on Compton Street.
Two were grand-style New England Colonials, each set on acre-plus lots, each in pristine condition. There was a slightly run-down Cape Cod, a colorful split-level, and a pair of two-story Craftsman houses. The mature plantings and lush foliage lent the neighborhood a quaint, woodsy flavor.
The Miller house was one of the Craftsmans. It was carefully tended but weathered, sitting in the middle of a small lot. Rollo knocked on the door.
He heard the sound of footsteps, and then an elderly woman peered through the curtains.
âYes,â the woman said.
âDonald Johnson,â Rollo said.
âOh. Mr. Johnson. Youâre early.â She opened the door.
âYeah,â he said.
The woman, who wore spectacles with thick lenses, gave Rollo the once-over. Despite some misgivings regarding his unsightly appearance, she stood back and allowed him to enter.
âItâs nice here,â Rollo said.
âThank you,â she said. âI grew up in this house. My father built it himself.â
âYou live here alone?â
âEver since my sister passed.â
She showed Rollo to a small first-floor bedroom, situated at the rear of the house, at one time a maidâs quarters. As advertised, it was clean, had a half-sized refrigerator and a small private bath.
She showed him the rest of the ground floor, explaining that the upstairs would be off-limits to him. He was, however, welcome to use the kitchen. He would also have use of the sitting room and TV. The backyard would be his to enjoy as well.
She asked if he might like to join her in a cup of tea.
As she stood filling the kettle, Rollo sat gazing at the kitchen with its paintings of dogs, decorative ceramic tiles, and colorful floral arrangements.
âYou garden,â he said.
âWhy, yes. Yes, I do. Why do you ask?â
âI like flowers. These ones are very nice. Maybe you could put some in my room.â
âThatâs certainly possible,â she said.
âYeah,â he said. âIâd like that.â
She served the tea. She placed a jar of honey on the table. She brought out a box of Social Tea biscuits. She put some on a dish, which she set down in front of him.
âHelp yourself,â she said.
Rollo sipped his tea and ate several of the biscuits.
âThis is nice,â he said. âThanks.â
âWhat brings you to Paradise, Mr. Johnson?â
âSummer,â he said.
âA vacation?â
âA vacation from Kansas.â
âYouâre from Kansas?â
âYeah.â
âAnd youâll be doing . . .â
âMostly, Iâll be reading,â he said. âStudying the Bible.â
âI envy you your reading,â Miss Miller said. âEver since this macular thing got me, my reading has been severely curtailed.â
âThatâs too bad,â Rollo said.
Agatha Miller looked closely at him. She found his off-putting appearance and his coarseness unsettling.
âHave you any references, Mr. Johnson? You see, as a woman alone . . .â
âI donât have any, no. I never thought Iâd need any,â Rollo said. âSee, I was planning to stay at a residence hotel. Then I saw your ad. Iâll leave now, if you want.â
Rollo waited for her answer. There would be consequences if she said he had to leave. He looked inward, listening for the voices, waiting for possible instruction.
Agatha Miller considered the prospect of giving up the only rental opportunity that had, to date, presented itself.
In the end, she overcame her reservations and surrendered to commerce. She needed the money.
âThat wonât be necessary, Mr. Johnson. Iâm sure we can work something out.â
Relieved, Rollo said, âThatâs good.â
âYes,â she said.
âThanks.â
âYouâre very welcome, Mr. Johnson.â
âCall me Donnie,â Rollo said.
15
M olly left the Civic