Home Repairs
Prologue: Lovers’ Meeting
by L. Inman
Home is where one starts from.
—T.S.
Eliot, Four Quartets
“There. Turn there.”
Rupert grunted and made the right turn into an unkempt lane. Through the grasses and unbarbered trees they could see the house where it was set back from the road, a smudge of brick and aged beam. Rupert negotiated the bumps in the lane slowly and at last pulled up in the drive at the front of the house. “This the place?”
“Yep.” Elisabeth popped the door and got out. Rupert followed, slowly.
She had just reached the herringbone brick front walk when he said abruptly, “Is that—is that the tweed suit I took you to the tailors for?”
She stopped to face him and gave a half-twirl, making her satchel flap briefly out from her side. “Yeah.” She frowned at his look. “What, don’t you like it?”
His eyes were on her figure, discreetly, if glamourously, swathed in the two-piece tweed suit she had picked up from the tailor yesterday, just in time for her business appointment. “Oh, yes, yes I do,” he stammered. “Very much. I just….”
Her lips twitched. “What.”
He seemed to know he was heading into deep waters: he answered tentatively, “When you said you planned to ‘knock them dead’, I thought you meant in a business way, not in a—in terms of—passion.” He dearly looked as though he would like to take that last word back, but remained silent.
Her lips curved into a full-fledged smirk. “Rupert,” she said, “I did mean it in a business way. And I suspect that this ‘passion’ for me in my tweed suit is really more an idiosyncrasy of yours.” She turned and continued up the walk. He jumped to catch up with her.
“Fine,” he said, “make fun of me.”
“A passion,” Elisabeth continued, “that I plan to reward in good time.” She cocked a smile over at him.
“Just like
Buffy and
“Oh, no,”
Elisabeth said earnestly, “I’m not making fun of you like Buffy and
He snorted. “Remind me why I came on this little business trip with you?”
“For moral support,” she said, for the third time.
He sighed. “You don’t need moral support, Elisabeth.”
“I didn’t say I needed it, I said I wanted it. The man happens to be a pig, and I happen to have my own personal source of testosterone, and I’m not above using it to counter bad vibes when I make a house call.”
He grunted. “Well, if you’d waited a few days, you could have brought Andrew for that.”
She snorted; he shot a sidelong glance at her and broke into a little grin, and they both laughed. But Elisabeth ended the laugh with a sigh. “Poor Andrew.”
“And what about poor Rupert?” he demanded, as they reached the oak front door of the house. She glanced at him, reaching for the knocker, and decided he was playing up his aggravation for humor. She answered him in kind.
“Did you not hear me say something about a reward, later?”
His only answer was a blink and a nonchalant tip of the head.
She rapped the door smartly five times with the knocker. “Besides,” she said quietly as footsteps approached, “It’s hardly poor Rupert on a day he gets to bring Ripper out to play, is it?”
*
As it turned out, however, Rupert did not bring Ripper out to play. Instead, exasperatingly, he quickly abandoned his decorative pose as Elisabeth walked over the steps toward purchasing the library from the late Mr Greenbill’s estate, and began to wander over the empty house, studying the bookshelves idly, sucking his front teeth in an infuriatingly absent manner. He’s right, Elisabeth thought; I would have done better with Andrew. But never mind: she seemed to have Mr Greenbill fils well in hand; or at any rate, he was making no truculent interruptions to her explanations of her role in the selling of the library—cataloguing, preservation, mold cleanup on the books in the study—even her finder’s fee seemed to be going down well. Elisabeth was secretly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
They moved into the study, where most of the incunabula still lived, though some things had already been carefully packed into cartons. Elisabeth laid her satchel on the only surface in the room, a battered table, and drew out her bulleted list of steps in the selling process. “Now,” she said, “if we are to meet your goal of getting this library sold within a few weeks, you ought to consider selling it whole to the highest bidder rather than breaking it up and selling it piece by piece, though of course you run the risk of getting a smaller net profit in the long run.”
“Well, I’d like to be quit of it as soon as possible,” Mr Greenbill said uneasily as his wife pinched her lips together and wrung her hands, “but—did you say—I might get less money if I sold the whole thing at auction?”
She could see the little abacus going behind his weasely little eyes: if he sold the whole library quickly, someone else might realize a large profit, and we couldn’t have that. On the other hand, if he got it sold quickly he could get a large lump sum all at once, which he could invest elsewhere. Elisabeth said casually, “Well, it can go either way. It depends who you get to come to the table, and who’s willing to spend a lot for a mixed bag. The other option, of course, is to break the library into a few large pieces and auction them—the incunabula, the modern fiction, the limited editions, the children’s lit, the eighteenth century travelogues….” She stopped as the man’s eyes began to glaze, and at that moment they were interrupted.
“Sorry,” Rupert said from the doorway, “but—may I ask—is that a conservatory through here?”
“Oh!” Mrs Greenbill jumped as if she’d been pinched. “Yes, it’s straight through there—of course you’re welcome to look at it. In fact, I could give you a tour if you’d like….”
“Oh, yes,” Rupert said, with courteous absent-mindedness, “a tour would be lovely.”
Mrs Greenbill glanced at her husband, as if for permission; he gave it her with what he probably supposed was a regal nod, and returned his attention to Elisabeth.
“You’ll have to excuse my partner,” Elisabeth said, with the faintest of flushes. “He’s like the Elephant’s Child.”
Mr Greenbill, still regal, waved a hand. “Oh, that’s all right, Miss Bowen. It’s no harm to show the place—though,” he added in a mutter almost to himself, “showing it’s all we’ve managed to do.”
Elisabeth cocked her head at him, in polite interest.
He heaved a sigh. “To be frank, Miss Bowen, the library’s actually the least of my concerns. I’m mostly worried about this—” he gestured round at the study— “white elephant. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who wants to buy and redo an old house, would you?”
Elisabeth shook her head regretfully, looking around the study, which was indeed in sad disrepair. It was a mercy the books had been found in such good condition. “How old is it?” she asked, absently.
“Restoration era, they tell me. Which means it’s had a couple centuries to fall apart. It’s had a fair few owners, and none of them’s held onto it long—except my father, of course. Dug himself in here and didn’t even do anything to improve the place.” Mr Greenbill sighed with exasperation. “I might never get it off my hands.”
“Well,” Elisabeth said, “I do wish you the best of luck with it. It’s a nice old place; pity it’s in such bad shape.”
He grunted.
In the end,
Mr Greenbill swallowed his pride and decided to put the library as a whole on
the auction block, which meant that Elisabeth would have her work cut out
getting the books catalogued and in proper shape in time. Rather than have to drag himself up from
“Enjoy the tour?” she inquired.
“Well—yes,” Rupert said. “Was quite fascinating, actually.”
She looked at him indulgently over her glass-rims. “I’m almost done here.”
“Ah. Excellent.”
While Elisabeth finished the formalities between her and Mr Greenbill, Rupert wandered along the edge of the main lobby of the house. Watching him from the corner of her eye, Elisabeth thought she could recognize the look of rapt interest taking over her partner’s face as he puttered about the room, examining woodwork and fixtures.
Oh dear, she thought.
She had to pry him loose from the study before they could go.
“Well,” she said, when the front door had shut between them and the Greenbills, “that didn’t go half as bad as I thought it would.”
“Eh?” Rupert was walking backward through the barren flowerbeds, craning his neck to examine the dormer attic windows. “Did he say Restoration? I could swear that timbering—well, it seems very eclectic. Fascinating.”
“I said, that went very well,” Elisabeth said loudly, no longer caring whether Mr Greenbill could hear.
He looked at her at last. “Oh yes? Well, good. Very good.”
Who’s wearing the tweed here, you or me? she almost said; but in the end merely primmed her lips and stalked toward the car. “I swear,” she muttered, “sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or spit.”
“What’s that, love?” Rupert said, wandering toward the car, his eyes back on the outline of the old house.
“You’re going to trip over something,” she said. “Come away.”
*
Though she wasn’t proud of it, Elisabeth felt herself working up into a fine temper as they trundled their way out of the dusty lane. Rupert paused before pulling onto the paved road, to read the small derelict sign bent atop the mailbox. “Pyke’s Lea, the place is called,” he murmured, and made his turn.
They were almost back in town when he finally noticed the polar ice cap in the passenger seat. “You know, that was rather fun,” he said.
“For you,” she said, scarcely moving her lips.
He glanced sharply at her. “What’s up with you?” he asked. “I thought you said it went well.”
“No thanks to you,” she said. “‘Is that a conservatory through here?’” She finished off her mockery with a loud snort.
“Well,” Rupert said, sounding altogether too damned reasonable, “you didn’t appear to need any help.”
“That’s not the point,” she snapped.
“Then what is?” he said, finally beginning to sound nettled.
Elisabeth drew a deep breath. “I brought you,” she said, “to support me. Not go all—” she opened both hands explosively— “diffuse and—in touch with your inner ten-year-old.”
“You didn’t need me,” Rupert argued. “I said it before we went there. I keep saying it.”
“And I keep saying that there’s all the difference in the world between need and want.” Elisabeth glared over at him. “Besides: I don’t see why you’d pass up a perfectly good chance to play the heavy.”
He was silent for a moment, then said evenly: “You seem to labor under the curious misapprehension that I enjoy ‘playing the heavy,’ as you put it.” He made a turn, his hands unerring on the wheel. Elisabeth could see a corresponding tautness in his jaw. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, quietly, “I dislike it intensely.”
And just that quickly it was all there, hanging in the air between them, again. Elisabeth lowered her eyes: he didn’t need to say the rest, didn’t need to remind her that her cavalier attitude toward his darkness was incongruous with what they were both trying so hard to forget. Her chin dropped.
“I’m sorry,” she said, softly.
He tossed his head, mouth primming; opened his lips to make some speech of regret. But they were on their home street now, and the speech went unsaid.
In silence Rupert nosed the car into a parking space on the street, set the parking brake with a firm hand, and turned off the car. He turned to her. She waited.
“And you know,” he said, “had our positions been reversed, you would have behaved in the exact same way.”
“So you do concede my point,” she said, with a faint smile.
His eyes crinkled a little. “And you concede mine.”
Elisabeth moved her lips ruefully. It was not the less damnable that he was perfectly right.
“And,” he added, smiling wider, “you do look stunning in that outfit.”
“Don’t try to butter me up,” Elisabeth said. She popped open the door in an attempt to hide her smile.
*
Rupert pursued her into the kitchen, red herrings of Restoration houses forgotten in the scent and movement of smart new tweed. She resisted his blandishments long enough to fill the teakettle, feed the cat (who was twisting sinuously between their legs and probably getting cat hairs all over her suit, which was the least of Elisabeth’s worries), and get out a lemon and the soft cheese. But before she could slice the one or unwrap the other, he got his hands about her waist from behind and breathed softly on the nape of her neck, where a drift of downy hair had slipped from her upswept bun. Unthinkingly her hand went up blind, to find his cheek, his ear, the soft coarse hair at his temple; and he bent further and kissed her behind the ear.
“I hope you’re not trying to collect your reward,” she said, trying, and failing, to put extra tartness into her voice.
“As I recall,” he murmured, kissing her hair, “you promised to reward me not for going to help you, but for liking your tweed suit.”
“Ah! Sophistry.” She trailed her other hand along her forehead and gave a mock-dramatic gasp, leaving his hands the freedom to roam where they liked. He laughed softly in her ear.
She made no objection when he reached out and turned the fire off under the teakettle.
*
They might well have consummated the moment in the kitchen, in front of the cat and everything, except for the fact that the nightstand drawer in the bedroom was where her diaphragm lived. So with an effort she broke their kiss and drew him with her out of the kitchen and across the living area, their hands twining together behind her back in anticipation.
In the bedroom he turned her to face him and gathered her close; together they worked to remove her tweed suit gently and drape it over the chair, one piece at a time.
After that, they were much less gentle with his suit, and her slip and camisole.
With one strong-armed swipe he stripped the bed and dropped back on it to kick off his pants; at the same moment she skinned off her underwear and crawled on top of him. Their mouths met: his hands smoothed round her waist, met, and parted ways—one to follow the furrow of her spine up to the nape of her neck, the other to explore the soft flesh where the division of her buttocks began. He never got tired of touching her there, it seemed; and neither did she: she arched against him with a gasp, and reached to bury her hands in his hair, knowing he would use the opportunity to flip them over.
He did, conforming his body to hers and kissing her mouth so thoroughly that she was obliged to rock them back over so she could get her breath back. They rolled, over and then over again, sparing a little breath for laughter, finding every moment a new and perfect hold on one another.
At last, his eyes dark, her skin tingling, they wriggled together to the head of the bed, where she inched back and let her head fall back into the pillow while his hand reached for the drawer handle.
It was the work of only a moment to get them to the place where she arched for him and closed her thighs around his hips. They did not pause over the momentary relief of their achievement: he raised himself stiff-armed to bear down upon her, and she responded in kind, reaching to grip his shoulders, sharp fingertips slipping on his damp skin.
She found again (a miracle that amazed her every time) that sweet place, that moment of abandon that had but a tenuous connection to the cataclysm of her body: that moment of buoyant trust in him, in herself, that was so ephemeral everywhere else but here...a give and take that mirrored the juddering rock of their bodies together; and these mirror images together within her shot pleasure like lightning through her veins, and she let her head fall back with a loud cry.
She recovered enough to enfold him more tightly and nurse him to the same conclusion; whereupon he collapsed upon her, shaking (she had noticed that since he came back from the last Sunnydale war he often shook after making love to her), and they breathed together, damp and weary, the blood still hot in their skin.
He moved to roll off her, but she held onto him. “Stay with me a moment,” she whispered, and he obliged her readily. They waited until their breathing slowed and the throb of their conjoined pulse subsided; then by mutual consent they parted. He rolled to his back, and she turned her head enough to see his eyelids flutter shut. Within seconds his breathing was heavy in his sinuses.
She had scarcely time for a very faint smile before dropping into sleep herself.
*
They were both waked when the cat leapt up onto the bed and began picking its way among their sprawled limbs to sniff, first at her shoulder, then at his brow, its dark whiskers brushing forward like delicate oars. The cat began to lick Rupert’s forehead daintily: the sound of its tongue made Elisabeth break into a sleepy snort of laughter.
Rupert screwed up his face. “Stop that,” he muttered, and turned to tuck his head into the pillow where the cat couldn’t reach.
“I think he’s trying to tell us it’s time to get up,” Elisabeth murmured.
Rupert snorted.
The cat, unfluttered, climbed onto Rupert’s pillow and kneaded itself a nest before settling down just above his mussed damp hair.
They lay, silently lazing themselves awake, occasionally meeting eyes contentedly, until Elisabeth blurted softly:
“So you gonna buy that house?”
He started visibly and looked over at her wide-eyed. “I hadn’t thought—I wasn’t going to....” He trailed off as he met her eye. After a moment he turned fully onto his back again and put his head under his arms, disturbing the cat a little. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I did have little dreams of refurbishing it and....”
“...selling it?” Elisabeth finished, uncertainly.
His voice, answering, was soft. “Living there.”
They were silent on this for a while, chewing on it. Finally he turned to look at her over his elbow. “What d’you think?”
She thought about her answer. “Well...there’s certainly a lot of permanence in that idea.” She caught the tightening of his lips which spelled both apprehension and longing, and continued: “Which is both a scary and a nice thought.”
A tinge of relief came into his expression and he rolled his head to look back up at the ceiling, sighing deeply.
“You should do it,” she said, “if you want to.”
He lifted his chin. “You think?”
“You want me to help?” she asked, feeling slightly as though she were scrabbling at an unknown surface: did he want her in this, or out? Or would he be terribly hurt if she remained withdrawn from it?
“If you’d like to,” he said, sounding equally cautious. He hastened to cover it with quick words. “Of course, it’s early days yet. I haven’t even decided to do it. I don’t even know if I could afford the place.”
“Oh, that might not be a problem,” Elisabeth said dryly. “Mr Greenbill said he was having trouble raising interest in the property.”
He looked at her quickly. “Did he really?”
Instead of answering, she let a slow grin spread on her face. He saw it and had to laugh too. “I suppose,” he said, “I shouldn’t appear too keen, should I.”
She smiled gently. “If you want, you can get your ya-ya’s out when I go out there tomorrow to get started on the books. Mr Greenbill gave me a key.”
The boyish smile she got in answer to this gave her a pang of delight. “Excellent,” he said, and began a luxurious series of stretches.
Elisabeth sat up, stretching too.
“What we want,” she said, “is tea.”
*