Page 4 of Something Like Shelter

Willa sounded anxious, borderline panicked.

A baby was crying its lungs out in the background.

“What’s broken?” I asked, taking my coffee with me through my house toward my bedroom to get dressed.

“A pipe burst. I know that’s probably a job for a plumber, but you fixed my sink the last time, so I thought—”

“I can fix the pipe,” I assured her, my voice exaggeratedly calm to contrast her rising anxiety.

I marketed myself as a handyman, but I’d worked as a contractor for years and held certificates in just about everything from plumbing and electrical to HVAC. I figured that if I was going to run my own business, it needed to be evergreen. And people were always looking for a plumber, electrician, or HVAC guy they could trust. If they could have all that in one? Great. If that guy could also come and fix a hole in a wall or remodel their bathroom? Even better.

“Oh, thank God. I’m sorry it’s the weekend—”

“Don’t worry about it. Is the water off?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

“Thank you,” she said, sounding as close to tears as her baby was.

I hung up, tossed on jeans and a henley, then grabbed an extra in case I got soaked, and jumped in my van to drive from my sleepy suburb to the ritzy gated community of mini-mansions, privacy greenery, and the kind of spotless driveways that made me make sure my van was never leaking any kind of fluids.

Willa’s house hadn’t changed much on the outside since she bought it. The same old maple trees and gardens full of ornamental shrubbery. The same white house and black shutters.

The only thing that was different was that her mailbox door was hanging open, the inside stuffed so full that there was no way the mailman could fit another letter in.

I paused, grabbed the mail, then grabbed one of my toolboxes before making my way to the door.

I barely stabbed my finger into the bell before the door whipped open.

And there she was.

Drenched from head-to-toe, her soaked hair half hanging out of her ponytail. She had a thick blanket thrown over her shoulder and a baby pressed against that blanket to keep the newborn from getting wet too.

The baby was whimpering.

Her mother had red-rimmed and puffy eyes that suggested she’d spent the half an hour it took me to drive over crying with her baby.

“Owen. Thank God,” she said, sniffling. She moved back a step, inviting me in.

“Want me to go back and grab booties?” I asked.

“Why?” she asked, brows lowered. She’d never insisted on it before.

My gaze dropped to the baby’s mostly-bald head, just a few wisps of light brown hair.

“Oh! Oh, no. No. It’s not like she’s on the floor yet. But thanks.”

I gave her a nod.

I wanted to congratulate her.

But she looked so exhausted and vulnerable that I wasn’t sure the words would land right.

“I grabbed your mail,” I told her, placing it down on the nearest console table. “Want to point me in a direction?” I asked.

She looked particularly pained at that.