Free Still Waters by Shirlee McCoy

end to the relationship. Sure, she could call him, but to what end? Obviously Brian had moved on.
    Tiffany rolled her shoulders against the tension there and glanced out the window. She could see Tom, bent over the porch railing, carefully sanding away old paint. The sound of sandpaper brushing softly against wood drifted through the window, easing the silence of the empty house. It was nice to have someone around. Even if that someone was a rather closemouthed teenager.
    Closemouthed, but efficient and hardworking.
    Tiffany smiled, and stood to gather some papers. She didn’t regret hiring Tom. He worked with an eye to detailand tackled the job with determination. Though the porch was large, stretching across the front of the house and around both sides, Tom had set a grueling pace for himself and didn’t seem at all daunted by hot weather or layer after layer of stubborn paint. No doubt he’d accomplished more in the five days he’d been working for her than she could have in two months.
    The sweet scent of lilac and honeysuckle drifted on the air, inviting Tiffany to enjoy the day. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time. With a sigh of regret, she grabbed a stack of work orders from her in box, placed them in her briefcase, rebraided her hair, and stepped to the window.
    “Tom?”
    “Yes?” Tom stepped closer, paint flecks clinging to his clothes and a layer of dust coating his dark hair.
    “I’ve got a couple of network jobs today. I doubt I’ll be done before five.”
    “Okay.”
    “Do you need a ride home?” Not quite seventeen, Tom had a driver’s license but no car. His father dropped him off in the morning but often didn’t finish his truck deliveries until late in the evening.
    “I think so.”
    “Okay. If I’m running late I’ll give you a call. There’s soda in the fridge. You know where the snacks are, so help yourself.”
    “Thanks.” Tom scuffed a worn sneaker against the porch floor and looked uncomfortable. Like his father, he was a man of few words and even fewer smiles.
    Tiffany figured it was going to take a lot longer than a week for him to warm up to her. In the meantime, she’d just keep feeding him. Though Tom rarely ate the snacks Tiffany purchased, he had yet to turn down the lunches or dinnersshe prepared. Tiffany didn’t know how long it had been since he’d eaten a home-cooked meal, but the first time she’d offered him dinner he had eaten with such gusto that Tiffany began making him meals every day. If nothing else, he would leave her employ with some meat on his bones. Smiling at the thought, Tiffany grabbed her purse and briefcase and headed out the door.
    It was past five when she returned home. The heat of the day had yet to give way to evening coolness, and hours of driving in an unairconditioned car had zapped Tiffany’s energy and turned her crisp linen suit into a sticky mass of wrinkles. Luckily she’d stopped on the way home and bought a chicken sandwich and some fries for Tom. She didn’t have the energy to cook. Or to eat, for that matter.
    A featherlight breeze blew against her skin as she stepped from the car, evaporating some of the moisture from her face and loosening tendrils of hair that clung in sticky clumps to her neck. The sound of Tiffany’s return brought Bandit lumbering around the corner of the house. A few flecks of paint clung to his black fur and he panted heavily as he approached.
    Concerned, Tiffany leaned down and patted the dog’s head. “What’s wrong, boy? You haven’t been outside all day, have you?”
    She glanced around, hoping to find Tom. It wasn’t like him to leave Bandit outside in the heat. “Tom?”
    The trim and railing on the front and sides of the porch had been stripped of paint and Tiffany could see Tom had finished his work for the day. As usual he had carefully cleaned up his supplies, the ladder leaning against a side wall the only sign he’d been working.
    Uneasy, Tiffany made her way to the backyard,