The Only Purple House in Town (Fix-It Witches, #4)(17)
“It’s fine,” he said eventually.
“Fine” was what people said when they’d expected something else, different or better or both. Iris bit her lip and pretended she didn’t realize that. “I’m glad you like it. I’ll put the paperwork here. You can sign and return it later. I’ll leave you to get settled in.” She set his backpack on the floor by the door. “Oh, and if you’re hungry, I made oatmeal.”
She caught herself before she explained that she didn’t particularly like it, but it was good for her. And cheap. Cheap was the important bit until her jewelry business took off.
“I already ate breakfast, but thanks.”
“If you need anything, let me know.”
That was so awkward. She’d had roommates before, obviously, but she’d never been the responsible party. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be another disaster; she needed a break from relentless failure. Hell, if this fell through, there was no plan B.
“I will. Um. Iris?”
“Yeah?”
She paused in the hall, casting a curious glance back at her new roomie. Who really was distractingly attractive. During the interview she’d thought so as well, but having him in the house only reinforced her initial opinion. Hopefully, she wouldn’t embarrass herself by being even more awkward than normal around him.
Eli hesitated and then shook his head. “Never mind.”
With a mental shrug, she went back downstairs to finish washing her breakfast dishes and to put her leftover oatmeal away. As she opened the fridge, she realized she was barefoot, still in kitty pajamas and with unbrushed hair. OMG. Iris buried her face in her hands. This wasn’t the impression she’d wanted to make… Too late now. She supposed it was better to dispel all illusions since they’d be living together while Eli worked on houses. Or built websites? She wasn’t clear on what exactly he’d be doing, but as long as he paid the rent on time, it was none of her business.
She wanted to get upstairs to organize her studio—which wasn’t a word she normally used—but this was a fresh start. If she took some nice photos, updated her online store, and did some advertising, maybe she’d start getting orders. Every little bit would help. But she was expecting Henry Dale Macabee today as well, and she’d thought he might show up at the crack of dawn. But it was just past noon, and she still hadn’t heard from him. She had his check, and he had seemed desperate, so he’d turn up sooner or later.
Once she put her clean bowl in the drainer, Iris went upstairs, up, up, up—all the way to the attic. Fortunately, she’d only needed to haul a mattress up here on her own. The rest of the furniture had been hibernating here for decades, and she’d had this space cleaned as well, so at least she wasn’t breathing in a quarter century of dust. Once, she’d read that dust was mostly made of dead skin cells, and—
Yeah. Stop thinking about that.
She’d built herself a bed from old pallets she’d found tucked away up here, and she’d set up a seating area with two armchairs and a side table. Across the room, a dated dining table served as a workstation. Her clothes were still in boxes, bags, and suitcases, shoved up against the wall to clear a footpath. The sloped ceilings might bother some people, but for Iris, this space felt cozy. In summer she might feel otherwise, but since it was fall trundling toward winter, she had some time before sweltering heat became an issue.
She’d showered the night before, so she dressed in a ratty sweater and yoga pants and followed through on her plan to set up her workspace properly—bins full of beads, pendants and cabochons, pins and earring hooks, various wires and strands and tools. There was a certain peace in putting everything in its place, but it was impossible to focus when she was listening for the bell. When Henry Dale arrived, she’d have to sprint down three flights of stairs.
Finally, she took her sketchbook and sat in the front room, listening for the old man’s arrival. An hour later, he turned up in a rideshare with even less fanfare than she’d imagined, carrying only a small suitcase and a duffel bag. Iris couldn’t decide if it was impressive or sad to have lived so long and to own so little.
“Hey,” she said, stepping back so Henry Dale could come in.
She snagged his paperwork from the dining room table and led the way to the kitchen. The old man inspected everything with critical eyes; hopefully, he was imagining all the fun projects he could take on, not judging the house defective. She already felt protective of the place, even if she lacked the resources to restore its former glory.
The bedroom off the kitchen was on the small side: a single bed with an antique brass headboard, a small trunk, a night table with a vintage lamp, and a wardrobe. If Henry Dale needed more furniture, he could check the attic or supply it himself. Again, she’d tapped into old sheets and quilts that had been hidden away in various trunks, though she’d had the linens professionally cleaned also.
“Is it okay?”
He stood for a moment in silence, then he set his duffel on the bed. “I like it. No clutter. No nonsense.”
“Here’s your rental agreement. I haven’t deposited your check yet, but I will now that you’re officially rooming with me.”
His mouth pressed together, but she couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at the reminder or repressing a smile. Henry Dale had a weathered face that reminded her of an old map, as if it had been used well, folded often, and the lines represented roads he’d traveled and stories he could share. Then his shoulders rounded, as if he was repressing a sigh of relief.