“You weren’t.” She paced from the tulips to the burn pile. “Now you know, but you don’t need to worry. I’m fine and—”
“Pack your stuff. I’ll get you a flight out tonight.”
She opened and closed her mouth, trying to form the right words. “No, I can’t right now.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Charlene. I can’t keep an eye on you from across the country, and I can’t keep coming there. You have to come here. I’ll buy you your own place if that’s what it takes.”
He’d called her Charlene, not Char. He was really mad. She spun around and paced faster, careful to regulate her voice. “That’s a really generous offer, Max, but you’re not spending more money on me. Besides, Ben’s already upset I moved an hour away. No way am I moving across the country.” She stopped in her tracks. “I’m staying here. Not running. Not hiding.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“I don’t think so.”
Max continued arguing, but after a few minutes, he must have known he was getting nowhere. He paused. “You said you’re living in the same town as Clay now?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Tell him I said he’d better keep you safe, or he’ll answer to me.”
She said nothing, knowing she would never relay any such message.
* * *
“How’s Clay feeling today?” Charlene asked Sam a few days later while she brushed stain onto an oak door.
“Fine. He’s healing.” She mouthed the words silently as Sam said them while putting his muscle into planing a board. It was always the same. He was a man of few words. No wonder he loved putting her on phone duty. She had the delightful task of breaking the news to customers that orders were delayed. Thankfully, most customers were understanding and okay with the wait. She sensed they knew they were getting quality work worth waiting for.
She set her brush down. “I’ll be right back,” she said as she left the shop for a quick break.
Sam had told her on her first day where to find the restroom. “Go through the garage door; it’s the first door on your right.” In those directions, she had heard his implied, Don’t go nosing anywhere else in the house.
As if she would be so presumptuous.
This time, though, as she left the bathroom and stepped into the hall, she heard a loud, glass-splintering crash from the opposite end of the house. Concern overrode her reservations.
“Clay?” She hurried down the hall into the kitchen. “You okay?”
He had one knee on the brown linoleum, his head bent, as he crouched over shards of glass. In that split second, she knew he was fine and she should have stayed away.
He looked up. His hand hovered over a large piece of glass. His beard was gone, and she saw the large greenish bruises, the swelling, and the odd set of his jaw. “Oh, Clay.”
He ducked his head again. “It’s not a big deal.” His words came out low, slightly muffled.
“Let me help you clean up. Where’s the broom? Wait, I’ll find it. Don’t talk if it hurts.” It sure looked like it hurt. Her eyes searched for a broom, her gaze bouncing off walls and cupboards, not registering anything as an uncomfortable feeling filled her throat.
“Relax, I’ve got it.” Clay was suddenly sweeping glass with a broom that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
She swallowed, forcing past the tightness. She watched him sweep the fragments into a pan and dump them with a musical clinkity-clink into the trash. He hung the broom on a hook, then faced her, arms crossed. “Do you need something?”
She took a step backward. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry Lance found you—”
“Not your fault.”
“But he followed me here. If I hadn’t—”
“He would have found me. If not then, another time. He’s had a grudge for years. Like I said, not your fault.”
She ignored the flashes of wire on his teeth, but the metal was like his tone, cold and stiff. He looked thinner already. Not eating enough.
She fingered her knuckles nervously. “Why wouldn’t you let me see you in the hospital? And why don’t you want me working in the shop? I’m only trying to help—”
“Don’t you get it?” he said harshly. “I don’t want your help.” He shook his head and closed his lips awkwardly, tight over his teeth. He seemed to be debating something. His eyes finally met hers, and flashed. “Bad things happen when you’re around, that’s all.”
Her mind reeled. “I—I don’t understand. You just said it wasn’t my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.” He ground the words out through his teeth. “You can’t help it. It’s just who you are.” His eyes didn’t waver from hers. His stare was rigid.
Cruel.
She wanted to shatter to pieces and be swept from the room.
Doing the next best thing, she turned and left.
* * *
“Hey, Charlene,” Sam barked when she re-entered the shop, “you can’t just set a dirty brush down. You’ve gotta clean the bristles in turpentine or you’ll ruin it.”
Don’t you know that’s what I do? Bad things happen when I’m around, that’s all.
But she nodded and picked up the brush. While Clay’s words blistered her mind, she swished the brush in a bucket of turpentine. The strong smell ate at her nostrils and stung her eyes until they watered.
* * *
The banana muffins were moldy. Charlene saw the bluish white fuzz speckling the tops through the clear plastic bakery box window. She’d been pulling out a package of bagels when she spotted the box crammed in the back of the cupboard.
Ick. For as much as Brook had raved about the muffins, Charlene would have thought she’d have eaten them days ago. Charlene tossed the box in the garbage on her way out the door, then peddled the five minutes it took to get to work.
Arriving, she coasted to a stop and leaned her bike against a stately oak tree. She paused at the door of the shop, unnerved to hear familiar, but unpleasant, voices raised inside.
“It’s too soon,” Sam said. “You’re not working yet. Get outta here. You need at least a few more days.”
“No.” Clay’s stubborn voice. “We don’t have days to spare. I’ve lost too many already. You can’t get all these orders done on your own, and you know it.”
“We’ll manage. A few late orders aren’t a big deal. I’m doing fine. You know I’ve got help.”
A scoffing noise. “Her? She doesn’t know a thing about woodworking. How much help can she really be? Besides, you know how I feel about that, about her being here.” The anger in his voice came through loud and clear, despite the wires. “You shouldn’t be giving her a reason to hang around. We don’t need more problems.”
Bracing herself, Charlene stepped into the shop and looked right at Sam, ignoring Clay. “What would you like me to start on?” From the corner of her eye, she didn’t miss Clay’s face flush as he wondered what she’d overheard. The shadowy stubble on his chin hid any lingering bruises. She wondered if he was growing a beard back.
He grabbed a leather tool belt and threw it on. “Sam doesn’t need your help anymore. I’m back at work now.”
“I’ll speak for myself.” Sam’s tone was sharp, and she thought of the twisted secret they shared. That was probably the only reason he was keeping her here; he likely feared she’d spill the truth if he fired her.
Clay muttered something and pulled out a hammer, then turned away and started pounding.
She spoke so only Sam could hear. “Do you want me gone? I’ll go, but I’ll have to give him the letter before I leave.” Not out of spite, just out of necessity. She was ready to hand it over and be done with Clay forever. She tried to tune out his noisy, powerful swings.
Sam looked from her to Clay and grumbled under his breath. But she knew he realized they were both waiting for his decision.
“She can stay for now,” Sam bellowed over the hammering. “We still need all the help we can get.” He step
ped to Clay’s side and stilled the hammer mid-swing. “And if you’re gonna be so darn obstinate and work, I need you on the Feldman’s dining set over there, not beating up that block of wood.”
So it was settled. Clay stomped past her and didn’t look her way the rest of the day.
* * *
After a couple more tension-filled days, Charlene began losing hope that Clay would ever turn civil to her. Maybe prison had changed him, irreparably. A sad thought, but one it seemed time to face.
On her way home from work, she stopped at the library. She’d been feeling the pull for days, not only to find a few good novels to read, but to inquire about any possible openings for summer work. She’d committed to the woodshop, but it wouldn’t hurt to know her options, just in case.
She stepped inside and absorbed the quiet calm. How she’d missed this environment. Unfortunately, inquiring for job openings turned out to be fruitless. Disappointed, she browsed books in the ten minutes left before closing. After selecting a few novels, a certain nonfiction book on the “new books” display caught her eye, and despite herself, it gave her an idea.
The next day, she ran the plan past Sam. His brief grunt and nod translated to, Go ahead, couldn’t hurt.
She wasn’t so sure that was true, but she’d give it a try anyway.
After Sam locked the shop, she followed him and Clay up to their house. Clay didn’t turn to her, just spoke into the air in front of him. “Your bike’s in the other direction.”
“I know.”
“So where do you think you’re going?” he asked as Sam opened the door and entered the house.
“Inside.”
“No, you’re not.” Clay turned and faced her, blocking the doorway.
“I said she could,” Sam announced, already down the hall.
Raising her brows, she put on a mock triumphant expression.
Clay narrowed his eyes. His shadowed upper lip twitched in annoyance. He stayed in the doorway, appearing conflicted.
“Lighten up, Clay. I’m not going to hurt you.” She could have shoved past him, but she stayed with her feet firmly planted on the stoop, waiting for him to back down.
He gave a slight shake of his head, and she noticed speckles of sawdust caught in his hair like snow. She remembered real flakes of snow in his hair. Felt like a lifetime ago.
“Seriously,” she said, “if it’s going to be a standoff, never mind. I’ll just go.”
“No, Charlene,” called Sam, out of sight but apparently still tuned in. “Come on in. Clay, get out of the way. All she’s doing is using the kitchen for a few minutes.” She heard him mutter, “So dang stubborn . . .”
Clay moved aside, confusion, suspicion, and chagrin playing across his features.
“See, there’s this book—” she pulled it from her purse and set it on the kitchen counter—“all about making blended food, like smoothies and soups, and I thought you might want to use it. If you’re getting tired of juice and canned soup, which you must be.”
“You’re getting too thin,” Sam cut in over the TV he’d turned on.
Clay watched skeptically as she pulled out the ingredients she’d stashed in the fridge earlier.
“You can have a lot more variety this way. Look.” She tossed bananas, frozen strawberries, and yogurt into the blender.
“A smoothie.” He sounded far from impressed.
“Just wait.” She poured in some walnuts, then dropped in a huge blob of peanut butter. She snagged a bag from the fridge. “You can even throw in some spinach.” She removed a few tender leaves.
“Hold on. Spinach? That’s disgusting.”
“No, it’s baby spinach. It’s mild. It’ll blend right in and you won’t even taste it. It’s good for you.” She dropped in a small handful. “You can add celery, too, and carrots.”
He made a face.
She added a splash of milk, then set the rubber lid on top.
“Where’d you find this book?”
“At the library.”
His mouth moved in an uncomfortable way. “You went to the library looking for it?”
“Oh no, not specifically,” she hastened to clarify. “I just happened to see it, that’s all. I almost didn’t get it,” she added, flustered. She didn’t want him to think she’d been thinking of him.
His eyes flickered something. The moment felt too long. Too silent. Her fingers fumbled at the blender and flipped the switch on.
With a choppy roar, the machine burst to life and the blades whirred full-speed. The contents rocketed to the top, blowing off the lid. Spinach and strawberries pelted upward and milky-yogurt- banana-mush cascaded and splattered the ceiling—as well as Charlene and Clay.
Alarmed, she hit the switch to off. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry! I don’t know what happened.”
“You didn’t secure the lid,” Clay said dryly.
“And that’s why we don’t ever let her touch the power saw,” Sam remarked from his easy chair.
Ignoring him, she told Clay, “You have spinach in your hair.”
“I’m not the only one.” He plucked a leaf from his hair and flicked it at her.
Dodging, she watched it flutter to the ground. “You missed.” Looking at him, she felt laughter bubble up and out. Amazingly, his eyes crinkled and his mouth fought a smile—or was it even a laugh?
“Aarghh,” he groaned, “my face isn’t ready for this.” Then it came, a laugh, half-punctuated with pain, but a laugh, nonetheless.
“Clean it up, you two,” Sam yelled.
So they tore off paper towels, grabbed a bucket and mop, and went to work tackling the mess.
Her second smoothie attempt blended successfully, after Clay reminded her repeatedly to snap the lid on tight. She poured the thick drink into tall glasses, then he took a straw and tried the concoction. Swallowing, he nodded. “Not bad.”
“But not good?”
He took another drink. “Fine, it’s good.”
“Good.”
“It would be even better without the spinach.”
“You can’t even taste that and you know it.” She smiled and tapped the book. “There’s so many great recipes in here. Maybe tomorrow—”
“Helloooo,” a female voice called into the house. “Hi, you guys!”
Charlene turned to see Brook, a bright smile on her face, sailing down the hall toward them. She held a tray with a couple of milk shakes. “Brought you dinner, honey.” She came to Clay’s side and put her arm around him before looking at Charlene pointedly. “I thought you’d be home by now.”
“I was just showing Clay this book . . .” She dropped the explanation and started retreating as Brook’s gaze scanned the cover. “I’ll leave it here so you can try more recipes if you want.”
“Oh, that would be fun. We’ll do that.”
“Okay, bye. Bye Sam,” Charlene added.
“Hey, Charlene, you have some gunk in your hair,” Brook called after her.
Back at the apartment, Charlene took a shower and scrubbed hard enough to rid every last speck of her disastrous idea out of her hair and out of her head.
* * *
The woman’s skin burned, enflamed by coursing blood as her thoughts smoldered. She remembered how he had looked at her, the other woman, though she was hardly a woman at all. More like a girl. A stupid, stupid girl.
She knew her kind. The girl thought she was really something, with her name that oozed money, her smooth complexion, perfect figure, and hair that curled naturally, bouncing as she walked. Thinking she could have anyone she wanted.
She’d show her.
The woman tossed her own hair, which was growing thicker than ever now. Her long, painted nails were superior, too. Her breast inflated with pride as she admired the impeccable polish. At least in her current job, she could wear any color she liked, wasn’t bound by the ridiculous rule of neutrality.
Because neutral she was not.
Not like the tramp. That hussy was just askin’ for
trouble.
Pressing her nails into her palms, she contemplated just what kind of trouble to give her.
Chapter Seventeen
“So that was really funny, huh?” Brook said when she arrived home late that evening and found Charlene reading in the living room. “Clay told me all about it. Food all over the place and in your hair. Must have been a chore to clean up. But that was really nice of you to think of him like that.”
Charlene reread the last sentence of her novel twice while Brook hovered. She seemed to be awaiting a reply, something more than her simple nod. Usually Charlene was already sealed in her room by the late hour Brook arrived home. She hadn’t thought much about it, but it suddenly clicked. Brook got home late because she hung out with Clay after work, not because she worked insanely long hours.
“It was nothing,” Charlene finally answered. “I happened to see the book and thought he could use it, that’s all.”
Brook perched on the sofa opposite Charlene’s chair and rested her chin on her hand. After studying her a minute she asked, “Do you have Clay’s number?”
Charlene looked up from her book. “What?”
“Clay’s phone number. Do you have it?”
Charlene closed her book, the spine crinkling. “No, why would I?”
“Well, I just thought since you’re friends.”
“Are we?” Charlene avoided her eyes. “Did Clay say that?”
Brook studied a tangerine fingernail. “No, but that was the impression I got.”
Charlene hated asking, but felt Brook could tell her. “Do you know why he wouldn’t see me in the hospital?”
Brook pursed her lips, looking like they contained a secret that was itching to be told, but she’d need a little prompting to spill it. “He just wasn’t feeling good. Wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Evasive answer. Come on, give it to me.” She set her book down. “I can take it.”
Brook blew a nonexistent wisp of hair from her eyes. “Okay. He didn’t say much.” She leaned forward and said the next words in a rush. “Just that you were the last person he ever wanted to see.”
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