Juniper Limits (The Juniper Series Book 2)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Other books by Lora Richardson
Juniper Limits
The Juniper Series Book 2
Lora Richardson
Juniper Limits
Lora Richardson
Copyright 2017 Lora Richardson.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission of Lora Richardson, except in the case of brief excerpts included in a critical review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Design Copyright 2017 Pink Ink Designs.
For Walter, Sylvia, and Ryan—the heart and soul of my days.
Juniper Limits
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Other books by Lora Richardson
1
Paul jumped off the side of the porch, leaped over a small bush, and strode down the sidewalk, tucking his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. It was late morning, but the day was still fresh with possibility.
Malcolm had called a couple hours ago to say he cancelled all their lawn mowing jobs to spend the day with Fay at Tate Pond. Paul wasn’t surprised, because they’d fallen hard for each other this summer, and there were only two weeks left until she moved back to New Hampshire. He threw out a few jokes about what they’d be doing at the pond all day, but Malcolm just said, “What?” like he hadn’t even heard.
Paul tried again, but there were muffled noises, then Malcolm dropped his phone altogether. It scraped across the floor as he picked it back up, and he sighed. “Sorry, man. I’m trying to pack a picnic and talk on the phone at the same time. I’ve got to go.”
His words were laced with tension. Malcolm was the kind of guy who kept his feet planted on the ground during a tornado, so his mood kind of freaked Paul out.
“You take the day, dude. I’ll do the lawns myself,” Paul said. “And tomorrow we can get started early. Nobody will care that you missed a day.”
Malcolm laughed. “You’ll be late like usual and we’ll get done what we get done, and it’ll be fine. Let’s both take the day.” He had planted his feet again.
So Paul had a day on his hands, and against his better judgment, he was going to see Celia. The sun cooked the top of his head, and sweat ran down his back. He lengthened his stride and cut across all the lawns on Mill Street. He wondered what Celia thought about him hanging around more, inserting himself into the background of her landscape. She noticed. Even though sometimes she ignored him, he could feel her trying not to look his way.
Paul’s feet pounded the ground as he thought about Ronan—her boyfriend. Ronan was less a boyfriend, and more a grub worm. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and shook his arms. He shouldn’t be on his way to see her. He knew it, but he didn’t change course.
He rounded another block—only two more to go. Maybe she wouldn’t even be home. In that case, he’d go find her at Heidi’s, the restaurant where she worked. That had a fifty percent chance of being a good idea—probably better odds than going to her house like he was already doing. At least at the restaurant he could pretend he only came in for the iced tea. He’d drunk enough tea to fill a swimming pool since she started working there.
Last weekend, he and Malcolm had stopped by Heidi’s so Malcolm could see Fay during her break. They’d waited out there beside the putrid dumpster for fifteen minutes before Fay and Celia came out.
The girls sat together on the step, and Malcolm and Paul faced them, sprawled on the dirty gravel. Paul picked Heidi’s cigarette butts out of the rocks, making a little mountain of them, reminiscing about how he nearly fell out of the Ferris wheel at the Founder’s Day festival. Celia’s mood changed in an instant, and he still had no idea why. Her voice dropped low, her eyes watered up, and she told him, “That was weeks ago, Paul. Nobody wants to hear about that day.” She stood up and jerked open the door, slamming it after she disappeared inside.
Paul blinked.
“You should go after her,” Fay said.
He shook his head. “Nah. She doesn’t want me to. I’m sure Ronan wouldn’t want me to, either.”
“Paul.” Fay looked at him sternly. “Ronan is not the problem. He is a symptom of the problem.” Fay stood up and disappeared through the door, going after Celia herself.
Paul wanted to know the problem, and he’d risk saying a hundred wrong things if it would lead him there. He’d been collecting information about Celia as long as he could remember, and all of it had been excavated a pebble at a time. Today he was after a boulder.
He turned onto her street and saw her up ahead at the side of her house. She held a set of garden shears, and he watched as she snapped them shut, lopping a huge chunk off the top of a bush.
Her black hair was pulled up in a ponytail. The part that hung down was four or five inches long and curved out and then down toward her neck, looking entirely like a question mark. Paul smiled, because it was the right punctuation. Some of her hair had escaped, and lay in slick lines on her neck. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she bit her lip as she focused on her task.
She was beautiful, and completely out of reach for a guy like him. But maybe she liked skinny dudes with great hair. And maybe she was too good for someone like him, but maybe that wasn’t up to him
to decide. Certainly she was too good for Ronan. He guessed that was up to her to decide, too.
Her profile revealed her fierce concentration as she sized up the bush, seeing if it was even. She slammed the shears shut again, lopping off another chunk of the bush, and as Paul watched, her expression changed abruptly to a grimace of pain. She dropped the shears on the grass, and looked at the palm of her right hand.
He crossed the yard toward her. Celia’s eyes widened as he approached, and she curled her injured hand into a fist and pressed it into her stomach, tucked behind her other hand.
Paul wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gently pulled her hand out so he could see. “That’s a real nasty blister you’ve got there.”
She yanked her hand out of his grasp. “It’s fine.”
She bent to pick up the shears again, but Paul got to them first. He opened and closed them a couple times, examining the blades.
Celia held out her good hand. “Give them to me. I have work to do.”
He flipped them over and looked at the other side of the blades, then opened and closed them a few more times, getting a feel for them. He ran his thumb along the length of the cutting edge. They were excellent quality shears, old and heavy, but dull as kindergarten scissors.
“Paul.”
Pulled from his examination, he looked up at her. She crossed her arms in front of her and glared at him. It was then he noticed her eyes were swollen and rimmed in pink, like she’d been crying. His gaze softened, and her glare hardened. He wouldn’t mention it, then.
He carried the shears across the yard to her garage.
“What are you doing?” she asked, following behind him. “I should keep working.”
“I’m going to sharpen these for you. The kind of guy your dad is, I’m sure he’s got something that will do the job.” Paul opened the walk door, and entered the dark, cool garage. He breathed deeply, enjoying the perfume of engine grease and ancient dust common to old garages. He flipped the switch by the door, but the bulb was burned out.
“What do you mean, the kind of guy my dad is?”
Paul looked at her, rimmed in light in the brightness of the doorway, her posture stiff and her hand clutching the door frame. He knew a little bit about her family. It was impossible to live in Juniper and not know things about everybody else. Indeed, the whole town knew more than he cared for them to know about his own family. So he knew some stuff—that her dad was a sloppy drunk who hated his best friend’s family, for a start—but he was plenty aware he didn’t know everything. Paul spoke carefully. “He’s the kind of guy that does his own repairs. I’ve seen him out working on his car. He doesn’t hire us for mowing. He owns tools. That kind of thing.”
Celia released a breath and eyed him, and eventually she nodded. “You can look around in here if you want. I don’t know where anything is, though, so you’re on your own.”
Paul passed an eye over the things on the cluttered work bench. “Do you have to work today?”
She stepped inside and leaned against the wall, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “No.”
“I have the day off too.”
He leaned against the work bench, mimicking her pose, and looked across the garage at her. They were separated by a beam of light from the window, dust motes swirling between them. It hit him that this was the first time he’d ever been alone with her. He’d known her his whole life—so long he didn’t even remember the first time he saw her—but had never had her to himself.
“I’m going to get a band-aid.” She turned to leave the garage, but looked back at Paul before heading through the door. “And just so you know, my dad doesn’t do the yard work. Abe and I do it.”
She left before he could respond, so he returned to his search. He found some boxes under the workbench, pulled one out, and moved it to the window so he could see inside. He dug through it, but it was mostly junk auto parts. He opened another box and revealed a stash of empty liquor bottles, probably waiting to be recycled. He closed that one and pushed it back under the bench. A third box proved more fruitful, and he found a sharpening stone tucked to one side.
He rubbed the dust off of it, then took it out to the yard and sat down against the huge oak by the front porch. He set to work sharpening the blades of the shears. It was taking Celia a long time to grab a band-aid, and he hoped she was looking for work gloves. He ran the blade against the stone, and thought again about her swollen eyes.
He had the shears sharpened to within an inch of their life by the time Celia came back out. She glided out the front door, carrying a large plastic cup. She handed it to him, then sat down in the grass facing him. She looked different. Her hair was down, she wore a different shirt, and she had on bright red lipstick and some other makeup around her eyes.
He peered inside the cup. It was lemonade. “Thanks.”
She shrugged. “We had it in the fridge.”
He smiled. “How’s your hand?”
She tapped the band-aid. “It’s fine. Just a blister.”
He nodded and took a long swallow of the lemonade. When he lowered the cup, he saw her look away. She’d been watching him. A jittery feeling thrummed through him, and to chase it off, he jumped out in front of it. “You like the way I drink my lemonade, Celia?”
She rolled her eyes. “You wish. I was trying not to be disgusted by all the grime on your hands.”
He looked down at his hands. Sure enough, he had left dirty fingerprints on the green plastic cup. “Dang, sorry.”
She bit her lip and looked away from him, staring out at the street. He tried to rub the dirt off the cup, but only succeeded in smearing it. Seconds ticked by, and neither one of them said anything.
Stupid things to say popped into his head, one right after the other, like the moles popping out of their holes in a game of Whack-a-Mole. Can I feel your hair? You smell good. Remember that time I won the science fair in fifth grade? Somehow he managed to whack all the thoughts back down into his brain holes.
He cringed and stared down at the grass. He was being stupid. She had a boyfriend. And she still wasn’t saying anything. It was easier when Malcolm and Fay were around, and they could both assume Celia was only there because of Fay, and Paul was only there because of Malcolm. Right then, neither one of them had any reason to be sitting in her yard except for each other.
“I should get going.” He bent his legs and readied to stand—anything to end this—but she placed her cool fingertips on his forearm.
“Stay. Finish your lemonade.” Her hand disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Slowly, Paul sat back in the grass. He ran his hand over his pants, trying to wipe off a layer of sweat and grime, trying to think of anything at all to say. “That’s some bright red lipstick.”
She lifted her chin. “Do you have a problem with lipstick?”
“No, I like it fine. I just noticed it because you didn’t have it on before. Which, of course you didn’t, because you were doing yard work, and you don’t need to put on makeup for that.” He winced. “I mean, not that you ever need to, because you look amazing without it.” His eyes widened, hearing how every word out of his mouth was terrible. He had no way to save it at that point, so he soldiered on. “And with it. Just, yeah, wear make-up or, you know, don’t wear it. Whichever.”
He finally shut up.
She sat still for a minute, her eyes narrowing in on his face, and then she abruptly stood up. “I happen to like makeup, Paul, and I’ll wear it to scrub the toilets if I want. And just so we’re clear, you don’t get a say in my appearance.” She propped her hands on her hips, and glared down at him, nostrils flared and eyes on fire.
“Um…” He cleared his throat.
“You thought I put on lipstick because of you.” She tilted her head and gave him a look, daring him to challenge her assumption. He couldn’t—she was right. He had been thinking the makeup might be a clue to how she felt about him.
Something about her stance shifted. Sh
e sucked in her bottom lip and wrung her hands. Oh no. He couldn’t see very well from down on the grass, but her eyes looked too shiny.
“I look how I want to look, and you don’t get to comment on it. Okay, Paul?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Okay.” Things had taken a turn somewhere and he knew it was his fault, but it happened quicker than he could process it. He tried to think fast, but he could practically see her mind racing ahead of his. He needed her to back up and slow down so he could catch up. And she wasn’t about to slow down, she was about to bolt. “I’m sorry. Sit back down here.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Ronan used to like telling me what to do.”
“I’m not Ronan.” Paul didn’t miss it though; she said used to.
Her shoulders dropped down and she let her arms fall to her sides. “No, you’re not.” She released a big sigh. “You’re really not.”