to retrieve the necessary files. If Joe were around to fix this mess, he’d be making jokes and telling amusing stories to lighten the mood. But instead, I have Mr. Grump making fun of my expensive shoes instead.

At some point, while I’m stretching around my desk to stack my folders, the dripping water comes to a stop, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least my computer monitor was spared.

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