Pen Pal

I stand next to the kitchen window with the letter in my hands and read it again in the gray afternoon light. Then again. Then once more, because it’s so bizarre, my brain refuses to come up with any plausible explanations for it.

Probably because there aren’t any.

The overhead lights flicker back on, illuminating the room.

Throwing my arms in the air, I say to the ceiling, “I wish you’d done that when Mr. Everything’s Great Eddie was here!”

Then I fold the letter, put it back into its envelope, set it on the table, and pour myself a glass of red wine. I gulp it down, deciding on impulse that I need to make sure the house is secure. I go from room to room, checking window latches and door locks until I’m satisfied that I’m locked in tight.

After that’s done, I sit down at the kitchen table and make a list. I always think best with a pen in my hand.

POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS

• Someone is fucking with you.

I immediately cross that out, because obviously someone is fucking with me. The question is why? And why now?

• This Dante person saw the article in the newspaper about the accident
• He smells money
• He’s trying to pull a lonely-widow scam

As soon as I write that down, I think I’ve nailed it.

He’s in prison, after all. To get there, he had to do something bad. So the man has what could be politely called compromised morals. He probably trolls the obituary section of the newspapers and sends these letters out to new widows all over the place, hoping one of them will take the bait and write him back so he can strike up a relationship and seduce her into sending him large sums of cash.

But the letter is too weird to be scam bait. And too specific. He should’ve just said he was a lonely guy looking for a pen pal, not that he could still taste my skin.

Or that he knows the shape of my soul.

What does that even mean, anyway? What does any of it mean?

“Nothing,” I mutter, glaring at the envelope. “It’s a fraud.”

I specifically don’t address the mystery of how a letter arrived on my kitchen table without me knowing how it got there—again—because I suspect I’m having more lapses in memory and brought it in from the mailbox myself.

I take a little consolation in the fact that the letter from the mysterious Dante had no overtones of hostility. Admittedly creepy with all the “I know you” business, but at least he isn’t threatening me harm.

Though I suppose he wouldn’t be able to. I think I read somewhere that prison correspondence is monitored. He’d probably get in trouble if he tried to send a violent threat through the mail.

Not that he’d have a reason to send a threat. Michael didn’t have any enemies, and neither do I. We’re your average middle-class married couple, both overworked and overtired, so our idea of fun is snuggling together on the sofa to watch a movie on Friday nights.

Was. Our idea of fun was watching a movie together.

We’ll never do that again.

The sudden tightness in my chest makes it impossible to breathe. Dizzy, I rest my head on my forearms and listen to the rain tapping against the windows like a thousand fingernails.

“He’s just a jerk felon who’s trying to prey on a vulnerable woman,” I tell the tabletop.

It doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel worse.

Who does this guy think he is, sending me this crap?

Whoever he is, he clearly has mental problems.

I sit up abruptly. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s not trying to run a scam on me at all.

Maybe the mysterious Dante is simply out of his mind.

I’m not sure which I feel more: empathy or trepidation. I mean, if the poor guy is only locked up because he’s got some kind of mental illness that wasn’t diagnosed and he should really be medicated, not incarcerated, that’s one thing.

On the other hand, he did something to land himself in prison. What if it was something violent?

He could be dangerous.

I remove the letter from the envelope and read it again. An odd impulse makes me lift it to my nose and sniff.

A faint whiff of cedar and wood smoke fills my nostrils. And something else, earthy and musky, like the scent of a man.

Or an animal.

The thought unsettles me. I fold the letter quickly and slide it back into the envelope, then take it upstairs to my bedroom and stuff it in the back of my underwear drawer.

Then I go back downstairs, log on to my computer, and do a search for Seattle roofers.

When the doorbell rings two days later, I’m in the laundry room, folding towels. I head to the front door, hoping an actual person will be there this time when I open it.

There is.

And he’s everything sweet, smiling Eddie is not.

His height and size are immediately intimidating, as is his stony expression. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark beard covering a square jaw. Wearing faded jeans, battered work boots, and a hunter-green button-down shirt rolled up muscular tattooed forearms, he looks like he just wandered out of the forest after building himself a cabin from trees he cut down with an axe.

To my great surprise, I find him sexy.

It’s surprising because he’s not my type at all. I like the clean-cut, Wall Street type. A man with an advanced degree or two, excellent hygiene, and a solid understanding of how a 401(k) works.

This guy looks like the founder of an underground fight club.

He stands in the doorway gazing at me in intense silence until I say, “Can I help you?”

“Aidan.”

When it becomes apparent that’s all he’s going to say, I assume he’s looking for someone named Aidan who he thinks lives in this house.

“I’m sorry, there’s no Aidan here.”

His stony expression flickers with what appears to be contempt. “I’m Aidan. From Seattle Roofing.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the white pickup in the driveway with the company name stenciled on the side in red letters.

Embarrassed, I laugh. “Oh! Sorry, I thought you weren’t coming until next week.”

“Had an opening in the schedule,” he says without a trace of warmth. “Thought I’d drop by. If this is a bad time—”

“No, no, this is great,” I interrupt, swinging the door open wider. “Please, come in.”

He steps across the threshold. Instantly, the foyer feels smaller. I shut the door behind him and gesture toward the kitchen.

“I’ll show you where the leaks are, if you want to start there?”

He answers with a wordless nod.

I feel as if a rabid wolf is following behind me as we make our way into the kitchen. No, not a wolf. Something bigger and even more dangerous. A gorilla, maybe. Or a lion.

“So that’s where the water’s coming in,” I say, pointing to the kitchen ceiling. “I had a handyman out to look at the electrical. He also looked at the roof and said something about the deck needing to be cut out and replaced near the turret.”

Aidan doesn’t look at the ceiling. His cool, steady gaze remains fixed on me.

“You get the electrical fixed?”

“No. Not really.”

“Which is it? No or not really?”

He doesn’t smile when he says it. There’s no hint of playfulness in his tone or expression.

He isn’t hostile exactly, it’s just that I’m getting the impression he’d rather be anywhere else on earth than here.

I take a moment to answer, because I’m not sure if I even want to have this guy in my house. I’m finding him more and more irritating with every passing second.

“The handyman said he couldn’t find any problems with the wiring, but I’m still having issues.”

Aidan grunts. “I’ll take a look at it.”

“You do electrical, too?”

His dark eyes meet mine. “I do everything.”

He says it flatly, as if I’ve deeply insulted his manhood. As if he can’t believe that I couldn’t tell just by looking at him that he’s Captain Capable.

I wish someone else were here so I could turn and ask a reasonable person what they think Aidan’s problem is, but since I’m alone, I’ll have to figure it out by myself.

“Do you do impressions of a person who knows how to be polite? That might come in handy from time to time. Like right now, for instance.”

His brows draw down over his eyes. “You want your house fixed or you want to have a tea party, lady?”

His rude tone makes my hackles go up. “I don’t have tea parties with wild animals. And yes, I’d like my house fixed, but I don’t pay people to be mean to me. Also, my name is Kayla. In case you haven’t noticed, women are actual individuals. So are you going to act like a human being now or are you leaving?”

He bites back whatever insult he’s got brewing and glowers at me. Then he looks up at the stains on the ceiling and exhales a slow breath.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s been a bad couple of weeks.”

When he swallows and a muscle in his jaw clenches, I feel like a jerk.

It’s easy to forget that everybody else has problems when you’re so caught up in your own.

I say softly, “Yeah, I get that.”

He glances at me. Warily, as if he’s not sure if I’m about to give him a smack or not, which makes me feel worse.

“Listen, let’s start over.” I stick out my hand. “Hi. I’m Kayla Reece.”

He looks at my hand. Something approximating a smile lifts the corners of his mouth, but disappears before it commits to staying.

He takes my hand and shakes it solemnly. “Nice to meet you, Kayla. Aidan Leighrite.”

His hand is huge, rough, and warm. Like the rest of him, except for the warm part.

I smile and drop his hand. “Okay. Now that all that’s out of the way, will you please help me with my roof? I’m desperate.”

He tilts his head and considers me. “You always get over stuff so quickly?”

An image of Michael’s casket being slowly lowered into the ground flashes through my mind. My smile dies. A lump forms in my throat. I say tightly, “No.”

Aidan’s gaze sharpens. I can’t stand to meet his piercing stare. Suddenly, I just need to be alone. I can already feel the hot prick of tears welling in my eyes.

Backing up a step, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “The roof access is in the master bedroom closet. Upstairs, first door on the right. I’ll let you take a look around. Please excuse me.”

I turn and leave him standing in the middle of my kitchen.

I barely make it into my office and get the door closed behind me before I burst into tears.