I helped her unpack a few boxes, and invited her for coffee because I remembered how miserable moving could be.
That was my mistake.
Within weeks, Vanessa developed a strange dependence on Irvin. Whenever something needed doing, she called him.
Not a plumber. Not a handyman. My husband.
That was my mistake.
The requests started small.
A jar of pickles she couldn’t open. A smoke detector battery she couldn’t reach. A loose cabinet handle.
Then came a shelf she wanted moved eight inches to the left. Two days later, she asked him to move it back.
Irvin was the kind of man who stopped for stranded drivers and carried groceries for elderly neighbors before they asked.
The requests started small.
He saw her requests as favors for someone adjusting to life alone.
I saw the way she watched him while he worked.
***
One afternoon, I was carrying a casserole into Vanessa’s kitchen when she looked at Irvin tightening a cabinet hinge and smiled.
“Look at those forearms,” she said. “Claire is the luckiest woman on the street. Though I bet she’s too busy with her flour to notice.”
I saw the way she watched him while he worked.
I ran a small bakery from our converted garage. I had spent six years building it, one loaf, cake, and cookie order at a time.
Vanessa knew exactly how much of my life went into it.
***
