His response was an oath, barely audible and impressively versatile. He rolled out of bed and went to the window. “Looks like a carpenter.”

“A carpenter! I need a carpenter. Don’t let him get away.”

Kate was down the stairs and at the door before Dave had even turned around. She unlatched the chain, popped the dead bolt, and threw the door open. “Yes?”

He was five-foot-eight with the neck of a linebacker and arms like Popeye. He had red hair, a red beard, and a tool belt hung low on his hips. “Howdy. I’m looking for the lady who owns the house next door. You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Mark Beaman. My sister’s married to Nancy Berk’s brother.”

Dave ambled over and held out his hand. “Nancy Berk is Howard’s wife.”

“Yeah. Howie called me up last night and said the lady here had a problem with her roof and needed it fixed right away. He asked me if I could help you out.”

Dave blinked at him. “It’s five-thirty in the morning.”

“Yeah. I always start work at five-thirty. That way I’m done by three. Construction hours.”

Two hours later Mark was repairing the bedroom ceiling and had hired a subcontractor to do the roof.

Kate dropped a gray sweatshirt over her damp hair, pulled on a pair of comfortable jeans, and slid her feet into Docksiders. In lieu of a brushing, she ran her fingers through her hair. She was off schedule. It was seven-thirty, and she still hadn’t practiced. At least she’d had her shower. She strapped on her watch and ran next door.

Dave answered with a coffee cup in his hand.

“ ’Morning. I left my cello here, and—” The aroma of freshly brewed coffee rushed out at her, almost making her knees buckle. She licked her lips and hoped her nostrils weren’t flaring. “And, um, I need to practice.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of practicing?”

Her eyes widened. Get tired of practicing? What a bizarre thought. “Of course not.”

He sipped his coffee, studying her over the rim of his cup, and she found herself bristling under his scrutiny. So what if she got tired of practicing sometimes. It was her job. At least she had a job. At least she had goals. She glared at him, getting more furious by the minute, wondering why she felt so provoked. He’d asked her a simple question in a conversational tone, and she was ready to punch him in the nose. Coffee fumes, she decided; they were making her crazy.