The woman stopped at the screen door and began digging in her purse.
He’d watched her do this the other night too. It took a painstaking five minutes to find her keys, and when she finally did, it felt like she spent half an hour trying to find the lock and turn the knob.
He dropped his gaze to the measured line on his board. He considered pulling the trigger and starting the saw. He glanced up again.
Still rooting in her purse.
He glanced at the board again. Set the saw down.
“Mrs. Lewis!” he called, stepping off his porch and then jogging across the street.
She looked up at the sound of her name and watched him until he reached the bottom of her steps.
“I can’t help noticing.” He pointed up above her head. “Is something wrong with your light?”
Mrs. Lewis, still holding the key, blinked a few times. Apparently she wasn’t used to men approaching her in the twilight of eight thirty.
“My light?” She turned back to the door. Craned her head upward. “Oh, yes, I’ve had trouble with that light for a few months now.”
“Would you . . . care if I take a look?” He gave her an easy smile. “I do know my way around a light switch.”
She flapped her hand dismissively. “Oh, honey, I see you out there working. I know you do.” If he didn’t know better, he’d say he heard a bit of teasing in her voice. She turned toward the door. “Just let me . . . get us inside here . . . and—”
“Here.” Chip slipped his phone out of his pocket and turned on the flashlight.
With the knob illuminated, it took but a moment to get the lock turned and them both inside the tiny foyer. Mrs. Lewis turned the living-room lights on and began walking toward the kitchen with her bags.
Chip turned toward the row of switches by the door.
“It’s the far left one. Can I get you something?” Mrs. Lewis’s voice carried from the kitchen. He heard a refrigerator opening. “Tea?”
Chip flicked the switch three or four times. Nothing.
“No thanks,” he called back, then stepped outside to get a closer look. “Have you tried a new bulb?”
“A neighbor tried a few weeks ago,” she called back. “No luck.”
He frowned. “I’m going to grab some tools from my truck. Can you direct me toward your basement?”
When his attempts at a quick fix tripped the breaker twice, Chip knew he’d be spending the rest of the evening working in Mrs. Lewis’s house, running a new circuit from the panel to the light fixture.
Well. Who needed indoor plumbing anyway?
After three more polite refusals of tea, coffee, and crumb cake, he was in the basement, halfway into removing the existing wire from the 20-amp breaker.
He heard the front door creak on its hinges and muffled voices upstairs.
Mrs. Lewis said, “I don’t care how much trouble the sequined body suits are giving you, Evie. It’s our spades night. If you want to work on costumes, you should address it on the fridge calendar. Honestly, it’s like you don’t respect the schedule at all.”
Chip paused in unscrewing the panel.
The hardwood floor above squeaked. “Mrs. Lewis, tell Evie she can’t sneak off to her basement to work.” He knew that muffled voice. He’d know it in his sleep.
Mrs. Lewis spoke. “She’s right, my dear Evie. Work your fingers to the nub, and you won’t have any fingers left to be my partner. Not that it makes a difference, as we’ll lose either way.”
Evie grunted.
He knew it was Evie, because the first time he heard that grunt he’d thought it came from a wild animal. But no, it was just Evie, sulking and grunting as Bree dragged her into the passenger seat of her car for work most mornings.
Bree and Evie were quite the odd couple. Fascinating. But odd.
A new voice spoke up, just as the rhythmic thud-thud, thud-thud-thud of a tapping foot came from above the joist a few feet to the left. “Forget spades. Can we talk a minute about how I’m going to lose my job?”
“C’mon, guys! Listen to you all!” Bree interjected with all the spirit of a football coach down at half. “It’s game night! Where’s your spirit? Where’s your pinazz?”
“It’s at the Barter,” the woman with the tapping foot replied, “where I also left my hope for a living wage and a bright future.”
“Birdie,” Bree said, “you’ve got the face of an angel and the toes of Ginger Rogers. You’ve been tapping