Dead Reckoning (Sookie Stackhouse #11)(26)
Author: Charlaine Harris

"It’ll be fine when it’s clean," I said with determination, and I set to with the broom, sweeping down all the cobwebs, and then started in on the dust and debris on the planks of the floor. To my surprise, Dermot picked up a few rags and the glass cleaner, and began to work on the windows.

It seemed wiser not to comment. After Dermot finished the windows, he held the dustpan while I swept the accumulated dirt into it. When we’d completed that task and I’d brought up the vacuum to take care of the last of the dust, he said, "These walls need paint."

That was like saying the desert needs water. Maybe there had once been paint, but it had long ago chipped or worn away, and the indeterminate color remaining on the walls had been scuffed and stained by the many items leaning against them. "Well, yes. Sanding and painting. The floor needs it, too." I tapped with my foot. My forebears had gone crazy with whitewash when the second story had been added to the house.

"You’ll only need part of this space for storage," Dermot said, out of the blue. "Assuming the antiques dealers buy the larger pieces and you don’t move them back up here."

"That’s true." Dermot seemed to have a point, but it was lost on me. "What are you saying?" I asked bluntly.

"You could make a third bedroom up here if you only used that end as your storage," Dermot said. "See, that part?"

He was pointing to a place where the slope of the roof formed a natural area, about seven feet deep and the width of the house. "It wouldn’t be hard to partition that off, hang some doors," my great-uncle said.

Dermot knew how to hang doors? I must have looked astonished because he told me, "I’ve been watching HGTV on Amelia’s television."

"Oh," I said, trying to think of a more intelligent remark. I still felt at sea. "Well, we could do that. But I don’t think I need another room. I mean, who’s going to want to live here?"

"Aren’t more bedrooms always a good thing? On the television, the hosts say they are. And I could move into such a room. Claude and I could share the television room as a sitting room. We would each have our own room."

I felt humiliated that I hadn’t ever thought of asking if Dermot minded sharing a room with Claude. Obviously, he did. Sleeping on a cot in the little sitting room . . . I’d been a bad hostess. I looked at Dermot with more attention than I’d given him before. He had sounded . . . hopeful. Maybe my new tenant was underemployed. I realized that I didn’t know exactly what Dermot did at the club. I’d taken it for granted that he’d leave with Claude when Claude went to Monroe, but I’d never been curious enough to ask what Dermot did when he got there. What if being part fairy was the only thing he had in common with the self-centered Claude?

"If you think you have the time to do the work, I’d be glad to buy the materials," I said, not quite sure where the words came from. "In fact, if you could sand, prime, and paint the whole thing, and build the partition, I’d sure appreciate it. I’d be glad to pay you for the job. Why don’t we go to the lumberyard in Clarice on my next day off? If you could figure out how much lumber and paint we need?"

Dermot lit up like a Christmas tree. "I can try, and I know how to rent a sander," he said. "You trust me to do this?"

"I do," I said, not sure I really meant that. But after all, what could make the attic look worse than it did now? I began to feel enthusiastic myself. "It would be great to have this room redone. You need to tell me what you think would be a fair wage."

"Absolutely not," he said. "You have given me a home and the reassurance of your presence. This is the least I can do for you."

I couldn’t argue with Dermot when he put it that way. There’s such a thing as being too determined not to accept a gift, and I assessed this as just such a situation.

This had been a morning chock-full of information and surprises. As I was washing my hands and face to get rid of the attic dust, I heard a car coming up the driveway. The Splendide logo, in Gothic lettering, filled the side of a big white van.

Brenda Hesterman and her partner climbed out. The partner was a small, compact man wearing khakis and a blue polo shirt and polished loafers. His salt-and-pepper hair was clipped short.

I went out onto the front porch.

"Hello, Sookie," Brenda called, as if we were old friends. "This is Donald Callaway, the co-owner of the shop."

"Mr. Callaway," I said, nodding. "You two come on in. Can I get you all a drink?"

They both declined on their way up the steps. Once inside, they looked around the crowded room with an appreciation my fairy guests hadn’t shown.

"Love the wooden ceiling," Brenda said. "And look at the plank walls!"

"It’s an old one," Donald Callaway said. "Congratulations, Miss Stackhouse, on living in such a lovely historic home." I tried not to look as astonished as I felt. This was not the reaction I normally got. Most people tended to pity me for living in such an outdated structure. The floors weren’t really true and the windows weren’t standard. "Thanks," I said doubtfully. "Well, here’s the stuff that was in the attic. You all see if there’s anything you want. Just give me a yell if you need something."

There didn’t seem to be any point in hanging around, and it seemed kind of tacky to watch them at work. I went into my room to dust and straighten, and I cleaned out a drawer or two while I was at it. Normally I would have listened to the radio, but I wanted to keep an ear out for the partners in case they needed to ask questions. They talked to each other quietly from time to time, and I found myself curious about what they were deciding. When I heard Claude coming down the stairs, I thought it was a good idea to go out to tell him and Dermot good-bye as they left.

Brenda gaped at the two beautiful men as the fairies passed through the living room. I made them slow down long enough to be introduced because that was only polite. I wasn’t a bit surprised to notice that Donald was thinking of me in a different light after he’d met my "cousins."

I was scrubbing on the hall bathroom floor when I heard Donald exclaim. I drifted into the living room, trying to look casually inquisitive.

He’d been examining my grandfather’s desk, a very heavy and ugly object that had been the cause of much cursing and sweating on the part of the fairies when they carried it down to the living room.

The small man was crouched before it now, his head in the kneehole.

"You’ve got a secret compartment, Miss Stackhouse," he said, and he inched backward on his haunches. "Come, let me show you."