by Beth Andrews
So he’d felt it, too. Usually she didn’t relax so easily. Lunch with Nick had filled more than her stomach. She’d enjoyed him way too much. When had that ever happened to her? Exactly never.
But within her, a harbinger wind whipped the small hope away. She scrambled out of the car. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, I’m going to be really busy.”
“What are you afraid of, Sam? Me?”
“Not you.” She felt her lips twist, but the result probably wasn’t a smile. “We’ve both got things to do, Nick, and my things aren’t in Widow’s Grove. Better to just let it go.”
“Better how? Look, Sam. I know you’re going back to the road as soon as the house is done, and I have no intention of leaving Widow’s Grove, ever again.” He lifted his hand from the passenger seat, turning it palm up. “Doesn’t that make me safe?”
“Safe?” She dropped her hands and stepped away from the car. “I don’t know that word.” She turned to trudge up the drive, hearing the throb of the car’s engine, and feeling the familiar throb of separateness in her chest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAM SPENT A RESTLESS night awash in dreams that were complex and dark. She’d struggle almost to the surface of consciousness, only to be pulled under by another black wave. At dawn, sleep’s undertow pushed her onto the beach of Wednesday morning. Her muscles ached, as though she’d spent the night swimming against the current.
After brewing a pot of coffee, she sat on the front steps to strategize. Once the basic task of keeping the rain out was complete, maybe she’d install a porch swing. How great would it be to sit out here in the morning, watching the cloud shadows shifting over the landscape?
Besides, a swing would add a homey touch. Make it show better.
Later that morning, she drove into the packed parking lot of Widow’s Grove High. Much as she hated it, she had to face facts. She needed help.
The school was a cluster of single-story stucco buildings connected by covered walkways, outlined in flowerbed borders. Her alma mater in Ohio had been a stone block prison in comparison. Heading for the large double doors, she wondered if things would have been better if she’d attended a school like this.
Yeah, right. Like pretty scenery would have changed anything. Now, if you’d never met Mr. Collins, that would have made a difference.
She opened the heavy glass door and stepped into the past.
Amazing how all state-run learning institutions smelled the same: a mixture of old library books, decades of cafeteria food, dust and teenage hormones. She checked in at the office and received directions to the shop classroom.
Sam forced her shoulders back and her chin up, reminding herself that she was no longer a gangly, scuttling misfit. Strange how walking the halls brought back the sharp-edged emotions that memories themselves did not. A tall, awkward, tomboy from the wrong side of town might have skated under the radar of the cool girl clique—if she hadn’t had the audacity to be friends with their boyfriend pool.
Clllannnggg! At the bell, the cavernous hall became a flash-flood river of students. They wore cutting-edge fashions, piercings and blatant attitude. The girls chattered behind their hands about the boys, who postured in studious disregard. Exotic fragrances competed with sweet, immature ones, combining in a miasma of perfume and teenage sweat. Raucous laughter echoed off the cinder block walls and every voice ratcheted decibels, competing. Sam breathed in the youthful energy, the air fairly crackling with a potent mix of potential and angst.
It was one of those rare times when she stood at the edge of a double-sided mirror: on one side was the awkward teen outcast, on the other, a grown woman. A professional. A contractor.
An emotional mess.
She found the correct room number and dropped out of the flow of students.
Maybe so. But at least in one aspect of her life, she’d achieved her dream. A rare bubble of pride rose in her chest.
Dan Porter stood at the front of the classroom in dress slacks and a blue collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Samantha. You came!” His tone told her he hadn’t been at all sure she would. He hurried over on stubby legs to pump her hand.
The front of the large room was a typical classroom, with chairs in rows facing a blackboard. The back transitioned to a wood shop, with high ceilings and windows marching down one side.
“Class is about to start. Do you have the time to sit in? It would give you an idea of the kids’ knowledge levels. At the end, would you mind talking a bit about what you do for a living? I try to remind them that there will be life after high school. Or am I asking too much?”
Sam chuckled. “What would I expect from a man who prowls home improvement stores, springing on unsuspecting contractors? I’d be happy to talk, but I’m not ready to commit to hiring them.”
“That’s fair enough.”
She slid into a chair at the back as the bell rang. Several students slipped in as Dan closed the door. Sam was gratified to see both sexes represented; she’d been the only girl in her shop classes. The boys had accepted her, once they realized that she took it seriously. The girls weren’t as forgiving.
Dan began the class by asking them to recite the rules.
Smart way to get the kids to buy in to safety.
“I want to introduce Samantha Crozier, a local contractor.”
Heads turned, chairs squealed and the heavy regard of a tough audience settled on Sam. She sat still, squirming relegated only to her stomach.
“Ms. Crozier is going to speak with us at the end of class. You’re free to work on your individual projects, now. Anyone has questions, come see me.”
Sam followed the noisy crowd to the business side of the shop.
Wandering past the floor saws, she stopped to talk to several students. Their projects ranged from simple bookshelves to birdhouses.
One boy was using power tools to carve a long chunk of cedar. Tall and lanky, stringy black hair obscured most of his pale face. Clad totally in black, he had a safety pin through his eyebrow and homemade tattoos etched the backs of both hands. He ignored her, concentrating on his intricate work with a scroll saw.
When he paused, Sam asked, “What is it?”
“A sign for a band I know.”
Gothic letters spelling “Long Goodbye” stood in bold relief, an elongated dragon winding through them.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Huh.”
“Do you want to work in wood as a career?”
“Dunno.”
“You should think about it. You have talent.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The buzz of the electric router made further conversation impossible—though conversation seemed too ambitious a word. She moved to the next station.
At the end of class, Sam spoke for ten minutes about the building trade and the future of the industry.
When she was done, Dan spoke up. “We’ve got a few minutes for questions. This is your chance, people. Do you have anything you’ve wondered about the career that Sam could answer?”
The blonde girl in the front row raised her hand. “Have you run into prejudice, being a woman contractor?”
“Great question, but I can’t really speak to it. I apprenticed under my dad, then started my own business. I’ve never worked for anyone else. I can tell you that I’ve had some odd looks from other contractors, and a few clients, but no prejudice. Don’t let fear hold you back.”
A gangly boy with acne raised his hand next. “How do you decide what kind of contractor you want to be? Electrical, plumbing, woodworking...there’s a lot to choose from.”
“And isn’t that a great problem to have? Actually, you’ll choose based on what you’re drawn to. The cool thing about this field is that it’s more than a career. It�
��s a skill, and an art, too. What makes an artist choose sculpting over painting? It’s a combination of what they’re good at, and what calls to them. Don’t be afraid to try everything. You’ll know when the time comes to choose.”
Dan thanked her as the bell rang. She walked over to him as the students made a mad dash for the door.
“I’ve seen the students and your shop. It’s only fair that you see their potential work site,” Sam said. “Why don’t you stop by after school sometime? It’s a hundred-year-old Victorian, and the first order of business is the roof. You may see that pitch and decide you don’t want the kids anywhere near it. I’m not saying I’m for this, but I’m willing to keep an open mind.”
“That sounds good. After that, we should both have enough information to make a decision.”
That afternoon Sam climbed onto the roof slow and easy. Luckily, she’d thought to have the movers put the ladder up for her; she couldn’t have wrestled it up with one arm. But she needed to assess the damage and survey the area so she could order supplies.
The jackhammer in her collarbone drove home the fact that she had to get help.
But only until I’m healed.
Straddling a roof beam, she looked around her. The view was even better from here; the hills seemed to march into the marine layer cloud bank advancing from the coast. Her eyes followed her eucalyptus fencerow, down the hill to her nearest neighbor, a small cottage. An old woman in a flowered housedress and straw hat knelt in the backyard, gardening. As if feeling Sam’s gaze, the woman looked up. Sam waved, but the woman turned back to her work.
“I hope she’s not the Welcoming Committee.” Sam turned back to her computations, reminding herself to stop and introduce herself soon. After all, two women living miles from town needed to check in on each other.
When Dan stopped by that evening, he whistled when he saw the roof. “That is a tough one. You’re going to need help.”
“At least until the bone heals. Your kids seem to have good safety habits in the shop, but this is dangerous. I’ll teach them what I can, but I don’t have time to babysit.”
“Hey, you’re the employer. You choose whom to trust. If they break the rules or give you a hard time, fire them. One of the most important things they need to learn is what employers expect, and how to behave. Most haven’t held jobs before, but I can vouch for them, they’re good kids.”
“I guess I’ll give it a shot, then—for now.”
“The kids are going to be excited.” His round face beamed and he rubbed his hands together. “I’ll announce it in class, and have those interested apply in person after school.”
“Who was the kid with the wood-carving project? He’s good with his hands.”
“Oh, that’s Beau. Beauregard Tripp the third, no less. His parents have more money than God, though you’d never know it to look at him. He’s been suspended a couple of times for excessive absences; mine is the only class he attends regularly. He’s been on the edge of trouble for years, with school and the local cops.”
If she hadn’t had her father to take care of, would she have rebelled in high school? Something about the boy’s defiance made her wonder about his home life. Takes one to know one, I guess. “He sure didn’t look like a poor little rich kid.”
“I’m not sure what his problem is, but things don’t seem to be getting better for him—mostly due to his own choices.” Dan shrugged. “He’s talented enough to work for you, but I’m not sure you want to take on the attitude.” They walked through the grass to his car. “I’d better get moving. I’ve got to get up early to go surfing.”
“You surf?” She couldn’t hide a smile, imagining Friar Tuck in Hawaiian-print swim trunks and flip-flops. “But hey, I’m a biker chick. Who am I to throw rocks?”
The backyard was crowded with shadows by the time Sam pushed the screen door open with her butt, a glass of iced tea in one hand, a sandwich in the other. She sat on the stoop. The full moon had just peeked over the hills, softening the reality of the backyard, cloaking the choking weeds and flaking paint. By squinting, and allowing for exaggeration, she could see the place—trimmed and in order, with the rows of a vegetable garden to her left, and a grape arbor to the right, tucked up next to the carriage house.
She inhaled the freshly-pressed smells of evening. A cricket orchestra tuned up in the knee-high grass of the yard. Content, she took a big bite of her bologna and lettuce sandwich.
“Grrrrine.”
Her butt muscles tightened. That was not a cricket.
“Grrrrine?”
The growl came from the brush-filled eucalyptus fencerow at the back of the property. Surely this wasn’t wolf habitat. Yeah, but I bet there are coyotes in these hills.
“Grrrrine?” Louder this time.
Maybe rabid ones. Clenching her sandwich too hard, she squinted in the ghostly moonlight. She caught a glint. Off teeth? Bottom teeth. When the animal moved, its eyes flashed a flat, haunted green.
She shot up and was through the screen door in two heartbeats. Slamming the heavy inside door, she locked it. Between the wild animals and rabid men, maybe she would be wise to buy a gun.
* * *
THE RADIO PLAYED a Paganini violin concerto as Sam worked the next day. Rock anthems ruled the road, but she liked to work to classical. The old music lent her perspective, whispering in a soothing voice that there were no problems that couldn’t be solved by time.
She stood on a ladder in her dining room, surveying her demolition. Frustrated with the restriction of the sling, she’d taken it off, never intending to use it again regardless of the pain.
The floors upstairs were dangerous, so instead, she worked on the ceiling of the first floor. Decades of mummified spiders and hundred-year-old debris rained on her head. It was only noon, and the left side of the house looked like a blitzkrieg-bombed building.
The sound of a knock at the front door snapped Sam to attention, her nerves surging to DEFCON 5. Sledgehammer in fist, she backed down the ladder and stalked through the hall. She stood, hand on the locked door. “Who is it?”
“Jesse and Carl. We come bearing food and muscle.”
Sam’s held breath whooshed out. “Hold on.” She unlocked the door.
Jesse and her husband stood on the porch, holding what looked like box lunches from the café. Sam’s heart slowed from a panicked gallop to a fast trot.
Jesse looked Sam over. “Lord, honey, do you know you’re coated in plaster dust? You look like the ghost of Pig-Pen!”
Sam unlocked the screen door and pushed it open. “You’re going to run screaming when you see the mess.”
Jesse stopped halfway down the hall, gaping. “Oh, my God, did the ceiling collapse?”
“Not without a lot of swearing.” Sam swiped her hand down her jeans and took the bags of food from Carl. Inhaling the decadent smell of warm French fries, her stomach growled. “You didn’t have to do this. I don’t want you to feel like you have to help.”
Carl stepped around Jesse and took the hammer from her hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said in a quiet voice, walking into what remained of the dining room. “I’ll eat later.” Sam and Jesse retired to the kitchen and dug in, serenaded by strains of Mozart and Carl’s sledgehammer.
“So?” Jesse draped her arm on the chair back in slouched nonchalance. “Heard from Nick?”
Sam took a sip from her soft drink. “He calls a couple times a week, updating me on the parts hunt for the Vulcan.”
“That’s all?”
“Don’t even start getting ideas in that blond head of yours. He’s my mechanic.”
“I know, you’ve told me before in our afternoon chats that you’re not looking for a relationship. But don’t you think he’s a nice guy?”
“Yes, Yenta, he’s a nice guy.” Someone s
ave her from well-meaning—but misguided—matchmakers. “Thanks to you, I know that he’s—” looking to the ceiling, she ticked the points off in her catechism voice “—a local volunteer for the homeless shelter, runs some kind of meetings at the Knights of Pythias a couple times a week, is mechanic for the police force and fixes town kids’ bicycles for free.” She looked back to Jesse. “Did I forget anything? Has he rescued any drowning kittens since I spoke with you last?”
“No, but—”
“Don’t you get that look in your eye. I don’t know why you’re trying to turn this into something it’s not, and never will be.”
“I know I shouldn’t butt in.” Jesse shrugged. “But I never let that stop me before.”
Sam rolled her eyes, but Jesse barreled on.
“I just don’t understand. You’ve got a body to die for, a face that could be on a magazine cover yet you live like a hermit. I know you’re not gay. So what is it?”
“Not everyone wants a husband, a house and two point five kids, Jesse.”
“I know that. But everyone has someone. From what you’ve told me, you don’t: no friends back home, no relatives, no one to call when something bad happens. Or something good, for that matter.” Jesse leaned in, too close. “And that’s not normal—unless you’re schizophrenic. And come to think of it, they at least have other people in their heads.”
“Look, it’s not like I don’t date. I haven’t since I’ve been here, but I can. I mean, I have. I go out with perfectly decent men. Perfectly normal men.”
“Sounds like you’re choosing a computer.”
Sam sat, skewered on the pin of Jesse’s logic.
“Look, I care about you. I can’t help wanting you to be as happy as Carl and me. If you’d ever felt something like that, you’d know what I’m talking about. It’s like finding a part of you that you didn’t know existed, and after, you wonder how you ever lived without it.”