“I’m not sure,” she said. “My grandma put in a new one about twenty years ago, that’s all I know. The weather was so warm before the blizzard, I hadn’t turned it on yet.”
Wyatt smiled. “I don’t think anyone had their heat on yet. I know a guy who won’t turn his on until the first overnight freeze. So, yours isn’t working at all?”
“No,” she said. “The radiators are stone cold. Jim checked the pilot light, but that’s not the problem.”
“They might have to be bled—that may be all this is,” he said.
He must’ve seen the confused look on Tess’s face because he went on. “You need to sort of flush the radiators out every now and then. Every few years. It’s a buildup of air pressure that you have to release. Do you know if that’s been done?”
Tess shook her head. “I’d bet against it.”
Wyatt finished his cup and set it on the butcher block with finality. “Okay. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He picked up his tool kit and looked around. “Where’s the basement door?”
Tess wasn’t all too thrilled to be heading down into the basement, which had always creeped her out as a child. But she couldn’t send this man down there to root around on his own.
She turned on the light at the top of the old wooden staircase. It was the kind that consisted of just stairs, with no boards between them, so you could easily catch your foot on the way up and trip—as she had, many times, as a kid.
“Be careful on these rickety stairs,” she cautioned.
He nodded. “No worries. I know my way around these old Wharton houses.”
As they descended the stairs, Storm following behind, Tess noticed how dank and musty it smelled. Generations of dust hung in the air, along with a hint of malevolence that she always felt whenever she came down here.
Rows of metal shelves contained all manner of junk—old paint cans, gardening things, tools. A spade. A shovel. A pair of big loppers, all well worn and covered in dust. Her grandmother had been an avid gardener, but it seemed that nobody had set foot down here in years. Certainly she herself hadn’t, not since her grandmother had passed away.
“This basement is actually in pretty good shape,” Wyatt said.
“Really?” Tess wrinkled her nose at the gloom.
“Sure, it could use a good cleaning, but everything looks sound to me.” Wyatt spotted the furnace. “Here we are,” he said, nodding toward the behemoth.
“You’re familiar with these?” Tess asked.
“Intimately,” he said with a chuckle. “You don’t have to stay down here while I tinker around if you aren’t completely fascinated by old heating units.”
Tess smiled, relieved. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” she said and headed back up the stairs.
She brewed another pot of coffee, just in case Wyatt wanted a second cup after he worked. Then, she sank down on one of the kitchen chairs and waited.
Tess’s thoughts floated here and there. As she considered this man, she thought about the fact that, over the years, she had observed a few types of people in Wharton and on Ile de Colette, the island a twenty-minute ferry ride away.
Like many tourist communities, there were the summer people who had vacation homes in the area. Many, including her own family, had rather upscale tastes, which was why Jim’s grocery store always stocked fine cheeses from England, France, and Italy; charcuterie; organic produce; fresh pasta. If you needed the odd can of marinated artichoke hearts, pomegranate seeds, or a baby eggplant for a recipe, you could always pick it up there, along with locally grown veggies and other things like jams and pies made by people in the area. Many of the shops, too, catered to summer people, both homeowners and tourists, stocking expensive, trendy clothes, locally made jewelry, pottery.
And then there were the year-round residents of a few different ilks. Some were artisans, writers, musicians, painters, chefs, and other creative types who had somehow found their way to the area and stayed because of the artistic vibe. Others, like her friend Simon, ran businesses that catered to the tourist trade. Still others had grown up in Wharton or on Colette and were the people who kept the place running. Regular working folk who plowed the streets and ran the ferries and fixed what went wrong in the fancy houses, cobbling together a living as the backbone of the community. Tess figured Wyatt was in that camp. If he didn’t know how to do something, fix it, or handle it, he’d know someone who did. Together, they made Wharton.