Chapter 4

Melody had attempted to return her attention to the two door knob kits she was holding, looking back and forth between them as if she had any idea what she was even looking for. “Oh, yeah. No, it’s okay,” she stammered. “I mean… how hard can it be to pick out a door knob?” Then, under her breath, she muttered, “Unless you’re a door knob yourself.”

He was standing next to her now, and if he had heard her last comment, he didn’t say anything in response. Looking at what she had in her hands, he asked, “Well, what kind of door knob was your old one?”

She glanced up and caught his eyes. They were a shade of blue she couldn’t remember ever seeing before, reminding her of the sky on a clear day. “Oh, uh, well, it’s…” she fumbled with the two kits and ended up setting them down on top of a stack of door knob parts. “It’s this one.” She pulled the old door knob out of her purse.

Taking the door knob from her, he turned it over in his hands. “Do you have the other half?” he asked.

“Yes,” Melody assured him. “It’s at home. In the attic. That’s where we usually keep it—only it’s usually attached to this part.”

He laughed, a rich chuckle, and Melody realized that Michael was also giggling, likely because his dad was. “Well, if you have the complete door knob, you should probably just repair it.” He turned it over again, inspecting it closely, before handing it back to her. “I assume you live in an older home, and if that’s the original door knob, you should probably keep it.”

“This is Charles Town,” Melody smiled. “Everyone lives in an older home.”

“True,” he nodded.

His smile was a bit crooked, pulling up at one side of his handsome face slightly more than the other. Melody realized she was staring again. “Well, I would like to keep it, I guess,” she admitted. “I just have no idea how to fix it. I mean, I doubt I’ll be able to figure out how to install a new one either, but I figured that would at least come with directions.”

“It’s really not that difficult,” he replied. “You probably just need one of these,” he said handing her a little package that seemed to contain a few screws and a plate of some sort.

Melody looked at the little package and then back up at him. “Okay…” she said. “But what do I do?”

“You can fix it, Dad,” Michael chimed in, tugging on his father’s coat sleeve. Then to Melody, he added, “My dad can fix anything.”

She could tell by the man’s expression that he wished his son hadn’t volunteered his services, the hesitation showing in the deep breath he held in and then the sigh he slowly released. “Oh, that’s okay,” Melody began, “I don’t want to be any trouble. I should probably just call a handyman. I just… things have been tight. Anyway, maybe between my mom and I, we can figure it out.”

“No, I can do it,” he offered, giving his son a narrowed look. “It’s really not any trouble at all,” he added, flashing Melody a meager smile.

“Clearly, you’re busy. I live over on Washington Avenue. I’d hate to make you drive all the way over there.”

“It’s really no trouble,” he assured her, “and that’s not even that far.”

“And the house is a mess….”

He laughed again. “If you really don’t want me to fix it, I understand, but it will only take a few minutes, and I really don’t mind.”

She glanced down at Michael, whose smile lit the room more brightly than the fluorescent overhead lights. “Okay,” she agreed, with a smile. “I’m Melody, by the way,” she said, fumbling the door knob and the repair kit into her left hand so she could offer her right.

“Reid,” he said, taking her hand.

Melody felt her heartbeat quicken as tingles spread up her arm. She realized she was staring again, and if it weren’t for a tug on her jacket, she may have continued to gaze into his eyes for an even more embarrassing amount of time.

“I’m Michael,” the smallest voice said, and Melody let go of Reid’s hand to pat him on the head.

“I know,” she said. “It’s very nice to meet you.” Glancing back up at his dad, she added, “Both of you.”

Melody gave them her address and then went up front to pay, hearing Reid say something to Michael about grabbing a hinge. A few minutes later, she had the repair kit in her hand and was back on the street, happy that the fresh December air seemed to take away the heat from her face. Taking in a deep breath, she slowly released it, and squaring her shoulders, she headed back to her car, reminding herself he was only coming over to fix her door knob—not to sweep her off of her feet. “Besides,” she muttered under her breath, “he’s probably married. He has a son. He’s got to be married.” I wish they had a simple repair kit for broken people.