Page 67 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

It would all work out. They just had to stick to the plan.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aspen’s car was in the driveway when Garrett arrived at her house that afternoon. Since she’d finally trusted him with her key, he’d already been by once to unload the things they’d purchased the day before. Then he’d returned to his condo to get the tools he’d need that hadn’t fit in the truck the first time around.

He jogged up the walk, and, after knocking to announce himself, propped open the glass storm door and pushed open the other door into the room. It was a mess, from two-by-fours to sheets of drywall, from new toilets to floor tile. He was about to announce his presence when he caught sight of Aspen bent over a five-gallon bucket of paint. She seemed to be trying to lift it. “Hey, don’t?—”

“I can’t live like this.” She let the paint bucket tip back to the floor with a thud.

“No, I know. I was?—”

“You can’t just leave all your crap in the middle of the living room.” She stood to her full height—which still left her about six inches shorter than he—and glared. “This is unacceptable. I come home to find my house in total disarray, you nowhere in sight, probably off to get lunch. You seem to have zero regard formy property. You need to get this taken care of and taken care of right now.”

Hot rage rose from the very center of his being.

He would not have orders barked at him as if he were a naughty child. Her words, her attitude, brought back too many memories of his father’s demands. The more Dad had asked of Garrett, the less he’d done.

When his dad demanded that Garrett shovel the driveway by hand—despite the snow-blower in the garage—he’d piled all the snow right behind his father’s sedan and then took off for a friend’s house.

When his dad demanded that Garrett make better grades, he’d quit studying altogether.

When his dad demanded that Garrett stop hanging out with losers, he’d befriended the neighborhood troublemaker. They’d broken into houses, cars, and eventually a video game store.

He’d nearly gone to juvenile detention for that.

Which was how he’d ended up in Coventry.

Uncle Dean and Aunt Deborah never demanded anything of Garrett. When they wanted something done, they asked. They’d always been kind and respectful, and he’d always been willing to do whatever they needed.

Aspen had been respectful, too, until that moment.

A very small, very petty part of him wanted to leave everything exactly where it was and leave to make her accusations true. An hour or so at The Patriot would calm him down. And teach her a lesson in respect.

But even from where he stood on the opposite side of the large space, he could see tear tracks on her face.

“Having a rough day?”

“That has nothing to do with this.” She bent again and tried to heave the bucket by her feet.

He slammed the door with his foot and rushed across the room. Gently, he slid his hand around her arm. “You can’t move that.”

“Why is it so…?” She looked up at him, and he could almost see the curse word forming on her lips. She managed to finish with “…ridiculously heavy? Who buys paint in five-gallon buckets, anyway?”

“General contractors,” he said. “Painters. Handymen. It’s significantly cheaper.”

“It’s impossible to move.”

“Five gallons of paint weighs almost sixty pounds, Aspen. You can’t possibly?—”

“At my church there was an eight-year-old who weighed more than that.” She propped her hands on her hips. “I used to lift him every Sunday.”

The more irrational she sounded, the less angry Garrett felt. Something was very wrong, and it had nothing to do with the mess in her living room.

“Paint is dense, denser than water by about twenty percent.” Maybe random facts and numbers would shift her focus. “I can see you lifting a sixty-pound child, but children are easier to maneuver. They have armpits, for one thing—convenient little handles. They’re taller, so they don’t have to be lifted as far. You can toss them over your shoulder or prop them on a hip, and they’ll wrap their legs around your waist and their arms around your neck. They’ll hold on. Their weight is distributed on your body. But you can’t prop a paint bucket on your hip like a child. A paint bucket isn’t going to hang onto your neck. Obviously, a can of paint is much less pliable—and helpful—than an eight-year-old. And of course there’s the density issue.”

Her lips twitched as if a tiny smile were trying to break through. “You sound like a physics teacher.”

He shrugged. “I always liked science. Got it from my uncle. He was a chemistry major in college.”

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