Chapter 8 Clayton #2
She literally tittered as she left the room, and I knew without a doubt that this particular bit of gossip was going to fly around the mountain, reaching every last person who lived here before the end of the night.
Great. I didn’t love parading my private life around town.
But I’d learned a long time ago that if you didn’t want it hitting the gossip stream, you needed to keep your head low and your business to yourself. Almost kissing the claims adjuster in a client’s home didn’t count as keeping my head low.
Rachel pulled back, her cheeks flushed. “Pot roast?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling heat creep up my face. “Sometimes folks can’t pay, so they give me a good meal instead.”
“Will work for food?”
“Yeah. I suppose so.”
Actually, I spent more time working for free than working for pay. Sometimes it was a problem, but not one I wanted to fix. I needed to help my neighbors up here on Red Oak Mountain. It was coded into my DNA.
The ones who could pay? I was more than happy to take their money. But folks like Mrs. Andretti? She needed my help. How else would she get the work done? She lived on social security alone.
Rachel’s expression shifted as she looked at me, something new entering her eyes. Like she was seeing me differently than she had before. “You really are the small-town hero, aren’t you?”
“Naw, I just like to help out a little when I can.” Then I changed the subject. “You want some lunch? I can tell you from experience that woman knows how to cook. You might never want to leave Red Oak Mountain after you’ve sat at her kitchen table.”
She gave me an unguarded smile, similar to the one she’d given me on her first night here when she’d spotted my couch.
Then she breathlessly said, “It does smell delicious.”
We followed our noses to Mrs. Andretti’s modest kitchen, where the most incredible scents were wafting from the stove.
The roast was delicious, as expected. Rachel looked like she was having a religious experience eating it. A home-cooked meal had to be better than what she got on the road.
After lunch, while Mrs. Andretti washed dishes in the kitchen and fed the dogs leftovers, Rachel and I stood in the muddy yard, looking up at the roof.
“The repairs you did last year,” she said quietly, her professional mask back in place. “They weren’t permitted, were they?”
My jaw clenched. “No.”
“You used salvaged materials and… non-standard installation methods.”
My chest tightened. “What I did last year shouldn’t matter.”
“And what about this year? Does she have receipts to show how much she spent on the work?”
My pulse beat erratically in my throat. I grunted out, “She needs that money. And what’s the difference between her waiting and having it done by insurance money or me taking care of it for her? Her house would have been ruined if I waited for the insurance money to come in.”
Rachel gently said, “But if she didn’t spend any money on the repairs, you know that means there’s no claim to pay out.”
I took in a deep breath and let it out again before speaking.
Then, in a low voice, I confided, “she needs to replace her entire foundation to stay in this house. The money from the claim will go to that.”
Rachel pursed her lips, worry appearing in her eyes. She consulted her tablet, scrolling through notes. “If I document this accurately, it will void her current claim. And not only that, the structure could be marked as unsafe. Maybe it should be marked that way.”
“That structure kept a seventy-eight-year-old widow warm and dry through one of the worst winters we’ve had in a decade.
” I kept my voice low, conscious of Mrs. Andretti inside.
“She couldn’t afford proper repairs. Her insurance had already denied the claim once because of some bullshit technicality about pre-existing damage. ”
“So you just did the work, anyway? Without permits, without inspections, or any guarantee that your repairs would actually hold?” Rachel asked in exasperation.
“My repairs held fine. Not a single leak all winter.” I stepped closer, frustration bleeding into my voice.
“You want to talk about guarantees? Your company guaranteed her coverage, and then they found every excuse in the book not to pay out. What was she supposed to do, freeze to death while she waited for the appeals process?”
“That’s not how it works, Clayton, and you know it.” Rachel’s voice was tight. “There are procedures and regulations. They exist for a reason.”
“They exist to protect the company’s bottom line, not to protect people like Loretta!”
Rachel frowned, “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I was close enough to see the conflict in her eyes.
She was struggling between what she knew was right and what her job required her to do.
“You’ve seen her. You’ve sat at her table and eaten her food. You going to tell me that old woman’s trying to commit fraud?”
“Of course not.” Rachel’s hand came up, pressing against my chest. “But if I don’t document what I see accurately, I’m the one who loses my job.
I’ll get the blame when the next adjuster comes through and finds unpermitted work that I should have caught.
And it’s pretty damn obvious. I was able to overlook it at Mrs. Patterson’s place because the salvaged materials weren’t as obvious.
But here… this place is as patched up as your own home, Clayton. ”
What she said made sense, but sometimes right and wrong wasn’t about what made sense. I growled out, “You follow policy. I prioritize people. That’s the difference between us, and I won’t step back from that.”
Her hand was warm through my flannel, her fingers splayed over my heart. She left it there a second too long, her eyes locked on mine, devastation in her eyes. She almost looked like she was about to cry.
I’d hit home with my words.
The anger drained out of me, replaced by something else entirely.
“I’m not asking you to lie,” I said quietly. “I’m asking you to see the whole picture. Not just the paperwork.”
Rachel’s throat worked as she swallowed. Her hand was still on my chest, and neither of us moved to change that.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” she whispered. “I’d be risking my job. Is that what you want? To see me out of a career?”
I gripped her gently by the waist, everything about us tilting in this moment, crossing a line from landlord and tenant, or adjuster and contractor, into something more.
“Of course I don’t want to see you hurt, Rachel. But I don’t want to see Angela hurt, either. Did you know she looks after her great-niece? Both of them will be homeless if you submit that report.”
She stared up at me with wounded eyes, and I could tell her heart was in turmoil.
And it wasn’t just about Mrs. Andretti anymore.
This was about us.