Coming Home to Greenleigh

Chapter 7

    Besides having had the very bad luck to run into Shawn Waterstone while she was trying to return the book she had pilfered from his bookshelf, the quarterly water bill had arrived, and Elisabeth had spent the afternoon doing complex calculations concerning her checkbook and the various household bills. At least, it had seemed complex. In actuality it had been no more than addition and subtraction--mostly subtraction--but it left her mind dazed and her stomach in knots. No matter how much fancy footwork she tried to come up with, the fact was that there were many bills but little cash.

    What she would have done without her checks from the law firm she had no idea. She had made several payments on her advance, but there was still enough left over for contributions toward her bills. With the research work that she did, it was possible to survive.

    But of course, when it rains, it pours, Elisabeth thought, banging absently at the water tank with a wrench. She had been operating for weeks now with lukewarm water at best, and she knew that there must be something she could do to rectify the situation. Trouble was, she couldn't think what. She viewed the tank with dismay. It was a big old thing, and she'd never paid it the least bit of attention. She was not terribly handy around the house but she wasn't useless, either, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to afford a professional repair. She had seen that when she'd tried to concoct some way of paying for that water bill. There just was no money to spare for extras--like basic maintenance, Elisabeth thought ruefully. She twirled the wrench about in her fingers, sitting back on her haunches and looking about the cellar. It was musty and dark, the single bulb dangling overhead a mere 25 watts. She had never wanted to waste the wattage of a more powerful bulb since she never came down here. Her father had not been a very good repairman, and he tended to just turn things off when they stopped working, so he had not spent much time down in the cellar, either.

    She sighed, pushing back a curl from her face, re-tucking it into her ponytail. Great, she thought. Now she probably had grease on her face on top of everything else. She recalled Shawn Waterstone's pizza-stained face and grinned, but the smile faded from her face as she considered how stilted and awkward their relationship was. How much longer before the water heater just gave up and failed? How much longer before she, Elisabeth Burnham, attorney-at-law, just gave up and failed?

    She tossed the useless wrench into the cluttered steel toolbox and slammed the lid shut. She had hoped that Lawson & Lawson would be a temporary solution, a source of income to tide her over during a rough spot. But she knew that her life was much like this house--in dire need of restructuring. Patchwork repairs wouldn't do the job forever. Neither would temporary checks from Lawson & Lawson.

    Elisabeth stood, giving the water heater one last weary look. Apart from a faint hissing sound, she couldn't tell whether it was behaving particularly oddly. She was tempted to give it a small kick, but refrained, just in case it collapsed into pieces.

    As she climbed the cellar steps, lugging the toolbox with both hands, she thought she could hear faint tapping. She paused, listening. For a moment all was silent. Then just as she began to move again, the tapping started up again. Someone at the door.

    "Coming!" she called. She hurried as best as she could, but banged her knee hard with a corner of the toolbox as she arrived at the top of the stairs. Wincing with pain, she dropped the toolbox, causing the lid to flip open with a crash, scattering unidentifiable metal debris across the smooth wooden floor of the kitchen. She saw immediately that the hinge on the lid had finally given way, the metal bits bent apart.

    "Damn!" she said with force, rubbing her knee. She suspected that it was bleeding beneath the stretchy knit leggings, and in any case it would certainly turn a most unattractive purple in a day or so. She limped out into the hall, grimacing at her reflection in the hall mirror. Grease stains marred her neck, as well as her oversized blue flannel shirt, and wisps of curly hair were escaping from her ponytail. She hobbled over to the door, swiping at her neck with her sleeve. Swinging it open she uttered a hasty apology for her tardiness. The words died on her lips.