Hidden Riches

stairway. She had to juggle the box, her purse and her overnight bag, as well as the coat she’d stripped off on entering the shop. Muttering to herself, shemanaged to hit the light switch in the stairway with her shoulder.
    She was halfway down the hall when she saw the light spilling out of the neighboring apartment. The new tenant. Shifting her grip, she walked to the door that was braced open with a box and peered in.
    She saw him standing by an old table, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. The room itself was sparsely furnished with a sofa and an overstuffed chair.
    But she was more interested in the man who stood in profile to her and downed a long swallow of whiskey.
    He was tall with a tough, athletic build that made her think of a boxer. He wore a navy sweatshirt with sleeves pushed up to the elbows—no visible tattoos—and Levis worn white at the stress points. His hair was a bit unkempt, falling carelessly over his collar in a rich shade of ripening wheat.
    In contrast, the watch at his wrist was either an amazingly good knockoff, or a genuine Rolex.
    Though her appraisal took only seconds, Dora sensed her neighbor was not celebrating his new home. His face, shadowed by the high slash of cheekbones and the stubble of a beard, seemed grim.
    Before she had made a sound, she saw his body tense. His head whipped around. Dora found herself fighting the instinct to step back in defense as he pinned her with eyes that were hard, expressionless and shockingly blue.
    “Your door was open,” she said apologetically, and was immediately annoyed that she’d excused herself from standing in her own hallway.
    “Yeah.” He set the bottle down, carrying the glass with him as he crossed to her. Jed took his own survey. Most of her body was obscured by the large cardboard box she carried. A pretty oval face, slightly pointed at the chin, with an old-fashioned roses-and-cream complexion, a wide, unpainted mouth that was just curving up in a smile, bigbrown eyes that were filled with friendly curiosity, a swing of sable-colored hair.
    “I’m Dora,” she explained when he only continued to stare. “From across the hall? Need any help getting organized?”
    “No.” Jed booted the box away with his foot and closed the door in her face.
    Her mouth fell open before she deliberately snapped it shut. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” she muttered as she turned away to her own door. After an initial fumble for her keys, she unlocked her door and slammed it behind her. “Thanks a lot, Dad,” she said to the empty room. “Looks like you found me a real prize.”
    Dora dumped her things on a settee blooming with cabbage roses, brushed her hair back with impatient fingers. The guy might have been a pleasure to look at, she mused, but she preferred a neighbor with a modicum of personality. Marching to her candlestick phone, she decided to call her father and give him an earful.
    Before she’d dialed the second number, she spotted the sheet of paper with its big heart-shaped happy face drawn at the bottom. Quentin Conroy always added some little drawing—a barometer of his mood—on his notes and letters. Dora hung up the phone and began to read.
    Izzy, my darling daughter.
    Dora winced. Her father was the only living soul who called her by that derivative of her name.
The deed is done. Well done, if I say so myself. Your new tenant is a strapping young man who should be able to help you with any menial work. His name, as you see on the copies of the lease awaiting your signature, is Jed Skimmerhorn. A full-bodied name that brings lusty sea captains or hearty pioneers to my mind. I found him fascinatingly taciturn, and sensed a whirlpool bubbling under those still waters. I couldn’t think of anything nicer to give my adored daughter than an intriguing neighbor.
    Welcome home, my firstborn babe.
    Your devoted father.
    Dora didn’t want to be amused, but she couldn’t help smiling. The move was so obvious. Put her within elbow-rubbing space of an attractive man, and maybe, just maybe, she would fall in love, get married and give her greedy father more grandchildren to spoil.
    “Sorry, Dad,” she murmured. “You’re in for another disappointment.”
    Setting the note aside, she skimmed a finger down the lease until she came to Jed’s signature. It was a bold scrawl, and she dashed her own name on the line next to it on both copies. Lifting one, she strode to her door and across the hall and