LITMIR.BIZ

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young man cut around the window frame with a utility knife, and tried to jimmy the sash, but to no avail. The window was indeed stuck. Tilly watched him as he worked. He was methodical in his investigation, and was finally ready to give his report.

      “I thought at first it might be a problem with sloppy painting, but I can see it’s a faulty cord system. It’s just worn out, Mrs. Jacobs,” Brad scratched his head as he explained. His voice low and smooth.

      “Please, call me, Tilly.”

      “Tilly. Cute name,” Brad smiled at the woman standing before him. She wasn’t bad looking for a woman her age. She seemed nervous. Was that just her nature, or the fact she was alone with a strange man in her bedroom?

      He ran into this all the time. These broads were all the same when they were up against a handsome, virile young man such as himself. The insecure meets macho man. Brad chuckled to himself. Removing a tape measure from his toolbox, he set about measuring one of the casements, and made some notes before measuring another.

      “Do I need new windows?” Tilly asked.

      “I don’t think so, Mrs. Jacobs ... uh, Tilly. I like to keep the windows intact in these old beach houses, if possible. Keeps the integrity. They don’t build them like this anymore. Can’t with today’s codes.

      “I agree with you,” Tilly replied. “The house has so much charm.”

      And this room — it was her favorite room in the house. The walls were covered in a blue on white flowered wallpaper, the windows dressed in white ruffled curtains. The large brass bed dominated the space with a blue chenille bedspread, and white throw pillows arranged neatly on top. A white dresser held a tray of assorted perfume bottles, and framed pictures of herself and Richard, of Mark at Rockaway Beach when he was four years old, and skiing when he was fifteen, all organized according to height. The bedside tables were also white with a blue porcelain lamp on each. And in the corner was a reading nook, a slipper chair, which had belonged to her mother, and a table made of burled wood that Richard had bought her soon after they’d been married. On it was a stack of her favorite books.

      Tilly continued to watch Brad. She patiently waited as he worked up some numbers on a scratch pad, and handed the slip to her. “That’s the bottom line, Tilly. If you want to talk it over with your husband and let me …”

      “No. No, that’s all right, Brad.” Tilly said looking over the tallied price on the sheet. “Three hundred twenty for both windows is a fair price for replacing the pulley-work inside.”

      Brad smiled at the woman. She would never know he’d kicked up the price fifty percent. He did that sometimes. To Meredith Connors and Sophie Craft. He’d added two hundred-fifty dollars to Sophie’s bill when he built her porch railing. And these women loved his work, were willing to pay anything, and even passed his name on favorably to their friends. It happened all the time.

      These older women were not always the smartest consumers, he’d discovered early on. Where their business-sense husbands would’ve gotten a second estimate, these women often didn’t want to or think they needed to do the same. They trusted him to take good care of them. Fine and dandy. It was their loss. It was a game Brad Bailey played. He liked to toy with his female customers — had even been known to bed them from time to time.

      “When can you start the job?”

      “Friday morning. I have to finish a cracked foundation job, but I can be here by eleven.” He told her.

      “That’s great, Brad. I usually come home for lunch, but I’ll make it a bit earlier.”

      “Whatever is best for you,” Brad commented in an off-handed manner. “Some people feel comfortable leaving me a key.” It gave him a chance to do a little snooping around the house. He never took anything, of course. Brad looked at Tilly closer. He hadn’t noticed how green her eyes were until that moment. Emerald green. Nice.

      “I’ll be here early,” Tilly assured him.

      Brad rustled up his tools, and returned them to his long metal tool chest. Then Tilly walked him down the narrow staircase, and out the front door.

      The fog was finally beginning to burn off. Patches of blue spattered across the gray sky, and the ocean was coming into view down along Surfer’s Cove.

      “How do you think the house looks in general?” Tilly asked slipping her hands into the deep pockets of her gray trousers.

      Brad stood and studied the outside of the cottage. It was a great house, like so many at the cove and elsewhere in Seaside. Cozy little bungalows, many eighty, ninety years old, still sporting the low-hung windows. Cedar shingles that had long ago weathered to gray still looked intact. Gutters and drainpipes, vinyl to guard against rust, the greatest threat to homes along the coast. The porch was sound, he noted.

      “How is the roof?” Tilly asked him.

      “Looks good. How old is it?”

      “Eight years.”

      “Should last another twenty years or more.”

      “Good.” Tilly nodded with satisfaction.

      Brad gave a friendly wave as he backed his red pick-up truck out of the driveway. He looked forward to seeing Tilly at the end of the week.

      Iris

      Iris stood in the center of the living room. The sight of cat fur and clutter was overwhelming. This was the last thing she wanted to do: sort magazines, straighten stacks of books in the bookcase, polish furniture, vacuum, wipe down walls and ceilings, and wash dishes. However, Scott was coming and she had to put her house into some sort of order.

      Perhaps she should hire a cleaning crew to take on the job. Iris wouldn’t admit it was depression that kept her from sprucing up the place. Well, why not admit it? It was true enough.

      Flowers and felines. Iris wished only to spend time with them. They wouldn’t hurt her as the humans in her life had done.

      She should just sell this old house and live in her garden. That was where she spent her time, where she lived, after all. Besides seeing Scott, it was the only thing to bring her any joy these days.

      The blooms were calling to her even now. She could hear them clearly, their cries ringing amidst the sound of the ocean. “Iris,” they cried in unison. “Come. We want you to take care of us. And we will take care of you.”

      Her garden wanted to survive. So like herself. Even when her husband, Samuel, was alive, Iris had been trying to tread water. Especially when Samuel was alive.

      Those were such bad years — when her sister Laura and her husband, George, offered to help. They wanted to save Iris the shame that would undoubtedly engulf her life. Well, some help! Laura had stolen the most precious thing in her world. Iris’ husband was a drunk, and her sister was a thief! The words screamed in her head. Now she had nothing.

      Her thoughts returned to her flowers. Iris tried to concentrate on the joyous hum coming from her plants. The purple cosmos, larkspur, fuzzy lamb’s ears, black-eyed susans, asters, and bluebonnets. The voices, real or otherwise, were all speaking to her at once.

      Then Iris saw a shadowy figure in the open doorway. It took her a moment to focus her attention before she realized it was the pretty Molly Bradford standing on her porch.

      “Molly! My dear, Molly,” Iris cried, scratching at her unruly gray hair, and patting it in place. “Do come in.”

      Molly stepped from the bright glare into the gloom of the house. She took a moment for her eyes to adjust. “I’m yours for the rest of the day,” she announced, proudly.

      “What?” Iris was puzzled. Had she missed something? Bitsy dashed into the room and ran around in a circle chasing her tail. The black feline stopped in midstream, turned, and chased the other way.

      “I know your nephew’s coming on Friday. I thought you might need some help straightening up,”

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