Runaway Wolfes of Manhattan Three - Helen Hardt Page 0,16

on her face.

At that moment, I thought I might do anything to keep that smile on her face forever.

11

Riley

Matt showed me how to start a nail in the picket, place the picket so it was level and plumb—and I learned what plumb meant—and he demonstrated how to nail it to the two-by-four cross support boards that he and Lucas repaired.

Then he handed me the hammer.

It was heavier than I expected, but then I’d never held a hammer before.

“Watch your fingers, honey,” he said. “If you hit one, you’ll probably lose a nail. Oh…and it’ll hurt like a mother.”

My fingers were the least of my worries. Right now I wanted to pound that nail in good and hard.

Wham!

That one went through one of my dead father’s eyes.

Wham!

I took out his other eye.

Wham!

His nose, that time.

Wham!

His mouth—that surly smile that meant one thing. He wanted…

Wham! Wham! Wham!

Each one gouged my father’s body until it was a bloody fucking mess. All those years, I’d imagined his demise and how I could make it happen.

Now? Someone else had done it and I’d been implicated anyway.

Motherfucker.

More accurate—daughterfucker.

Such a complete sicko.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

There weren’t enough nails in Matt’s truck to do all the damage I wanted to do.

“Easy.” He eased the hammer out of my hand. “That one’s in, Riley. Time to start another.”

I grabbed the tool back. “I’m done when I say I’m done.”

“Hey.” He cupped both my cheeks and looked into my eyes. “We’ve got plenty of pickets. Once the head of the nail is all that’s visible, you’re done. Okay?”

I nodded.

Fine. I’d hammered that one into my father’s skull.

Time to start again.

By noon, we were done. And boy, was I beat. But wow, it felt good to pound those nails with a hammer. My father’s corpse was full of a thousand holes.

A job well done.

“Mrs. Carson usually gives us lunch,” Matt said, “but if you’d rather, we can go into town. I know how you feel about carbs and fat.”

“Believe it or not, I’m starving,” I said.

“Of course you are. You just worked your cute little butt off for five and a half hours.”

“We should probably stay. I don’t want to hurt Mrs. Carson’s feelings.”

“Carnitas and cheese enchiladas,” Matt said. “That’s what she always fixes for Lucas and me.”

“What are carnitas?”

“Slow-cooked pork with onions and spices. It’s to die for.”

Pork, huh? I never ate pork. Beef and poultry only on occasion. I existed on fish and seafood, vegetables and brown rice. I wasn’t sure what pork would do to my stomach. But I didn’t want to be rude. Maybe if I just took a small portion.

“Does she serve any vegetables or anything?”

“Usually some rice.”

Okay, I could work with that. A very small portion of pork and a big plate of rice.

I followed Matt to the doorway and entered the small house. My mouth watered when I inhaled. Something smelled utterly delicious. This wasn’t any kind of pork I’d ever smelled.

“Come on into the kitchen,” Mrs. Carson called.

At least I assumed it was Mrs. Carson. I hadn’t actually seen her yet.

“Mrs. C,” Matt said, “this is Riley Mansfield. She’s renting my place for the week, and she helped us out today.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Carson trotted up to me. She was a spry old woman, and she reached up and patted my cheeks. “You sure are pretty.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Mattie, this one might be a keeper.”

Matt blushed. Seriously, he actually blushed. I held back a laugh.

“She’s only here for a week, Mrs. C,” Lucas offered.

“Only a week? Where are you from, dear?”

“Pittsburgh,” I said.

“Steelers fan, are you?”

“I don’t really follow football.”

“Neither do these two guys,” she said. “I’m always looking for someone to come over and watch the games with me.”

“Hey, we watch the games with you,” Lucas said.

“Only because I fix you nachos,” Mrs. Carson said.

“Why do you think we fixed your fence today?” Matt laughed.

“It smells terrific,” I said. No lie.

Contrary to what had been written about me in tabloid magazines, I was not anorexic or bulimic. I ate eleven hundred calories a day to keep my model body. I never threw up. My agent, Fredricka, blew a gasket whenever I put on so much as an ounce.

A sliver of guilt slid through me. In two days, I was supposed to fly to Paris for Dominique Cosmetics. I’d be calling Fredricka to have her smooth things over. She was a whiz with words. So the shoot would be postponed a week or two. I was distraught, after all. My father had just passed