The Purple Mansion on Maple

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mykhail had been in the mansion with Louise for two nights, having taken the second room on the primary floor, yet Lou had seen him only once as he went out for materials. She went to work for four hours, and returned to find the fireplace in the foyer completely cleaned and prepped with cuts of wood. The brass bucket near it was even polished and filled with kindling, cut precisely and uniformly. The strange thing was, he was silent. Work would be completed, but Mykhail was absent for almost every moment of the day, save dinner. At 6pm, every night, Lou would put out whatever she’d concocted for herself, plus a duplicate dish for Mykhail at the table. He’d thank her, grab his plate or bowl, and remain in his room. The dishes would be returned, washed, dried, and put away the next morning.

That Friday, Lou didn’t have to pop into work for her obligatory half day. She woke suddenly to the sound of hammering in the southeast corner of the house. A slam followed by a torrent of what sounded like Ukrainian or Russian cursing ended in a loud crash. She grabbed her robe, whipped it around herself, and rushed to the conservatory. In the midst of the morning-light filled room, Mykhail stood covered in plaster and drywall, a hole gaping above his considerable height, hammer in hand. A ladder next to him indicated the hole had been his doing, intentional or not. “Are you ok? What happened?” Lou asked, hurrying to him in the event of a head injury or other symptom requiring attention. Mykhail locked eyes with her, a look of intense alert, surprise, and frustration mixed for a moment on his typically still features.

“Why you are home? This is weekday!” he blurted, startling Lou back for a moment.

“This is my home! I’ll be here when I damn please! Tell me what happened without yelling about my schedule!” She took a brave step forward, angry at his attitude, given she’d left a warm and soft bed to help the large Ukrainian man in her house as it fell apart around him. He looked at her, taking in her grey linen robe, her ferocious matching eyes, her dark blonde hair wildly surrounding her face, devoid of makeup or pretense. For the first time in years, Mykhail was startled by the power of a woman challenging him. And, oddly enough, she was furious because she’d come to help, and he’d been angry she surprised him. Mykhail did something he hadn’t done in even longer: he grinned. His face, generally set and stark, split open with a smile that completely disarmed Louise. She found herself grinning back at the ridiculousness of the situation. They chuckled together, Mykhail covered in fallen plaster, and Louise wrapped up in her simple robe, bare toes creating dots in the white chalk dust on the wood floor.

“I am sorry to yell,” Mykhail said sheepishly. “I have mess, where I wanted easy repair in ceiling. Apologies to you, miss.” Miss. See? That’s what women prefer. Err on “miss” and you’ll never irritate a woman who doesn’t feel like a ma’am, thought Lou. She smiled with equal sheepishness. She took in the white flecks clinging to his exposed chest, his typically buttoned workshirt opened a few inches lower than she’d seen before. Lou snapped her gaze back to his, realizing with horror that he had very likely seen her staring at his chest.

“Not a problem, sorry to intrude, thank you,” she said automatically, exiting the room backwards with a certain intensity to her gaze, determined not to be caught staring at his broad, inviting chest once again.

“Marcy, this must be what men feel like. He totally caught me staring at his chest.” Lou felt like a teenager, whispering urgently into her phone as she hid away in her bathroom, dying from the thought that Mykhail had caught her eyeballing him.

Marcy chuckled. “It’s ok to get the hots for a hot dude,” she said.

Lou held her phone out and stared at it, as though trying to determine if it was truly Marcy speaking. “What? I--what?”

Marcy laughed again. “Do you know when women are hot? Of course you do. I may not be attracted to them, but I know when a man is hot. He’s hot.”

Lou shook her head. “No, no, nope that’s a bad idea. He works for me. He lives in my house. He’s weirdly rude.” Marcy sighed on the other end.

“To quote: he works for and lives with you. Rude part aside, you have already created a space in which lines cross. This is uncharted territory.” Marcy let her statement hang, undeterred by Lou’s silence. Finally, Lou spoke.

“I gotta go, Marcy. I’m going to bathe and dress and pretend I’m a grown up. I have to get wine. And food, and toilet paper, but mostly wine.”

Lou hung up and sighed. She wanted to mutter, “I’m too old for this crap,” but felt, rather delightfully, that she wasn’t.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“You have to hold ladder steady, please to not kill me today,” Mykhail requested loudly, eight feet above Lou but still speaking straight ahead. The ladder was perfectly stable. Louise wondered, suddenly, if he was uncomfortable with heights.

“Do...do you not trust me?” She yelled upward, hoping he’d turn his face downward so she could mockingly take her hands off of the ladder. Rather, he gripped the ladder tightly and bowed his head very slightly.

“I am trust you. I am not trust myself, or the gravity, or mistakes.” His anxiety was palpable, and his tone exasperated.

It was the strangest moment, suddenly; Lou felt a deep need to ensure his trust was well-founded. She gripped the ladder. “You can trust me. Go up. I’ll come up, too.”

He finished the climb, and sat on the roof, moderately calmer. Lou joined him, and they both surveyed the unkempt grounds a good fifteen feet below. “Its really not that high, you know,” Lou said softly. “You’d live if you fell.”

Mykhail set his jaw and quizzically took in both Lou and her comment. “I’d live? Life is not much with broken legs. Or neck. You have strange sense of op-opmitis--strange sense of good things.”

“Optimism?” Lou offered.

“Yes, of this. You are strange.” Mykhail said softly, shrugging. His long, lean form felt less imposing as they sat side-by-side.

“How have you worked for years in construction without climbing up onto roofs?” Lou asked, mystified at his vulnerability on the ladder.

“I have people to go up for me. I have not been on top of roof for at least five, six years. I don’t trust my knees as much as a few years ago.” He brushed the flecks of dirt and wood shavings from his jeans.

Lou noticed for the first time that his hair, grey-flecked and short, was beginning to lengthen, lessening his intensity and softening his features. His nose had two bumps, off-centering it’s symmetry but enhancing his appearance. His mouth curved up slightly, revealing a playful smile that pulled more readily to the right than left. “You look at my face like is first face you have seen,” he said, not unkindly.

Louise raised her eyebrows, primarily at herself for being caught once more staring at him, but also because he was so specific, and so accurate. She’d never looked at a man with such interest devoid of scrutiny. “Yes, well,” she smiled, “I’m strange. Like you say.” She stood, wearing her bravery more overtly than usual, and climbed to the primary portion of concern with the roof. Mykhail readied his reserves of courage, and stood as well. As he walked toward her, a portion of slick moss on the roof betrayed him, and his boot slipped. Before he could correct or utter a sound, Lou’s hand snapped out, grabbed his, and anchored him. It was, possibly, unnecessary; but it had been instinctual, and Mykhail appeared convinced it was a marker of trust in this strange woman who had begun to enrapture his attention.

The roof was in strangely good repair. She saw now where the areas of renovation had occurred--but the northeastern roof, where she’d seen the leaks--was in a state. They tread carefully, and spent the day ripping up the dilapidated roof tiles. They worked silently, efficiently, until Lou broke the silence as their work areas neared one another. “Mykhail, where did you learn to build?”

He didn’t look up, but she could see his head tilt slightly as he considered his response. “I think, I have always built things. But no mentor, just countless other people to watch and observe. I have not considered this; maybe I can say, Ukraine taught me to build. Sounds silly, no?” He chuckled a little.

“Not really,” Lou replied. She wrenched up a nail with a grunt. “My mom was a good teacher for a few things, but ultimately, it’s just where you are. You have to make your life for yourself, right?” She sat back on her knees, considering his frame as he bent, removed a nail as though it were lodged in butter, and moved swiftly to the next, and the next. He put the nails in his jean pocket as he went.

“I think you are right, Louise. Some are blessed with teachers, others are blessed in time with tenacity, with strength.” Mykhail looked back at her. “I think maybe your daughters are blessed.”

Louise found herself smiling. “What a lovely thing to say. Maybe not always, though. I’ve made some pretty big mistakes, I’m sure.”

Mykhail carefully stepped over a stack of new tiles and sat, facing the side street. He picked up his bottle of water and offered it to Lou. Gratefully, she stepped over and sat next to him. As she sipped the water, Mykhail considered her for a moment. She was a worker. He had become accustomed to Western women and equity of responsibility, but he continued to be surprised by her willingness to sweat, put in long hours, and work until aches in the evening. She seemed to come alive with it, and he found her remarkably real. “Do you worry about your daughters?” He asked.

“I do. All the time. From the moment they took their first breath to this moment right now, I worry about them. In different ways, in different guises, but still, I want so much for them to be safe and happy in life. They all think I don’t know about their troubles, but they forget I’ve known them longer than they’ve known themselves.”

Mykhail smiled, his ears raising just a little with the small grin. “It would be hard to hide from you.”

Lou laughed. “It is hard to hide from any mother. But you’re right. I know Ellen knows I see through her, so when she stays away, I know she’s struggling. Rachel just won’t admit to problems, so I know when she’s hyper-talkative, she’s trying not to say what’s bothering her. Maggie is a different animal all together.”

Mykhail kept focused on her. “She is the red-haired one?” he offered. Lou raised her eyebrows.

“Boy, is she. To her bones, she’s a redhead. Smart, assertive, passionate. When she has problems, they are huge--even when they’re small,” she chuckled. “She’s my middle girl, the one that grew up before I could say anything because I was too busy with her sisters. Ellen and I were connected for those first two years--and by the time Rachel arrived, things had begun to unravel with Ash.” Lou stopped. She wanted to work, not talk about her ex-husband. Mykhail didn’t say anything. Lou steered the conversation away. “Do you have any children, Mykhail?”

Mykhail shook his head. “I have no children. I was not so fortunate as you, Louise.” He stood, smiled once at her, and motioned toward the final section. “Let’s work now. Too much talking.” He turned, and Lou smiled. It wasn’t rude, it was factual. Mykhail didn’t engage in social niceties that Lou was accustomed to--but he was unerringly kind. It balanced his interactions with her, and for some reason, reassured her of his honesty. He wasn’t bothered to pretend to be anything but himself; Lou nodded.

“Let’s get to it.”

CHAPTER NINE

In the early morning, Mykhail sat on a stool at the island; three weeks into their agreement and he had finally begun taking coffee with Lou, rather than his room. Just moments prior, as he entered the kitchen, Lou showed her surprise at his company. “I thought surely you disliked me,” she teased.

“No...maybe is your coffee I don’t like?” he replied, with gentle humor, and Lou had to acknowledge it was delivered with a tentative subtlety she found delightful and intriguing.

“Black?” She asked, pouring rich dark coffee into a mug.

“Is cream and sugar possible?” He asked politely. Delighted to be wrong, and strangely interested to see how he took his coffee, Lou provided cream and a sugar bowl to him with curiosity. Without hesitation, he poured cream in the cup until it nearly brimmed over, sipped it down, and added multiple spoonfuls of sugar. He caught her staring, and asked with hesitation, “this is strange? Most Americans have their coffee like this?”

Lou thought for a moment. “I want my coffee like that.”

Mykhail stared, then gestured with his hand as though to say, go on?

“But I don’t, I mean, I have it black or with a little cream or sugar.” Lou heard the ridiculousness of her statement before it finished. “Nevermind,” she said. She poured her cream and sugar to her actual liking, and scooped the mug up with eagerness.

“I am going to take a bath,” she said over her shoulder as she carried her mug from the room, and Mykhail watched her exit the kitchen with a strange fascination. She continued to confuse him; she would seem set and immobile on a specific thing--like the coffee, or as in days prior, how she wanted a window or wall--only to reassess and proclaim her new opinion, with the same validity as the last. It had become a point of interest to him; despite being a grown, mature woman, she determined her actions with a ferocity of an indignant girl. Despite being female, she asserted herself as a dominant male; despite her divorced state, she appeared incredibly desirable. Mykhail found himself, suddenly, very much departed from the Soviet Union, from Ukraine, from Crimea; he found himself lost in the idea of a woman named Louise.

A bath. He shook his head. His orthodox upbringing demanded he remove the imagery of her bathing from his mind; but it remained, taunting him. He imagined the grey robe hanging on the wall near the clawfoot tub. He imagined her foot, stepping in, seeking the warmth of the water and demanding the hottest of temperatures. He assumed she was too passionate about everything to settle for a warm bath, and so in his mind, he created for her a steam-filled room, water hot enough to turn her pale skin red and encourage her senses to heighten. Her honey-streaked hair would be let down, brushing over her shoulders, waves set free from their sensible braid or simple bun. She would sink low in the water, close her grey, soulful eyes, and sigh out a breath of contentedness. He warmed at the idea of this, so much so that he shifted in his seat, deciding he should divert is mind from such thoughts. He took a drink of coffee, trying to focus on the work for the day. He reminded himself that he had two other jobs that week, back north, and a multitude of things to check on while there.

Mykhail sighed as her heard the water start. He rarely sat in a hot bath. It was an enormous waste of water, of course, but ultimately it just felt bizzare to sit in a tub of water. His routine of scrubbing was interrupted by the incorporation of relaxation, and he made a mental note to insist on installing a working shower head in the bathroom in his room.

This house, this purple monstrosity, was speaking to him with it’s intricately carved wood on the staircase, the careful moulding on the ceilings, and the bathrooms attached to every single room. He wondered at it’s history--who would make such an enormous house in the late 1800’s, in such a remote area? It had to be wilderness and woods throughout this area, reliant on logging and salmon almost exclusively for it’s settler inhabitants. He imagined a man with an impossibly large family, wanting to build something that would fill with family, laughter, love, and warmth. This idea grew in him daily as he saw the carefully inset drawers in what had to have been a nursery; the large balconies begging for romantic evenings. The expansive space, multiple stairs; it all seemed to Mykhail the house was waiting for someone to take up the dream of filling it, somehow, with something meaningful.

CHAPTER TEN

They both ran to the foyer at the sound of a sharp zapping noise, and Lou reached the light switch to the chandelier first. The flickering and buzzing noises interrupting their morning coffee were snapped off with Lou’s quick reaction. The chandelier still looked shaky from it’s electrical tremors. “What was that?” Lou wondered.

Mykhail shook his head. “Not good,” he said. “Probably main wiring to light fixtures. I will go upstairs to look under floor at wiring.” Lou nodded as he turned to head upstairs, when it suddenly dawned on her that looking under her floors meant tearing up the beautiful attic hardwood.

“Wait! No!” She yelled, running after him. As they both stood in the expansive attic, she could see darkened slashes in the wood floor, burned from the wiring beneath. It felt like a small death. She knelt down on the wicked black marks with sadness. “I loved these floors. This space is exactly what I always wanted, it’s beautiful, the floors still smell like they were just put in, full of possibility.”

Mykhail watched her figure slump down a little, and marveled at her love of the wood, of the beautiful maple planks that absorbed and reflected the warmth of the sun as it peeked from behind the grey clouds intermittently. Shadows passed over Lou and the floor as he walked toward her. He bent down, his forearms on his knees, and ran his finger over the darkened wood. “You wanted a space like this one? For what?” He asked. He could smell her, that light, airy scent that carried lilac and honeysuckle on it, regardless of season. He wondered if it was her hair, or a soap she used; if it was her clothes, a perfume--it just seemed to emanate from her, regardless of whether she was dressed for work at her shop or work around the house. She turned and looked at him, her face dreamlike for a moment.

“I want an empty space. A place with windows, and naked floors, that I can make into anything. I don’t even know what. I just want the possibility. This attic, this room--the floor in particular, was perfect. It...it inspired me.”She shrugged, ready to reluctantly settle for less expensive, likely less beautiful floors.

He stood up. “Ok, no problem.”

“No problem?”

“Would you like to know what inspires me?” He asked.

“Yes, I would,” Lou replied.

Mykhail’s eyes shone with a pleased glint. “I like to fix things, make them the way people want them, especially when they don’t think it’s possible to find happiness in them again. I can give you your empty space back the way it was.”

Lou suddenly squeezed his hand with her own, shocking both of them, before she quickly released it. “You can give me the floors back?”

“I can. I will, I will enjoy doing this.”

The rest of the day was spent with the sound of sanders, saws, and thumping work boots above Lou’s head as she worked downstairs. It was the sound of someone, inspired, hoping to give inspiration to someone else.

Lou thought it was a remarkably beautiful sound.

The next morning, Lou rose at 6am to get in a walk with Marcy. Mykhail was in the kitchen, having already drunk his coffee and washed his mug. Her mug was left next to the pot, ready for her and sitting by itself.

“Where are you going?” Lou asked, wondering at the early start of Mykhail and slightly annoyed that he was packing a lunch. This meant, much to her disappointment, that he would be gone throughout the day.

“I have work,” he replied shortly, “Today and for tomorrow.” He saw her correct herself in a way only a woman can.

“Yes, of course. Have a lovely day!” She sang out cheerfully, and went about readying for her own work in town. Her advertising business ran fine in Cascadia without her, but popping in a few hours a day helps keep everyone on track. It may be a small town, but Louise had found that fierce competition between just two local businesses could require the essential touch of a gifted marketer. Or at least, this is what she said to Mykhail as he filled his lunch pail. Even as she said it, she rolled her mind’s eye at the self-aggrandizing nature of her conversation, and felt once more like the uglier of two insecure high school girls, talking herself up to overcome her perceived shortcomings.

“I will be here for dinner, with you, please, tomorrow evening?” Mykhail said, and suddenly her inner dialogue stopped. He’d had coffee with her, but never dinner.

“Lovely, it will be at 6pm. See you then,” Lou said, and for a moment floated out of the kitchen like a child before Christmas.

She immediately called her most romantic of children, Maggie. “What do I do, Mags?” she asked, uncharacteristically unsure. Maggie was utterly delighted at this prospect for her mother, and she offered her many intriguing suggestions.

“Wear something that you could have come home from work in, but sexy,” she squealed.

“What on earth does that mean, Mags? I don’t wear sexy things to work.” Lou replied.

Maggie thought for a moment. “Ok, wear a black skirt and black tank top, like your work stuff, but then add your knit cardigan. Then when he gets back, you say, ‘oh, hi,’ and take off the cardigan and voila! You have what is ostensibly a cute little black dress!”

Lou considered this, and was shocked at the simple elegance of the idea. “That’s good, Mags, what else have you got?”

By the time 5:30pm the following day rolled around, Lou had put in an aggressive end-of week work in town and was feeling powerful and worthy upon entering the Purple Mansion. She poured herself a generous glass of wine, and lit the oven. Despite the incredible heat in the kitchen, she was determined to keep her cardigan on to enhance the facade of “this was just my work clothes” concept. Sweat rolled down her temple, but she ignored it.

Her Shepherd's Pie was coming along nicely, and filled the kitchen with a warm, wholesome scent that pleased Lou greatly. It had been a long while since she’d attempted a romantic anything; she was slightly irritated at her giddiness, and fully pleased with her anticipation. At 6:05pm, she was generally irritated at Mykhail for being late. Plates were set, dinner ready and keeping, and two glasses of wine were poured (one of which necessitated refills due to the anxious nature of the situation).

At 6:15, Lou was drenched in sweat, and couldn’t bear her heels a second longer. She flung one off angrily--and possibly with slight drunkenness--and managed to kick the second directly through the living room window. The shattered single-pane, ancient glass gave as though thin ice under a horse’s hoof, and Lou uttered a loud expletive that was likely heard for a mile. To her horror, Mykhail stood in the doorway, having witnessed the entire scene, utterly frozen as he took it in.

“No! No, no, no!” Lou screeched, and as she hobbled to collect her shoe, embedded a sharp glass shard into her foot. Yelping in pain, she nearly hit the floor littered with further sharp pieces, only to be scooped by a suddenly-there Mykhail. He effortlessly carried her to the sofa, propped her foot on a pillow, and dashed back to the kitchen to find a moist cloth.

This is the most awkward, horrible thing, Lou thought. Then, with further horror, she realized that she was wearing “control top, shaping tights”. If he’s going to romantically help me, I have to peel myself out of these gigantic spanx. She frantically began lurching her hips up in an attempt to peel down her tights, once so sexy in her mind, and now very much like an unwanted string wrapped around a plump pot roast. With the bathroom water running, she knew she had moments to remove them; once more, she was proved wrong. Mykhail re-entered the room suddenly, uttered an “Oh!” as she struggled midway out of her tights, and about-faced back to the bathroom. Lou didn’t know what else to do, save let out a strangled yell, and finish removing her tights.

Once the fury of the moment had ceased and a blanket was modestly over her body, Lou uttered a frail call to Mykhail to come back. He entered hesitantly, appearing moderately shocked and still quite unsure what he had walked into.

“I don’t want to talk about anything. Please help me. I have glass in my foot. Also you were late.” Lou looked up at the ceiling, biting her lip, wishing very much to erase the entire evening from both his and her mind.

Mykhail worked assuredly and quietly removing the glass shards with tweezers as she gritted her teeth. “I was late,” he said quietly, “I am sorry you are hurt.” Lou was unsure if he meant by his tardiness or the glass, but was determined to salvage her pride. She was furious at herself for being breathless at his touch, gently cradling her foot and prodding each shard free.

“It’s nothing. Thank you for your help. There is dinner if you’d like, I’m going to go to bed.” She attempted to stand, and was certain her hobbling left blood stains on the floor. Still, she was in no position to request more help. With what remained of her evening, she cried her modestly inebriated self to sleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning, Lou limped to the kitchen for much needed coffee. She made a mental note for the first time in a while now that sounded like her teenage self: I am never drinking when sad again. As she hobbled about the machine and clicked it to “on”, she noticed a beautiful, colorful bouquet of flowers in a vase on the counter. Dahlias, her favorite, in what must have been the last of the season’s bloom. Not one color, not two, but a bouquet of flowers with each its own shape, color, and size. The small card beneath it read simply, in bold caps, THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. THESE ARE LIKE YOU; STRANGE, UNEXPECTED, AND BEAUTIFUL. -Mykhail

Lou’s breath caught, her stomach clenched, and her legs weakened. This was why he was late; he had selected a different flower for each element of this bouquet, because he rightly determined it would please her. Louise felt known in that moment, and after years of being a mother, a boss, a worker, a friend, and more recently, a grandmother--Lou felt she was known as a woman. As herself.

Mykhail came into the kitchen, jeans and a t-shirt, unexpectedly casual in socks rather than work boots. It was a moment where both felt vulnerable, and seen, and aware of the other in a space that was distinctly their own. “These are perfect, Mykhail,” Lou breathed, leaning against the counter, still holding the card. “I’m sorry for last night,” she finished. She kept her eyes locked on his, delighted and disturbed by his presence, and strangely, his stocking feet.

“There is no apologize you need. I hope your foot is not too painful?” He asked, pouring himself and Lou each a cup of coffee. With another strange gesture of familiarity, he prepared both cups, with heavy cream, heavy sugar, and Lou felt she was indulging in a great many things in the months leading to this moment. She also didn’t feel the need to stop the indulgence.

“You aren’t wearing boots. I have never seen your feet,” she said wonderingly, and realized instantly what an odd thing it was to say. But Mykhail laughed, and Lou thought it was a laugh that immediately evoked a smile at it’s freely uttered sound. It was oddly uninhibited, oddly intimate, like this moment.

“You have not seen my feet, strange Louise. These are stockings, yes?” He smiled, curling up his toes, and Lou giggled low.

Then, as though every moment in her life had to be somehow overshadowed by her overthinking, Louise wondered how it could all tumble down into hell in a handbasket. She knew he was from Ukraine; she knew he had come here from Canada. Suddenly, she needed to know why. Why he was clearly so skilled at carpentry, electrical, plumbing, you name it--and yet chose to work for free, living with someone he didn’t know when he could easily be making more money, anywhere else. He noted her silence, and his smile faded to the set resting place it had sprung from. “You have questions,” he said, once more pinpointing her thoughts.

She had the feeling she often had before making verbal choices that had lasting impacts. The moments before blurting, I want a divorce to her children’s father the day after she found the second set of cheating texts. I quit the day she decided she could run a business better than her incapable boss. More recently, Here’s my offer on the purple mansion on Maple.

“Why are you here?” She said vulnerably, softly.

It felt rude, suddenly, to say such a thing. She would have asked him were he born and bred in the USA; the question was more how did you come to be here. She hoped desperately that he’d understand her meaning. He sat down on the kitchen stool, wrapped both calloused hands around his coffee mug, and looked strangely at ease.

“I like it here, Louise. Is peaceful.” He took a long sip of his coffee, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on hers, which been amplified under her now incredulously raised eyebrows.

“Are...are you finished with that thought?” Lou asked, meaning you’d better expand on that.

He smiled, once more, and Lou marveled at how addictive that smile already was. “I understand your question. My answer is complicated. I came to Canada because of the trouble in Crimea. My home, my everything just few years back was destroyed. I volunteer, but was fighting war for rich men who care nothing about my home. I lose everything. My only...my only family I have left, I have to protect. So I go to Surrey, British Columbia. Money here is easy, but the medicine is not. My only family is...it is ok to say, is sick. They cannot live easily, they need the medicine in Canada. So I settle them there, and I come here to work. They are happy there, I am happy here. I send them money when I can, I have no living expenses. So, I like it here. It is peaceful.”

Lou hadn’t heard Mykhail speak this much in their months together combined. She knew he worked here and there, and hadn’t thought about the likelihood he was much like she was--a consultant of sorts, in and out to lend expertise. There was a part of her that felt slightly injured by his lack of assertion that she was part of his reason for staying, but quickly realized it was unfounded. She was, ostensibly, a housekeeper or landlord. It made her feel moderately shamed, and immediately haughty.

“That makes sense. Thank you for clearing that up. Will you go back once the house is finished?” She smiled politely, as though inquiring for a friend. Mykhail grinned, again disrupting her perception of the situation.

“You want me to go back, Loushenka?” He sipped his coffee. Lou realized, with a sudden jolt, that he was flirting. She knew enough from Russian movies that calling her Loushenka was calling her a diminutive, girlish name. She lightly sucked her teeth, narrowed her gaze, and felt an unwelcome blush rush from her chest to her face.

“I suppose it’s an old house. Lots to be fixed. You never know what might happen,” she replied. Her abdomen clenched as he stood gracefully, forcefully, and for yet another moment, his 6’3”, lanky frame seemed to fill the kitchen as he stood across the island counter from her. Even at 5’7”, she felt dwarfed, and her eyes travelled up to his, her breathing in the front of her senses. She thought rapidly, what does he smell like this morning, what’s going to happen, is this insane, is he going to kill me, STOP THINKING, LOU, HE’S WALKING TOWARD YOU, when quite suddenly, he was directly beside her, facing her, waiting for her to turn toward him. He smells of wood, and sleep, cotton. She reminded herself to take a breath before she once more fell all over the place.

Mykhail cautiously moved his hands to the outside of her arms, gently holding them as they rested at her sides, just near her elbows. Lou thought she’d faint from the electricity, and reminded herself to calm the hell down, she was a grown woman. Simultaneously, she knew her reaction was unstoppable, unmanageable, heated.

He spoke soft, and low. If he had ever been anything, it was gone--he was Mykhail, in front of her, a man, and Lou had never paid such attention as she did in this moment. Her ears flooded with her heartbeat; her neck and face, cheeks and eyes flush with warmth.

“Loushenka, the house is why I came. But you are the reason that I am here,” his dark, illuminated brown eyes, lined with thick, black lashes, intense as ever, enveloped her as his hands slid up her arms to cup her face, sliding his fingertips into her hair. His fingers are in my hair, Lou thought, and as if it hadn’t been years since she’d been kissed, she tipped her chin up to him, looking through her lashes, anticipation coursing through her. It’s like I’m a teenager, she thought, not for the first time, as she felt her breath rush in and out in short bursts over her parted lips.

He ever so gently lowered his mouth, pressing it lightly, then firmly onto hers, and the mutual sensation of overwhelming, molten inner reactions left them both leaning into each other for support. His beard was surprisingly soft against her skin, yet still sharp to her senses. He released her, too soon, moving his hands down her arms, cradling her waist, closing his eyes, gently shaking his head.

“This is, very much...I--I don’t have the words. Is...nezdolannyy, I must stop or I will not stop,” He chuckled, his laugh catching in his throat as his heavy breaths interrupted the sound. Lou grinned at him, pleased, enraptured, and felt herself give permission to study his short-cropped beard, streaked with grey. His tousled dark hair, curling ever so slightly above his ears; his intense gaze probing Lou’s for insight into what happens next.

Lou felt a strange sense of power. A delightful, inspiring, mounting sense of control that she refused to feel guilty about. She had been easily won in years prior; she had given herself completely to men who had found her devotion unworthy of their own, despite their words indicating otherwise. Louise Chapman decided in that moment that she would be more honest than she had ever been, ever before.

“I am fascinated, and wholly attracted to you,” she said. He maintained his fixed, intrigued gaze. “But I am also not a teenager, despite how I may feel in this very moment. It’s nearly 9:30. I think we should get to work, Mykhail.” Mykhail beamed at her, and while she couldn’t describe even to herself why she had reluctantly engaged the proverbial brakes, he understood, and agreed.

She suddenly blurted a thought. “What’s your last name, Mykhail?”

He smiled, and replied, “Is different than how you think of last names. But you can think of my name as Mykhail Korotsyupenko.”

Louise smiled. “You will have to write it down. I will never be able to remember it.”

Mykhail smiled back. “Give it time.”

The two brought out their list, and a final, major project remained: the windows.

They had ordered the seemingly endless stream of windows delivered the week prior, but had declined tearing anything out in favor of better weather. A look at the cloudless blue sky and a weather app display of pure sun over the next five days provided the incentive to select the least challenging windows to replace. Lou marked with a sharpie the windows that she wanted done first, second, third, and so forth. Mykhail set to work on the first as Lou walked around, determining which were of utmost importance. As he began ripping out the frame, the view outside caught his eye. Lou’s eldest, Ellen, was corralling her two daughters as they ran around the car, oblivious to their mother’s increasingly loud warnings and threats about being smashed into pancaked by wayward cars. Once they had all crossed the street, they stood below, taking in the mansion. The girls had never seen the inside, only giggled as they drove or walked past to and from grandma’s about it being haunted. They pointed up to Mykhail, who waved kindly through the glass. Ellen nodded briefly, and ushered her girls inside.

Mykhail knew he wasn’t trusted, and didn’t ask to be. In his experience, people--women in particular--made their own decisions about you, whether you like it or not. He continued to work, listening as the girls crashed into the new surroundings.

“Grammy it’s AMAZING and creepy and we LOVE IT SO MUCH!” The girls, five and seven, were ecstatic. They ran up the stairs, yelling, “Where’s the man?!” as Mykhail smiled privately. They thundered into the room, halting just shy of his workspace. Both had close-cut, short brown bobs with small hairbands, delicate features, and bright, clever eyes.

Mykhail stood tall in front of them, and could well have been a giant in their minds. Unafraid, the youngest, Margo, stepped forward. “Are you the worker that is helping Grammy Lou?”

Mykhail looked at the hammer in his hand and smiled a half-smile. “No.”

The girls burst out laughing and ran back down the stairs proclaiming him the funniest man they’d ever met and could they see the back yard.

He saw the next window, marked “two”, near the first. He knew Lou had selected these two because she loved to read in the chair between them, loved to watch the street, the leaves, and night sky on clear evenings. He selfishly moved to the other side, the side facing the backyard, where windows “three” and “four” loomed above the girls, Lou, and Ellen as they sat on the back patio. He didn’t want to spy, but simply to see their gaiety, the way Lou doted on them, and how she guided the younger version of herself that arose in Ellen. He’d only seen them together a handful of times, but he knew Ellen depended on Louise in ways even Lou was unaware of. He knew, of course, because his own family did the same. It’s not easy, he thought as he wrenched the frames from the wall, to be the person others center upon.

Lou looked up, suddenly, and caught his eye. She smiled at him, and in the spirit of her grandchildren running around her, stuck her tongue out ever so childishly. He burst out laughing, and in the house by himself, the sound reverberated in warm echoes. It reminded him he had laughed more, smiled more, and found more joy in this house than he had in much of his recent years.