Millie remembered him right away. “Why didn’t you tell us you were a celebrity?”
“What?”
“I thought you seemed familiar. You’re the guy on the big billboard on the highway.”
Half the patrons in the restaurant had turned to stare.
“I kind of like to keep a low profile,” he said, regretting his choice of personification.
“Hon, with your pretty face plastered fourteen feet high and three times as wide, that ain’t gonna be possible.” She laughed. “You here for breakfast? What can I get ya?”
Aware he didn’t have any legal money, he’d eaten before he’d left the Castaway. “I hope you can give me a little information.” He showed her the paper. “I’d like to apply for this job, but I don’t know where to go.”
“This is Kevanne Girardi’s number. You sat next to her yesterday. She bought the old Richter Lavender Farm, and I imagine it needs a lot of work. As they got up in years, the Richters kinda let the place go.”
“Can you tell me where it is?”
The once-over Millie gave him would have made a Verital proud. “I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I hate to be wrong. Don’t make me wrong,” she’d said. “Kevanne wouldn’t like me sayin’ so, but she could use a good man to help her out.”
Following Millie’s directions, he’d ridden the hover scooter to the lavender farm. The cloaking screen had kept the rain off, but after hiding the vehicle in the woods, he’d had a short hike to the house. He’d figured out the button alongside the door would summon the resident, but he’d pressed it and nothing happened. Wondering if he was at the right address, he’d gone around the house to look for another door. Then he spotted Kevanne standing in her kitchen.
He glanced around the room, noting a primitive food preparation appliance, a large cold-storage cabinet, open shelving stacked with flowered dishes, and a large basin rusted in spots. There were sprigs of dried purple flowers in vases, the same flowers repeated in the pattern on the cloth draping the window.
Her home didn’t show any evidence she lived with anyone, but he couldn’t be sure. The main room where he’d entered had an old long cushioned chair-bed covered by a woven blanket. To the front and sides of the chair-bed were some battered wooden tables. Mounted on the wall was a modest-sized viewing screen. By his estimation, there seemed to be a dearth of furniture and personal possessions, but maybe humans weren’t acquisitive. He didn’t know enough about them to judge.
He heard a click and squeak, and then Kevanne reappeared in a pair of faded blue pants, rubbed white in places, and a hooded gray jacket. She’d pulled her hair into a tail. He missed the riotous mass, but having it scraped off her face showed off her cheekbones and emphasized her large brown eyes. Her eyelashes looked thicker and longer and her mouth pinker. Had she applied pigment?
She eyed his cup. “Can I get you another?”
“I was hoping you’d offer!” he said.
“Would you like some banana bread to go with it? Have you eaten? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“I would like banana bread, thank you.” Since yesterday’s diner meal, he was eager to try more Earth foods.
She took his cup and prepared more coffee. After handing it back to him, she cut slices off a brown loaf, placed the pieces on some small plates, and then withdrew a dish of berries from the refrigerator. She brought the berries and the banana bread to the table, along with eating utensils, paper napkins, and her own coffee.
Did he use the fork for both the banana bread and the berries or just the berries? He sipped his coffee and waited for her to act first. There were so many subtleties to blending in.
He waited until she picked up a slice of bread and ate a mouthful, before doing the same. It was moist, slightly sweet, and nutty. “Delicious.” He chewed.
“Thank you. So why do you want to work as a handyman?”
“I need money.”
“Aren’t you with a modeling agency? Didn’t you pose for the billboard? Can’t you get more work like that?”
He considered his answer before speaking. “The…opportunity fell into my lap unexpectedly. It was a fluke.”
“So, you’re not a world-famous billboard model?” A smile teased her mouth, and desire blasted through him.
“Not by a long shot.”
“What did Millie tell you about me?” she asked.
“That you needed a good man.”
“What!” She choked, turning red.
“She meant the work,” he fibbed. He’d inferred Millie had meant a whole lot more. “I take it you’re not mated, I mean—married?”
“I’m widowed. My husband had a heart attack and died.” She got up. “Would you like more coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.” His cup was still nearly full. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He suffered the loneliness of not having a mate, but that couldn’t be as bad as having one and losing her. Given his ideologies and participation in the opposition, he hadn’t dared to mate. Despite the bond, a loyal Xeno would have turned him in if she had discovered his leanings. If she didn’t rat him out, and if he’d been apprehended, she would have been punished also. He couldn’t put an innocent woman at risk.
Kevanne’s back was turned as she refilled her cup. “Dayton died a year and a half ago. I’m getting over it, am over it.”
“How long were you married?” he asked quietly.
“Ten years.”
“And now you’re running the lavender farm on your own.”
She shook her head. “No. Well, yes, I am running it on my own, but I bought the farm after Dayton died. I’ve only had it a few months. I’ve always loved lavender.” She glanced at a vase of dried flowers, and he made the connection.
Lavender was a flower! Now he identified the floral fragrance drifting around her.
She waved at the kitchen. “This is why I need a handyman. This place needs work, and I have to get it whipped into shape by the summer tourist season. Have you done any fix-it work before? Plumbing, carpentry, roofing, basic home repairs? Rototilling? Planting?”
His hopes of earning some money sank. He couldn’t do any of those things she mentioned—didn’t know what they were. Plumbing? “This would be my first handyman job,” he admitted. “But I learn fast. Tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll figure out how to do it.”
“What kind of work have you been doing?” Her gaze dropped to his hands.
Was he losing the personification again? Alarm shooting through him, he took a peek. His skin still looked human. “Something wrong with my hands?”
Her cheeks tinted. “You don’t have working-man’s hands. You have the hands of a professional—an office worker.”
“I used to oversee communications for a…uh, consortium.”
“Like public relations?”
Nothing so innocuous. “More like intelligence gathering,” he admitted, and realized he’d erred when her eyes widened.
“Like a corporate spy?”
Loyal to the consortium, he’d held the same attitudes and beliefs as any other Xeno when he’d begun monitoring and analyzing electromagnetic signals from project planets and donor worlds. He’d assessed how each civilization was progressing and reported any significant or suspicious activity to the High Council. But as he listened in on the chatter, doubts and questions arose to chip away at his assumption of supremacy, of entitlement. He began to view the project planets in a new light, developing a fondness for and protectiveness toward his subjects. When situations arose that might have led to euthanizing, he moderated and filtered the data, submitting redacted reports to the council.