“You rescued me. I’m not sending you back into that storm.” She walks into the kitchen. Again, when I don’t follow, she gives an impatient wave, as if I’m a not-too-bright puppy.
Celeste hits the button on the coffee maker. Then she opens the fridge door and pulls out a Tupperware container, which goes into the microwave.
“What were you doing up there, anyway?” I ask.
“Trying to fix a leak.”
I answer with care, making sure my tone is free of anything that could be interpreted as sarcasm. “You probably need to go onto the house roof for that. Not the porch one.”
Celeste sighs. “I realized that once I was up there. The leak is in the wall, so I thought it was a hole there. Can you tell I’m not an architect?”
“It’s the roof leaking down the wall. Either way, you won’t want to be fixing it in the rain. If there’s an attic, you can temporarily repair it from the inside. That’s what I was doing in the shed.”
Which leads to the elephant in the room that she cannot ignore, so I plow on with, “I’ve been staying there. I’m sorry to trespass. I thought the house was empty.”
I settle onto a kitchenette chair. “Someone over in Sun City Center mentioned this place. They said the old woman who lived here passed away and left the house to a granddaughter who lived out of state. I’m guessing that’s you?”
“It is. No longer living out of state.”
I nod. “I’ve been making my way across Florida, and I pulled a calf muscle and needed a few days of rest. I figured I’d see if that old woman’s house had a barn or a shed I could hole up in. I didn’t notice the lights on in the house until after the storm.”
Celeste smiles. “Well, thank you for choosing the shed instead of the house.”
“I wouldn’t have done that,” I say evenly. “I realize I’m trespassing, but it was an emergency. I just needed a roof over my head.”
Awkward silence stretches until the microwave dings, and Celeste busies herself taking out what smells like lasagna.
“I’ve been repairing the shed,” I say. “That’s no excuse for trespassing, but I wanted to give something in return. I’ll be gone as soon as the rain clears.”
Celeste scoops the Tupperware contents—yes, it’s lasagna—onto a plate and puts it in front of me. Then she pours two cups of coffee and passes me one. I take it with sincere thanks.
“I could fix the roof leak, too,” I say as I cut into the food. There’s a slight chemical smell that tells me, despite the Tupperware, it’s not homemade. It’s hot and it’s free, though, so I take a big bite before continuing, “I’ve worked construction for years. No pressure, of course. I’m not looking for an excuse to stay.”
“If you could look at the leak, that would be lovely, thank you.”
I resist the urge to smile as I dig into my meal.
Celeste
The woman from the shed has a name. Daisy. I almost laughed when she said that. Do people still name their kids Daisy? In truth, though, the name suits her, and I don’t mean that in a bitchy way. It’s a crunchy granola kind of name, perfect for a woman who sleeps in sheds as she makes her way... across the state, she said? Hoping to “find herself” on the open road? Or fleeing those poor life choices I know so well? That isn’t a first-conversation question. I’ll get to it soon enough.
Data. I need so much data. Like evaluating a candidate for a job. A role I need filled.
When she offers to fix my roof leak, I realize that poses the small problem of not actually having a leak to fix. But I can remedy that, and if she’s done construction, as she says, that opens to a bigger possibility. An excuse for having her stick around for a few days.
“I’ll start tomorrow then,” she says when I agree to have her look at the leak. “What tools do you have here?”
“The basics are in the basement crawlspace,” I say. “My grandfather’s, I guess.”
“Or your grandmother’s,” she says with a smile. She sips her coffee and looks around. “It’s a nice old house.”
“Needs a lot of work,” I say and immediately want to smack myself. Too fast.
Fortunately, she doesn’t seize the opening and only says, “Old places always need work. Florida might not have winter weather, but the elements can be tough on places like this. They weren’t built to last centuries.”
“You’re a Floridian?” I ask.
“Once upon a time. My family moved when I was young. I haven’t been back in years. So this was your grandmother’s house?”