Regina's Song by David Eddings Page A

anyway, we might as well paint it before you move in.”
    “I gather that we’ve all sort of agreed that I’ll be living here?” I said, looking at the others.
    “I think we’ll be able to get along with you, Mark,” Erika said, “and the house rules should protect you from any predatory instincts that crop up in the downstairs part of the house.”
    “Erika!” Trish said in a shocked tone.
    “Just kidding, Trish. Don’t get worked up.”
    “There
is
something you might want to consider, Trish,” James said. “This place will probably always be student housing, and permanent bookshelves in every room would definitely up the market value, don’t you think?”
    “It would, wouldn’t it?” she agreed. “How long do you think it’ll take to build
your
bookshelves, Mark?”
    I shrugged. “Two or three days is about all, and once I get the process down pat, the shelves in the other rooms won’t take nearly that long.”
    “All that sawing and pounding is likely to disrupt things,” Sylvia protested.
    “Not if I take good measurements,” I disagreed. “The guys at the lumberyard can cut the boards to my numbers, so there won’t be very much sawing, and I’m not going to use nails. Books are heavy, and nails tend to work loose. I’ll use wood screws instead. I want this puppy bolted to the wall.”
    “You
are
going to paint it, aren’t you?” Trish asked me.
    “No, a couple coats of dark stain would be cheaper, and stain dries faster.”
    “We
want
you,” Erika said with ominous intensity.
    “Steady, toots,” Sylvia told her.
    “When would you like to move in, Mark?” Trish asked.
    “Today’s what—the eighth?”
    She nodded.
    “Classes start on the twenty-ninth, but I’d like to get settled in a couple of weeks before that. Moving my furniture and building the bookshelves won’t take too long, so why don’t we zero in on the fourteenth for move-in day?”
    “Sounds good to me,” she agreed.

    I checked out of the motel and drove to Everett with my windshield wipers slapping back and forth in a sort of counterpoint to Ravel’s
Bolero
coming from the car’s cassette player.
    When I got to my house in north Everett, I turned up the thermostat and started sorting through my stuff, moving nonessential items to another room. All I was going to need in the boardinghouse would be my bed, desk, dresser, and books.
    I called Twink that evening. She seemed to be pretty much OK, so I kept it short. Then I went back to sorting and boxing.
    By midafternoon on Tuesday, I had things fairly well organized, so I went by the office of the rental agency that was going to take care of the house for me and gave them a spare set of keys. “I’m a little pushed for time right now,” I told the agent. “Could you make arrangements with a moving and storage company for me and have them pick up the furniture?”
    “We’ll take care of it for you, Mark,” the agent told me. “That’s one of the things you’re paying us for.”
    “I guess,” I said. “Oh, another thing. The place needs a good cleaning. Could you get hold of some professional housecleaners to go in and make things presentable?”
    “We’d do that anyway. We’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing.”
    “Good. I’m a bit out of my depth. I’ve chalked a big red ‘X’ on the door of my room. My books, clothes, and the furniture I’ll be taking are in there. Tell the movers and cleaners to leave that room alone. I’ll pick that stuff up this coming weekend.”
    “Right,” he agreed. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mark. We’ll take care of everything for you.”
    Yeah, he would—for a hefty chunk of the monthly rent.

    Then I went over to the door factory to check in with Les Greenleaf.
    “How’s Renata doing, Mark?” he asked me with a worried look.
    “She seems to be settling in, boss. It took her a few days to get used to your sister’s work schedule, but she seems pretty much OK now.”
    “I still