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but that guy had to have an emergency appendectomy. Kendal tried everyone else, but no one but me was available, and so since I sort of owe Kendal, I agreed to do the reception with him. . . .”
    Silence.
    “It’s not like I want to do the party. I mean, I fought really hard to get out of it, and I told him I had other plans, but he was just relentless, and he kept saying how I owed him, and, well, I caved. I’m really, really sorry. Can we possibly get together on Saturday instead of Friday?”
    The air hung heavy between us for a very long time before finally Dutch said, “I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. We’ll talk then,” and with that he hung up. I held the phone to my ear long enough for the dial tone to come on; then, as tears brushed my lashes, I hung up the phone. Now I could add “boyfriend” to my list of today’s nixes.
     
    Several hours later I crawled home, wanting to wave a white flag. My afternoon hadn’t improved, as I’d had three more difficult readings to cap off the day. I opened my front door and was greeted by Eggy, my twelve-pound Dachshund, who slobbered wiggly kisses all over my face as soon as I picked him up. The best part about owning a dog is the wild, wet frenzy they perform when greeting you. It’s enough to make any kind of day just a little bit better.
    Eggy wriggled and licked and kissed and squirmed, his tail beating a frantic rhythm against my chest, and, soon enough I found myself smirking. After a minute I heard, “Abby? That you?” coming from upstairs, accompanied by the sound of heavy footsteps descending my staircase.
    “Hey, Dave,” I answered as I set Eggy down.
    Dave McKenzie is my handyman. He’s like a freeze frame from the movie Easy Rider, tall with broad shoulders and long blond hair braided down his back into a fine point, thick beard and mustache, abused shirts, ripped jeans and a chain connecting his wallet to his belt loop. Up close, however, are the telltale signs of decades passing, with hints of gray in his beard and sideburns, permanent crow’s-feet lining his eyes and the slightly rounded belly of a man in his mid-fifties.
    In early March I’d purchased a home that had “lots of potential,” only to discover I was in way over my head. A client who knew someone who knew someone gave me Dave’s number, and I’d called him in desperation. He’d been a complete godsend, turning my dilapidated little bungalow into a cozy home sweet home.
    My home had once been a ranch until the former owner added a staircase and converted half of the attic into a bedroom. Because the bedroom was small, and I really didn’t need the extra storage I was having Dave extend my bedroom by tearing down the wall that separated the attic from the bedroom. Of late he’d been busy ripping out the old insulation in the attic.
    “How’s it going?” I asked.
    “Getting there,” he said noncommittally. Squinting his eyes my way, he added, “You look like hell.”
    “Gee,” I said flatly, “try not to bowl me over with so much flattery.”
    “No, really, you look like crap. What happened?”
    “The shorter answer would be to tell you what didn’t happen,” I said, turning toward the kitchen to get Eggy his supper.
    “That bad, huh?”
    “Let’s just say I’ve renamed today ‘Black Thursday,’ ” I said as I got down a can of dog food.
    “So I guess I should wait till tomorrow to fill you in on the attic?”
    I stopped fussing with Eggy’s dinner and glanced sharply at Dave. “What about the attic?”
    “It’s nothing I can’t fix. . . .”
    Eggy barked, reminding me that I was holding up his dinner, so I got out the can opener and said casually, “I’m assuming that’s the good news. Care to share the bad news with me now?”
    Shuffling his feet, Dave said, “Fine, I’ll give it to you straight. When I took the old insulation down I noticed quite a bit of water damage to the rafters. It looks like the old owner waited about twenty years too