by Freya Barker
“Wanna drive the truck or the Toyota?” Ben asks half an hour later, when we’re back outside.
“Is that a trick question? Like I’d dare get between a man and his new wheels,” I joke, holding my hand out for the keys. “Better follow me,” I call over my shoulder as I walk toward the truck and open the door. “We’ve gotta make one stop on the way home.”
Before he has a chance to ask questions, I’m in the truck, start the engine, and drive off, leaving him glaring after me.
Dolores isn’t big and Merritt Way is easy to find. And Phil McCracken’s place is impossible to miss. The fields around his doublewide trailer are littered with car carcasses. I pull into the driveway and watch in the rearview mirror to see Ben pull his shiny, new car in right behind me. I’m already out of the truck by the time he ambles up.
“Al’s buddy?” he asks, just as the trailer home’s storm door squeaks open, and a small, stooped, old man, dressed in overalls and a ball cap, steps out.
“Phil McCracken, in the flesh,” I confirm, walking ahead to where the old man is waiting. “I’m Isla, Al’s niece,” I call out when I spot the shotgun casually held alongside a leg. “And this is Ben.” I point over my shoulder, where I’m sure he is somewhere right behind me.
“Come round back,” Phil says without a greeting, as he makes his way around his house. I start following when I feel Ben’s hand slip in mine.
“If someone starts playing the banjo, we’re hauling ass,” he leans down to whisper in my ear, and I fight to keep the snicker bubbling up in check.
The urge to laugh disappears the moment we get a good look at what’s hidden behind the house. Shielded from the road by a strip of trees and underbrush on one side and a barn on the other, are two neat rows of tarp covered cars. About eight of them. In places where the tarp has shifted, gleaming chrome and bright paint can be seen. Classics. From what I can see, either restored or very well maintained.
“This way,” Phil calls out when he looks back to find us stopped in our tracks. I can feel Ben’s heat right behind me.
Phil points to the other side, where right along the barn sits what Uncle Al used to call a silver Twinkie. A large Airstream, propped up on blocks.
“Son of a bitch,” Ben mumbles, as he suddenly takes the lead and is already running his fingers over the silver panels by the time I catch up.
“1952 Cruiser,” Phil says, no small amount of pride in his voice. “Varmint got in, tore up the inside. Spent five years working on it, almost had the inside done when the wife got sick. Time I got back to it, after Maisy passed, damn critters had damn near ate through the floorboards. Ain’t had the heart to give her another go. She’s waistin’ away. Damn shame.”
“Sorry about Maisy,” I say, stepping closer and covering his gnarled, wrinkled hand with mine.
“Been a while,” he says, almost dismissively, but his weathered voice cracks. “Damn near eight years. Long damn time for a man to cook his own damn meals.”
-
Two hours later, we drive off in the new Toyota, leaving the old truck to be fitted with an equally old blade Phil had in the barn and offered for a measly hundred bucks. The brittle man is still standing in front of his house, watching us drive off in our ‘cheap, foreign, dinky-toy,’ according to him. He promised to have the truck done before first snowfall, which is vague enough to be a little worrisome.
“My boys’ll come ’n give me a hand,” he said, when Ben carefully asked whether he’d need a hand with the heavy plow.
The Airstream had been a little trickier to negotiate, but Ben is not a stupid man. As soon as he clued in that as much as Phil didn’t want to let it go, he also wanted to see his project finished. In the end, it was as simple as an offer to come check out progress at any time—lend a hand even, if he wanted—and the promise of a hot, home-cooked meal at the end of each visit.
“Long fucking day,” Ben says, picking my hand off my knee and slipping his fingers between mine. “But a very productive one. Thanks for this, Pixie.” I watch his profile as he drives with a barely there smile on his face. Happy, though—he looks happy.
“Don’t thank me,” I tell him. “I just found my next project.”
“Phil?” He throws me a quick glance before focusing on the road again.
“An American Garden of Classics. That’s gonna be the name. Images of Phil’s cars through the seasons.”
“Bet that would tickle him,” he says on a yawn, which of course triggers one of my own.
“Let’s pick up something easy in town,” I suggest. “I don’t feel like cooking.”
Ben lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the palm.
“Good idea,” he says with a cocky grin. “That leaves more time for dessert.”
CHAPTER 6
Ben
It’s amazing what can be accomplished in short order, when your timing is lucky and your people are right.
It’s been only a week since Jim gave us the go ahead on the house. His crew is willing to work extra hours and weekends to get the foundation in, especially if brownies are part of the deal. That had made Isla blush, which was kind of cute, since she doesn’t seem to embarrass easily.
The road will be asphalted today and excavation should start up top. If not for the preparatory work Al did to have the site cleared, there may not have been enough time. It is touch and go as it is, but Jim seems hopeful.
The noise of the heavy machinery started when the sun was barely up. Good thing the eight remaining campsites house just hunters. All of them were out this morning, well before the sun rose.
“I’m sorry.” Isla’s voice is sleepy, her face pressed against my neck.
“For what?” I ask, lazily running my fingers through her short tresses.
“Making you come into Durango today.”
“Not a hardship, Pixie,” I respond on a chuckle. “You do your thing at that gallery, and I’ll keep myself busy. There’s a few places I want to hit up for trailer parts, and I can always drop in on Damian.”
“You sure?” she asks, lifting her head to look me in the eye.
“Babe.” I lift her face between my hands and kiss her to convey my message, before I pull the covers off us. “You grab a shower first, I’ll get coffee going.”
Reluctantly she swings her legs over the side, gets up, and pads in the direction of the bathroom. Her short hair is standing up in random directions, her cheek is creased with sleep lines, and the old shirt of mine she’s wearing is twisted around her waist, leaving one juicy butt cheek hanging out.
“I can feel you ogling me,” she complains, as she whips the shirt over her head and ducks into the bathroom.
“Appreciating, you mean,” I call after her, sitting up and tagging my jeans off the floor.
“Save it for when I don’t look like I just got zapped by ten thousand volts,” she yells back, and screeches the next moment when I duck my head through the door.
“You’re beautiful,” I assure her, before shutting the door and setting my mind to some coffee. A naked Isla is way too distracting and the fucking bathroom is way too small.
A bit of a purist when it comes to my coffee, normally preferring the old-fashioned brewing techniques, I’m getting quite attached to Isla’s Keurig. It’s all in the timing. I have my coffee ready by the time I’ve finished rubbing the morning crap from my eyes. Scratching my stomach, and mug in hand, I stick my head out the door.
The morning air is chilly and I quickly grab a sweater off the back of the door and tug it on. I take a seat on the picnic table, my feet on the bench, and look at the water. A light mist is coming off the reservoir, its temperature’s warmer still than the air. That will change over the next few weeks, I’m sure.
I look to my left, where the Deville is almost completely gutted. We’ve taken out what could be removed, and what is left are raw floorboards and the wood paneling that needs to be sanded and refinished next. Right behind it is the Airstream that Phil’s son hauled up the m
ountain the day before yesterday. That’ll be project number two. For now, it’s a good place to store the stuff we’ve pulled from the smaller trailer.
I’m still getting used to the fact I don’t constantly have to look over my shoulder. The job is so ingrained, that I find myself making mental notes of whatever I see around me. For instance, I can recite the license plate of every vehicle on this mountain. I can describe every camper and every man on Jim’s crew. Observing and being watchful has become second nature, and it’s not something you can just turn off.
But when my hands are busy, my mind stills. Restoring something to its former glory is a process that is addictive and easy to get lost in. First you strip everything down to the bare, ugly bones, before building it back up, layer by improved layer.
I turn when I hear the trailer door open behind me, and there’s Isla, who is her own brand of distraction and addiction, all rolled in one.
“Your turn,” she says, sitting down on the bench between my feet, wrapping her arm around my leg.
We sit like this for a few minutes, in companionable silence, sipping our coffee, and staring out on the water, before I get up and head inside for my shower.
-
“What’s wrong?”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard Isla hiss between her teeth since we passed Mancos.
“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “Probably just something I ate.” I’m not buying it. She had a damn piece of toast for breakfast, didn’t want anything else. I glance at her and catch her watching me. Her face is pale and her eyes look pained.
“Try again,” I say, before focusing back on the road.
“Fine,” she spits out, and I can almost hear the eye roll. “I’m probably getting my period. It can get bad.”
Of course. I’m not oblivious to what happens, but frankly I don’t usually give it much thought. Never have that is, until now. With Isla it’s different. There were a few times I’ve been a bit lax with the protection, but she’s assured me she’s taken care of. Not even sure what the hell I’m thinking. My mind has no business going there, but the thought of planting something inside her wouldn’t be a horrible thing.
“This is the first time you’ve had one,” I point out.
“I’m irregular, always have been. Even on the pill.”
“Do you want me to turn back home?” I ask as we drive into Durango.
“Hell, no. Best to muscle through it, I’ll be fine. If you could just stop at Walgreens, so I can pick up some stuff.”
Curious, I trail into the drugstore behind her.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, when I follow her down the aisle with feminine products. I have to admit, not a place I’ve ever found myself before.
“Learning,” I explain, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. “I wasn’t around when my sister hit her teenage years, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have learned anything from my mother. My job didn’t really allow for any kind of relationship outside of my assignment, so consider me uneducated on the subject.” I chuckle at the look of disbelief on her face.
“Why?” she asks, obviously puzzled.
“So next time, you can keep your ass in bed, where you belong, and I’ll get you what you need.” I shrug when her mouth drops open.
“I’m not sure if I should hug you or kick your shin right now,” she huffs, but she does it smiling, which I’m hoping means my shins are safe. I hook her around the neck and give her noogies. “Watch your shins,” she growls in warning.
I’m taking note of everything she dumps in the basket, including the bag of mini Reese’s Pieces. Mainly because she holds it up before dropping it in, saying; “Chocolate is an imperative part of the cure.” I take that to mean, don’t ever come home without it.
When I drop her off in front of the gallery, she looks a little better, but I make her promise to call me if she wants to go home. I wait until she disappears through the door before I drive off to find the parts place.
It’s not easy leaving her, when I know she’s nervous as hell about meeting this Ryan DeGroot guy and having her stuff on display, not to mention when she’s already feeling ill. Not easy, but it’s important. This is something she has to own completely.
The back of the Land Cruiser is packed, with replacement wood paneling for the few pieces that were damaged, a new sink and counter, and a variety of hoses, clips, odds and ends. I’m about to head over to the small FBI field office on Rock Point Drive, to see Damian, when my phone rings.
“Hey, Pixie,” I answer when I see her on the call display. “You done already?”
“Can you please come?”
I don’t like the sound of her voice—at all.
With a screech of tires, I whip the SUV around in a U-turn and head back to the gallery.
Isla
Part of me wants to call after Ben—get him to come in with me—but instead I try to ignore the sharp cramps low in my stomach, straighten my shoulders, and march into the place like I belong there.
“You’re Isla,” the well-groomed, handsome gentleman behind the counter says, offering his hand.
“I am.” I put my hand in his and notice immediately how smooth his palm feels against mine. So different from Ben’s callused ones. His shake is firm enough and his appeal is obvious, I can see what had Jen a little flustered when she spoke of him.
“Let me show you the space,” he says with warm smile. “The mounts all arrived yesterday, and I have to say, your guy does great work.” My guy, meaning Nate at SouthWest.
“I’ll be sure to tell him, I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of it.”
I follow him around a narrow floating wall, which breaks the long space into sections without cutting it up. You can pass easily on either side to reach the back gallery. Where the front section is an assortment of eclectic art from ultra modern to classic, this back section is like one, big, blank canvass. Gray washed floors, eggshell walls, and minimalistic halogen lighting designed to draw attention to the space, not the fixture. A perfect backdrop to my images. The only color in the space will be the golden yellow I’ve left in the photographs.
Time gets away from me as I help Ryan first set out the prints, in the order I see them, before hanging them. There is an easy atmosphere in the gallery, only interrupted a few times when he has to go tend to a customer. I stay in my anonymous bubble behind the floating wall.
He seemed understanding that I prefer to keep a low profile. It’s mostly for self-protection. What if people hate my pictures? I know they’ve sold at The Pony Express, but most of those folks are locals and just buying a pretty picture. Here they’re supposed to represent art, and I still can’t get over myself as just someone who likes to take pretty pictures. Never could quite figure out what art was supposed to look like.
The prints are beautiful, if I say so myself. The stark black and white images, with only the changing leaves of fall standing out in color, look perfect in this space. My name, I. Ferris, is printed in my digitalized signature on the bottom right-hand corner of each image. Ryan has adjusted the focus of the light fixtures, so that the light appears to bounce off the gold in the prints.
I’m pleased. I’m more than pleased, and part of me wants to be a fly on the wall tonight, when the exhibition officially launches. Jen is going to be here in my place, though. It’s better: I’m not big on crowds or mingling with strangers. Besides, now that the rush of getting the gallery ready is gone, my stomach is really making itself known.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asks, putting a hand on my back when a particularly nasty cramp has me doubled over. “Would you like to sit down?” I shake my head and reach for my purse.
“I’m fine. It’ll pass,” I lie, grinding my teeth as I throw a fake smile. “I’m just going to call my ride and be off.”
Gentleman that he is, Ryan turns away and busies himself at the counter, giving me the privacy to make a call.
“Can you please come?” I have to fight not to sob, when anoth
er wave of cramps steals my breath.
“On my way, babe. Five minutes tops.”
The familiar rasp of Ben’s voice instantly soothes, but a moment later I’m doubled over again. I barely notice being guided to the small love seat on the other side of the counter, or the hand that slips the phone from mine.
“Hello? Yes, this is Ryan. I own the gallery? She’s not looking too good—Okay, I’ll bring her out.” The next thing I know, I’m on my feet again, being shuffled out the door, where a pair of strong, familiar arms scoop me up and put me in a vehicle. I vaguely register Ben’s voice as he tries to put a seat belt on me, and all I can do is slap at his hands.
“Fine,” I hear him mutter. “We’ll do without.”
A door slams shut, and then we’re moving. It feels like something is tearing at my insides, trying to claw its way out, and every bump and rut in the road aggravates it. I just concentrate on breathing.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when the door opens beside me; arms lift me and carry me into an unfamiliar building.
“Hospital,” Ben says reassuringly in my ear, when I try to ask him. Not much more than a pathetic whimper comes out. “Acute abdominal cramping,” I hear him say. If I weren’t in so much agony, I might have giggled at his officious tone.
-
“Is this the first time you’ve had this happen?”
The fresh-faced doctor moves the cold wand of the ultrasound over my stomach.
Not sure what they gave me, but I feel a lot better than when Ben first carried me in. He’s sitting like a growling bear beside me, refusing to be removed from my side. Not that I want him to go.
“I’ve never been what you call regular and sometimes get sharp cramps a few days before I get my period, but nothing like this, no.”
He puts the wand away, and carefully wipes at my stomach with a towel to clear off the gel, before he sits on the edge of the bed. I squeeze Ben’s hand when I see him glare at the doctor, who seems oblivious and starts explaining.