Terms of Service by Emma Nichols

“I’m not really sure yet.”
    “Well,” the woman began, “when in doubt, call in an expert.”  With a flick of her wrist she had directed Hannah to the expert board where craftsmen posted business cards attesting to their given skills.
    Selecting one for Joe’s Handyman Service, she studied the card.  He claimed to be an expert at a variety of trades, including working with the plaster in question.  Glancing at her watch, Hannah decided any craftsman worth his salt would be taking calls by ten on a Sunday, unless of course, he was at church.
    Using the pay phone, it rang twice before he picked up.  As soon as he was given the address and the impression there was a lot of work to be done if he gave a fair estimate and was ready to start that day, Joe agreed to meet her at the house after lunch.  Everything was moving along very smoothly.  In fact, the only downside she could see was Gavin hadn’t actually given her a budget.
     
    ***
     
    Pacing the study was becoming an ugly part of his life.  Or, at least, it had since she moved in.  There, he was finally working up to some anger.  That’s what he needed.  How does she take off with the girls and not leave a note or any indication where she was going or when she would be back?  A permanent scowl seemed to have taken residence on his face.  She had no cell phone, so he couldn’t call her.  She had a vehicle he suspected was unreliable at best.  What if she broke down?  Did she even have this number in case of an emergency?
    Just as he seemed likely to wear a path in the hardwood floor, he heard the sound of the front door opening and the girls rushing happily up the stairs, presumably to their rooms.  When he opened the door, he found Hannah making a second trip in from the vehicle with more supplies.
    Before she could take her light jacket off, he was growling at her.  “Where have you been?”  He demanded.
    Immediately her eyebrow arched defensively.  “Today is Sunday.  My day off, as I recall.”  She planted her hands on her hips and eyed him angrily.
    Under the weight of her reproachful stare, Gavin shifted uneasily.  “Yes,” he said more quietly.
    “Am I to report to you even on my day off?”  She challenged.
    He was defeated.  He had overreacted and he knew it.  Did she have to rub it in?  “No,” he said slowly.  He saw her soften some, confident of her position.  He cleared his throat and straightened.  “It is just common courtesy when people live together to let the other people know where they are going and when they can be expected home.”  He stared at her evenly.  “I mean, you don’t have a cell, and who knows when that vehicle of yours might quit on you.  How do I know when to worry?”  He swallowed hard after his admission and balled his fists in frustration.  Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
    Her face relaxed as she tried grinned.  “You were worried?  Is that what this is all about?”  She sat down on the stairs and sighed.  “I never meant for you to worry, Gavin.”  She lowered her head for a moment, preparing to make an admission of her own.  “I’ve never had anyone to report to, anyone to worry over me.  I didn’t think you would care.”  Then in a lower voice still, “Brett never did.”
    Slowly, Gavin made his way over to where she sat and lowered himself to join her.  “You never told Brett where you were going?”  He found the idea incredulous.  It was not at all like his marriage had been; which was why it had been such a coup he had been able to keep all the massage classes a secret.
    Sighing, she said, “He was never home.  I never had to tell him where I was and I never knew where he was.  He did his thing and I did everything else.”  Hannah turned to face him then, and the depth of sorrow in her eyes nearly broke his heart.  She was about to share more, revealing more truths about her life when the doorbell rang.
    Instantly, Hannah hopped up and bit her