Loving Thy Neighbor. Ruth Scofield

Hap. Whenever.”

      She felt his gaze boring into her back, right between her shoulder blades. She was about to turn the corner and disappear from his view when he muttered, “If you must, call me Hamilton.”

      “Sure, Hamilton,” she replied under her breath.

      Chapter Four

      “You mean you still don’t know what’s in that garage?” Laura asked, her jaw slack with amazement. Her brown-eyed gaze followed Hamilton’s progress as he retreated to his own yard, leaving few words behind him. He’d come over long enough to remove the lock, then left immediately, politely refusing a glass of lemonade.

      The sun hung low on the horizon, still hot but beginning to lose its heat. Quincee and Laura lounged on a patch quilt thrown under the tree, the remains of their cookout and tall glasses of iced lemonade neatly stacked on the wooden bench, while Kyle and Kerri played tag, running circles around the house.

      A huge feeling of gratitude always filled Quincee for her friend’s generosity. They’d been fellow teachers at school from the first day Quincee had arrived, nearly five years before. Laura, older by ten years and more experienced, had been her mentor. Hers had been the shoulder soggy from Quincee’s tears when Paula died. Recently, Quincee had cheered the loudest when Laura became the principle in an Independence school. Laura had assured Quincee a teacher’s position there, one of the reasons she’d been excited to find a house on this street.

      “Nope,” Quincee replied. “Had other things to do. Other priorities. We’re going to tackle it first thing in the morning, though. Want to come by and help?”

      “How can you wait that long? I’d be chomping to get to it.” Laura lowered her voice, tipping her head toward where she could see Hamilton between the hedge gaps as he strode toward his house. “Whew! That’s the judge, huh? And he’s the one who jerked your license?”

      “Yep. He’s the one.”

      “Has he said anything, referred to it at all?”

      “Not a word. Guess he leaves his work behind when he leaves the courthouse.”

      “Is he always that stuffy?”

      “Always,” Quincee continued, barely above a whisper. “Though sometimes, when he doesn’t know anyone is looking, he can become quite human. I think he’s rather lonely.”

      “Well, it seems to me he’ll make a problematical neighbor. I wouldn’t want to live next door to him.”

      Quincee grinned. “Weelll, actually…I think he’s kinda cute, if you’re into serious men. It’s just so much fun to tease him. He fumes in an interesting manner. And strangely, the kids have really taken to him.”

      “They need a father figure, I suppose.”

      “Mmm,” Quincee agreed.

      “But Quincee, you’d better watch it. One day your odd sense of humor will get you into trouble, for sure.” Laura’s gaze roamed over the big house looming over Quincee’s tiny one. “But you know, I think you’re right. He is cute in a brooding, Rochester kind of way. Are you sure you can handle him?”

      “Not at all.” Quincee let her tone grow serious. “I don’t think anyone handles Hamilton Adam Paxton, Three. He’s too upright, too ingrained in old-fashioned philosophies for me. Really, Laura, don’t worry about me falling for Hamilton. At this point in my life, I’m only hoping to make friends.”

      But he still had the finest of masculine eyes, Quincee thought. Perhaps the finest in the county.

      “If you say so,” Laura said, her tone dry. “Now we still have a couple of hours left of daylight. Are you really going to wait till tomorrow to see what’s in that garage?”

      “Nah. Let’s have at it!” Quincee couldn’t keep her irrepressible eagerness hidden a moment longer. “But I think we’d better wear gloves. Wait a moment and I’ll find some.”

      She could find only one pair, though, and she offered these to Laura.

      “Hap has gloves,” Kerri said.

      “Yeah, he wears ’em all the time when he works outside,” Kyle added.

      “I’ll go ask if we can use ’em,” Kerri said.

      “No, don’t, Kerri,” Quincee commanded. “Don’t bother him again. We’ve pestered him enough for one day. But do put on shoes, please.” The children had run through the hose sprinkler to cool off and were still barefoot. “No telling what creepy crawlers we’ll find in there.”

      “Ready, set, go!” Kyle called when they all were in place.

      They made a great production of sliding back the old doors, one adult and one child wielding a door together. The huge panels creaked and groaned, bucking stubbornly along the rusted track until at last they stood wide. Stale air and shock waves of heat rushed out, making Quincee blink and Kerri cough.

      Daylight reached only the middle of the structure, leaving the back corners in deep shadow.

      True to Bette and Gene’s declaration, stacks of cardboard boxes filled half the space nearly to the ceiling on one side. What looked to be a number of old bicycles in various states of wholeness and parts hung from wall hooks. Bundles of newspapers, yellowed and brown, a couple of barrel crates holding unknown items, worn-out tires and several pieces of outdated furniture haphazardly occupied a near corner.

      The four of them stood in wonder for long moments. “And this is only what we see without stirring a finger,” Laura muttered in awe.

      “Bicycles,” Kyle squealed.

      “Looks like your luck is in, sport,” Laura said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Yours, too, Kerri bear. But it may take a day or two to find one that’s all together and still works. What say you, Quincee? Is there treasure enough here for you?”

      “I scarcely believe it! Would you look at that?”

      “What?”

      “That rocker.” Quincee moved forward and tentatively removed a box from atop a rattan rocking chair. She touched it to set it in motion, but too many other items jammed its path. She shoved at a tall piece of furniture, covered with torn freighting blankets. It proved to be too heavy and wouldn’t budge.

      “And there.” She turned as something else caught her gaze. “Look at this old Formica kitchen table. What’s wrong with it?”

      “It’s way out of style?” Laura suggested dryly. “And it has one leg short. See?” She pointed to a block of wood under one leg.

      “Yeah, but it might be just the thing for Kerri and Kyle’s art projects.”