Chapter 16
Fuck Him Very Much
WINONA
“Wait, nine courses? How is that possible?”
Calvin laughed through my phone, which I’d affixed to Flo’s dash as I drove home from picking up groceries. It was a Saturday, a full week since I’d fled Mitchell Harrington’s house. A normal activity, even though my life still felt completely upside down.
“It’s totally normal at a place like this, Win. They’re like, little mini-courses. But you’ll still end up stuffed.”
Calvin had just finished his phone call with the restaurant manager in New York. His dream job. Though he still had another two years of culinary school to finish, they wanted to take him on as an apprentice, part-time until he graduated.
It was the best news I’d heard all week. I was so, so proud of him.
I pulled onto my street. “Tell me again about the peach thing.”
“Oh yeah. It was killer.”
Calvin described again in detail the dessert featuring my favorite fruit. I could almost taste it. Until I took in the white van in my driveway and everything turned sour.
Panic coursed through my veins.
Adam’s found me.
But there was no way he could be here. Even if he'd somehow been paroled, my stepfather was still a federal offender, barred from leaving Canada.
As I got closer, I made out the sign on the side and let out a long breath, my body flush with relief. JB’s Handiwork.
“Calvin, I’m going to have to call you back,” I told my brother. I promised to call him tomorrow.
Johan “John” Bakker was seventy-five and had been my mentor when I used to work at Miller’s.
We left the company at the same time, he to retire, me to start my own outfit.
He’d fully failed at retirement, setting up a handyman business with a few of his buddies that did a little bit of everything around town.
“John!” I exclaimed as I hopped out of Flo. John, who’d been snoozing in the front seat with the window open, startled to life with a little snort.
He grinned when he saw me. “Hello,” he said as I came up to the side of the van, leaning in for a hug. “How's it doing on?”
I laughed long and hard at John’s purposeful fumbling of “How’s ya gettin’ on?” Another of my regular Newfoundland expressions I used to use with him every morning back at Miller’s. I’d missed John. He was a father figure to me when I needed one the most.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked him now.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I called,” John said, his Dutch accent still thick despite him having lived in the US for longer than I’d been alive. “So I thought I’d come tell you in person. Plus, I was hoping you might have a few of those cakes in the freezer. You know the ones.”
I laughed again, letting him know I did actually, and that I was just talking to their maker on the phone before I’d seen him.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in my kitchen with a pot of coffee brewing, a plate of defrosted chocolate cakes on the table between us.
“So, is everything okay?” I asked once he’d finished two whole pieces of cake and a story about his grandkids.
He looked healthy. His son and his family sounded like they were doing great.
But I still fought the bundle of nerves tight in my chest at seeing him at my house.
I still wasn’t sure whether this was a good visit or a bad one.
“Yes, yes, things are fine. Better than fine, truth be told,” John said, resting a hand on his belly as he sat back in his chair. “Now don’t be alarmed, Winona, but I’m here to do some work for you. The whole crew will be too, once we sort out exactly what it is we’re doing.”
I laughed, confused. “John. I didn’t call you for anything.” I was sure this was a joke. An excuse for a social visit. But something weird tickled up my spine at his expression, which was happy, but almost…bewildered, too.
“I know you didn’t, sweetheart. But you’ve got a benefactor.”
Just like that, I froze, the happiness I felt cracking like tempered glass. “Is that right?” My voice was taut.
“Yes. See, I got a call…”
John explained how he’d gotten a call from a woman just yesterday offering to pay for services at my house.
When I asked what kind of services, he said ‘all of them’.
John’s crew had retired painters, carpenters, landscapers, roofers…
and anything they didn’t do—or for bigger jobs—they helped contract out.
This ‘benefactor’ apparently had prepaid for quite literally everything my place could possibly need.
All those little jobs I’d put off for years, either because of time or lack of funds or…
a stubborn belief that I didn’t deserve anything more than the basics.
To anyone else, this should have been incredible news. A random gift.
But this was too strange to be random. Just like it was too strange when Mrs. Moody had banged on my door like a madwoman the other night when Cher and her family had been over. She’d been crashing out, saying she’d just chased off a Peeping Tom looking in my living room.
I’d freaked out at first, but when she told me he didn’t actually have his hands cupped around my window, that he was just standing out on the road, I knew.
“He was in a stolen car, Winona!” she'd insisted. “And he wasn’t scared when I said I was calling the police!”
Cher’s husband, David, bless him, had been the one to calm her down, walking her back to her house and promising he’d take care of things.
Cher, seeing I was on the verge of a meltdown, had very smartly kept her mouth glued shut.
If she hadn’t, I might have exploded, telling her how much I hated Mitchell Harrington—what a psychopath he was—and how I couldn’t fall asleep without feeling his breath on my cheek or hands gripping my hips.
The thought of him standing across the street from my house, making sure I was okay, absurdly made me feel safe.
It was so different coming from someone who didn’t hate me.
Mitchell’s unhinged behavior made me feel good. How deranged was that?
“Well, that’s very nice,” I said stiffly now. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell him I’ve refused.”
“Her,” John said. “It was a woman.”
Of course. Mitchell’s ever-loyal assistant.
“Sally, I think her name was. It’s on the paperwork, anyway.”
“Sal,” I said softly.
“That’s it.” It didn't click for John that I shouldn’t know her name. He reached for another piece of cake, stuffing half of it in his mouth. “She also said you’d probably refuse, which is why she told me she couldn’t accept any fund returns. Something about the way the charity worked.”
I tried very, very hard not to seethe. Now, I wasn’t the kind of person who’d say no to charity. I’d accepted lots of charity in my life, and I’d been charitable right back. I felt blessed to be helped when I’d needed it in the past and loved paying it forward.
But letting Mitchell Harrington take care of me meant opening up the door to dealing with him again.
And I couldn’t do that. Because if I did, I knew I’d be too weak to say no to whatever that was sparking between us a second time.
I’d done the right thing in making sure I didn’t get tangled up with that man.
I knew that intellectually. I had to stay strong.
“I know what you’re going to say next, young lady," John said. “‘Just keep the money, John.’ But you know as well as I do that I would never accept a dime for work I didn’t do honestly. Because you're the same way, Winnie. Keeping it wouldn’t be honest.”
Bless this man, the only person in the world I let use that nickname.
But to hell with Mitchell Harrington. My throat thickened with tears.
I glanced down at my phone as if I'd see his name there, the sensation growing more acute.
“John, I’m sorry. But I can’t accept it.
I…” I thought of the family who lived two doors down from me.
They’d emigrated from Guatemala four years ago and ran a restaurant downtown, but struggled with their exorbitant mortgage.
The house was a major fixer-upper—I’d done the plumbing for them for next to nothing when they moved in.
But they could use the help more than I could.
I explained the situation to John, glad to have found the perfect solution.
But John just shook his head. “That’s the thing, sweetheart. She said they were doing the whole block. That’s nine homes, including the one you just mentioned, and that spark plug of a lady next door’s, too!” John, a widower for the past twenty years, had a not-so-secret crush on Mrs. Moody.
But I couldn’t even tease him about that. I was too stunned.
“They’ve already set up an account with a sinful amount of money in it,” he continued.
“This project will set us up for the year.” He still sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it himself.
“I’m already calling in all the guys on the Freedom 85 baseball team to help out. I just had to tell you first.”
My stomach twisted, and to my shock and embarrassment, I couldn’t hold back the tears. Picturing all those happy retirees painting fences and patching up roofs sent me over the edge.
I covered my face, trying not to sob.
John panicked. “Oh dear. Sweetheart, this was supposed to be happy news.”
“I’m happy,” I reassured him without moving my hands. “So happy.”
But I wasn’t happy. I was furious. Devastated. Beside myself.
Because I knew this wasn’t manipulation. Mitchell didn’t set it up so I’d need to say yes. I didn’t even need to accept—he’d just do every house on the block anyway.
He also knew I’d closed the door on contact. And he was respecting that as well.
He was just being nice.
Fuck him very much for being so very nice when everything hinged on him being an asshole.