Dishes used to be Bob’s job. The light flickered off the gold band on her right thumb, and she spun it twice. Right before her late husband had headed into surgery, he’d slipped his wedding band onto her thumb and twisted it a few times.
“Don’t worry, babe. Everything is going to work out. It always does,” Bob assured her.
It had taken a while for her to believe that statement.
It’d been four years since she buried him; four years since she had been able to hide behind the man who protected her. He’d been everything her younger self needed. It was more comfortable, more normal, being Bob’s wife—Beth Evans—than it was to be her father’s infamous daughter, Elizabeth Campbell.
But she was stronger than she had been as a teenager, and over the years, she’d figured out life without him.
Like, for example, don’t call any of Bob’s many brothers about the broken dishwasher. While not a sister by blood, they all considered her one of the Evans siblings. If any of them knew about an issue, they’d be over in a heartbeat to “help”—and although they thought they were good at everything, they’d flood her kitchen or crack her granite countertop pulling the machine out. She didn’t have time for that, and cash for a new dishwasher wasn’t in this month’s budget.
Moments like these she could almost regret giving away the share of the Campbell estate that she’d inherited when her grandparents died. One word from her father was all it took to remind her why she didn’t want the Campbell money. He had never let her forget how she’d practically ruined the family’s good name and staying out of his way—and out of his debt—were close to the top of her list of priorities.
“Mommy, where me magic purple cup?” Mandy demanded, stomping her foot.
The answer was: in the dishwasher, which she couldn’t even get to unlock.
“Mymagic purple cup,” Beth corrected absently as she pulled uselessly on the dishwasher door.
Mandy glared. “No, it's me cup, not you’s.”
“Notmecup,mycup.”
“No!” Mandy stomped away. Beth took a slow breath and prayed for patience.
Luckily for her, she had an ally at the appliance repair shop in the small, seaside South Jersey town where she grew up. The charity organization Beth worked with, Helping Hands, had an arrangement with Demoda Repairs, and she knew they would help if they could. Mr. Demoda was away from the office after a heart attack, but hopefully someone could come out.
She grabbed her phone to make the call before things got too crazy.
“Do you have a project for Helping Hands, Ms. Evans?” asked Glory, Frank Demoda’s daughter. Even over the phone, she heard the hesitation in the young woman’s voice. With her father out, the shop probably didn’t have time for the types of project Helping Hands tended to need.
“Actually, it’s for me—my dishwasher. It stopped mid-cycle and locked. Any chance you could get someone out here this morning to look at it?”
“We’re pretty short-staffed, but maybe one-thirty?”
Beth sighed. “I can’t do this afternoon.” The thunder of two sets of feet echoed around her causing both her dogs to bark. “Go to the playroom if you’re going to act like lunatics!” She took a breath before continuing. “Sorry, this afternoon isn’t good, the kids have—Mandy, shh, I can’t hear a thing.”
Glory clucked. “Sounds like chaos over there.”
“Does that mean no?” Beth winced as she heard another crash. “Please?”
Glory sucked in a breath before saying to Beth’s relief, “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
Marc Demoda pulled into the gated driveway in front of an average-looking house. It was nothing flashy, as he’d expected after seeing the high security gate. The work order on the passenger seat listed an address and last name; Evans. Even though it was a small town, he knew little about the family. His sister had only said, “She’s a widowed single mom,”but the amusement in Glory’s tone had prompted him to say no, even when she promised it was a quick job. Less than a minute later, though, his dad had called, insisting that Marc help his VIP client. So, like the pitch you’d throw a batter with a full count, he planned on going in and getting out.Fast.
Standing outside the gray colonial, he heard the barking of two dogs and the racket of at least a dozen kids. This “quick” job was going to be a massive headache.
He was a baseball player, not a repairman. He needed to remember that.
Well, hehadbeen a baseball player. He wasn’t currently. But he’d be back in the game soon—he hoped.
The heavy black wooden door opened, seemingly by itself, and a small yapping mutt shot out and grabbed onto his leg as a little girl with dark blonde curls appeared. This tiny ray of sunshine was adorable, and he couldn’t help but smile at her. Her gray-blue eyes glared at Marc, silently accusing him of not being the person she wanted to see, and then the door slammed in his face.
He laughed. That wasn’t the usual reaction Marc got when he smiled at people. When was the last time he had really laughed? He couldn’t remember.
“Amanda Evans,” a woman scolded from beyond the door, “how many times have I told you not to open the door for strangers?”