Door to His Heart

Chad Wilson's garage door fell with a crash! His mouth agape, he stared at it from the front seat of his car.

"Murphy's Law always hits at the worst times," he muttered, turning off the ignition. Exiting the car, a deep sigh escaped him as he stepped closer to the downed, buckled door. "Geez! What's this gonna cost to fix?"

Chad couldn't say for sure. He also couldn't afford the time to try and install a new garage door himself. First, he didn't know how to do that. Second, his editorial service was just getting off the ground, and his work kept him seated behind a computer almost 24/7. The funds he'd need to spend, though, to have a garage door installed didn't sit well with Chad, either. Every cent that he made had to go back into his business. Although he didn't have much wiggle room in his house emergency fund, he was glad that he had something for such unforeseen events.  

Slipping his cell phone from its holder that was clipped to his belt, Chad searched online for garage door installers. Then he called the first home improvement company that he found. 

"I don't know, it just fell," Chad told the specialist on the telephone, answering the question that he'd just been asked about his garage door. "It doesn't have an automatic opener. I had trouble with the springs last year, but I don't think that changing those again now will do anything. Some panels of the door are crushed. The whole thing is wrecked. It all needs replacing."

*     *     *

Three days later, Chad still hadn't heard from the installer. He was supposed to have given Chad a courtesy call by now—to provide him with a better window of when he'd be coming by to check out the job.

"Two-bit outfit," Chad scoffed as he searched his kitchen's tabletop for the paper on which he'd penned the company's contact information. When he couldn't find it, he picked up his cell and searched for the company online.

But just as Chad located the company's number on the Internet, his doorbell rang. As he looked through his front door's peephole, he saw a young lady standing on his top step. She was wearing blue jeans, a tee shirt, baseball-type cap, and holding a clipboard.

"Not another call for signatures," Chad sighed, unlocking the main door of his house. "I just signed a petition last week," he said to her through the screen door.

"Petition?" asked the young lady, bemused. "I'm...the...garage door installer, Mr. Wilson. Here for a site inspection?"

Chad's face contorted in confusion.

"Not what you expected, huh?" she toyed, her dark eyes studying his handsome, screen-filtered, mixed-up face.

For lack of better words, Chad said, "They told me you were going to call first."

She offered him a simple grin. "I tried, but your number sent me to voicemail, so I hung up. You must've been on the phone. And, by the time I was going to call again, I was here."

"So you are," Chad said, mesmerized by her perky frankness. 

"Well...don't let me interrupt. Finish your call, I'll wait—"

"No, no, you don't understand," Chad said, stepping outside. "I was just...online...looking for how to...get in touch with you guys."

She grinned. "To give it to us for my not having called first, right?" she teased.

 Both of their faces lit in amusement.

"I'm Stacey Baker," she said, extending her hand.