Refinishing Job Author: Linda Wilson AKA ranapipens4ever (rana pipens = bullfrog–love frogs!) E-mail: linda_31467@msn.com Rated: PG Premise: This is a holidaze Nickfic that exceeds the limit by about 39 words (sorry, Romantique, couldn't go lower and still make sense). Disclaimer: Nick and Burton Fallin (unnamed in this fic), Nick's house on Ellsworth Avenue and his coffee table are all taken directly from "The Guardian." Apologies to my colleague Susan Meyersfor using her name, even though she's unlikely ever to know about this. Resemblance to any other person living or dead is purely coincidental; similarity of events, dates, characters or the portrayal of events is unintentional. --+-- The furniture specialist peered closely at Nick Fallin's scratched coffee table. "Well, that's not too bad," she said. "I see some pitting here. Did some hot ashes fall on this, too?" "Probably," Nick said. "Well, give us about two weeks and we can have it back to you. You know, Mr. Fallin, this isn't really that bad. You can see those scratches and the ash pitting only if you really look for them." "Well, I see them," Nick said. "That's all that matters," the woman said. "Hey, I get paid either way." Nick and his visitor, whose business card gave her name as Susan Meyers, sat down on the sofa. He took out one of his credit cards and the woman spread the work order form on the coffee table and began filling it out. "I think I can get our guys to pick this up later today," she said. " Will you be home around four?" "I'll arrange to be," Nick said. "Okay, fine." The woman dialed her cell phone. "Hi, Artie? Susan. I've got a pickup for you–1980 Ellsworth, Yeah, Shadyside. Coffee table. Yes, today, Saturday. Around four–the customer will be home." Nick and the woman stood up. She handed him the charge slip and put the rest of the paperwork in her portfolio. "Well, thanks," Nick said. "I did want to get this taken care of as soon as I could." "No problem," she said as they moved toward the door. "What happened, anyway?" "My father put his feet on it," Nick said. "He smokes–that's how the cigarette ash got on it, too." The woman shook her head, smiling. "Parents. My mother's got a mahogany kneehole desk I've wanted since forever. Only thing–it has a tool mark on one edge. My father once used it for a workbench." "Why'd he do that?" Nick asked, startled. "They lived in a small apartment and he didn't have a workroom. My mother had a fit, she told me." "I don't blame her," Nick said. "Well, they made it past their 50th anniversary before he died, so I guess she got over it. He's been gone 12 years now, and she says she thinks about him every time she looks at that desk." It was a cold, windy day and Nick escorted his visitor down the steps to the sidewalk, for which she thanked him. "Two weeks and you'll never know your father was anywhere near that coffee table," she added as she got into her car. She drove away and he went back in the house and into the living room. The smell of cigarette smoke had faded, thanks to some air freshener, and once the coffee table was refinished there would be no evidence his father had ever been his house guest. Nick sat on the sofa and looked at the coffee table for a long time. Then he picked up his cell phone and dialed the number on Meyers' business card. "Yes," he said. "I just placed an order to refinish a coffee table. I-I'd like to cancel that order. Please tell Ms. Meyers I'm sorry for the inconvenience and thank you–for everything." The End