Читать книгу Secrets At the Cove - Honey Perkel - Страница 14

Tilly stood watching Brad Bailey as he examined the bedroom windows. He was a man in his mid-thirties, muscular, strong, but not in an ugly kind of way like some muscle-engorged body builder. But rather in a nice, polished, masculine way. His brown hair was kept fairly short, except for a hank in the front that swept casually across his broad forehead. His brown eyes were surprisingly soft, his chin strongly chiseled, and his butt tight. So were his faded blue jeans, she noticed.

The 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.