The silence lingers as we pull away from my property. I left it earlier tonight in fine shape and now leave it just hours later with my property scarred and battered.
We get to their place quickly and I help getting my room set up.
“Drink? A shot of whiskey may help you sleep,” Paul says as Elle brings me fresh towels.
“No. Just water.”
Elle brings me a glass, and I hug and thank them both before heading to bed. I know it will be a sleepless night, but only in the privacy of my room can I face the agony of what seems lost tonight.
Chapter 22: The Rulebook of Joe
Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell. ~Joan Crawford
Come dawn, the guest room windows filling with light feel like fire, the brightness burning my sleepless eyes. I curse the new day and desperate for a distraction, I reach over for my phone so I can look for cute animal videos on Facebook. As I watch the frolicking pups, the fluffy panda playing in the snow, and that otter video with the baby cuddling on the mama’s chest, I know these distractions are the only things keeping me sane at this point.
Just past seven I hear noise from what sounds like the kitchen so I wander in and find Paul loading the coffeemaker and yawning.
“Hey you. Tired?”
He pulls another mug out of the cupboard. “Yeah, how about you?”
I shrug. “I didn’t sleep at all. Sorry I kept you guys up so late.”
“Don’t be, we’re always up late.”
Oh yeah. How could I forget?
“So what happens next?” he asks.
I groan and pull up my chair to the kitchen table, then prop my head in my hands. “Hopefully the insurance inspection this morning, and then maybe Joe has calmed down a bit. I’m hoping he’s shifted into just disliking me, not hating my guts.”
“Yeah, progress would be good. Maybe he’ll even do better than that.”
“I’m not counting on it.”
“Just know, Trish, that it’s going to take some time to sort out.”
Paul fills my mug with coffee and sets it in front of me before filling his tumbler. “I’ve got to be in early today, so I’m going to hop in the shower and head out. Will you let me know how it goes, and if you need anything?”
“Yeah, I will. Thanks.”
Mike calls to tell me that our agent, his friend Monika, and the insurance investigator will meet me at the house at ten.
I text Joe and ask if he can come for the investigation and bring the fire report.
He replies back with a single word.
Yes.
The air is tense as we all meet on the front porch. Joe is the last to arrive. It’s a couple minutes past ten when he parks across the street instead of in our driveway. As we step through the gate and into the yard, the inspector starts taking pictures.
“So where was the point of ignition?” he asks.
I walk to the patio, my gaze running over the mess until I see the patch of melted wax and remnants of the torch base burned into the grass. I point down. “Here. It was one of those citronella torch candles to ward off mosquitoes.”
Joe rolls his eyes with a look of disgust.
The inspector shakes his head and takes pictures of the mess, and then keeps at it as he moves around the yard with his thousand-and-one questions. He spends a lot of time on Betty with Joe close behind him asking questions back.
I’m completely drained by the time the insurance guy leaves, and Monika stays back for a minute and tries to assure us that quick action will be taken to make things right. I’m grateful for her being the one person in this group who seems to care about the feelings behind all of this, not just the physical damage.
I almost expect Joe to leave when she does but he stays behind, his eyes darting from his bike to the open gate where we’ve just left his scarred rig.
After an awkward moment I walk over to the chair on the porch and sink down in defeat. He stares at me with a resigned expression, but steps a few feet closer.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask.
His gaze trails back to his bike like he’s still considering escaping.
I let out a deep breath as I watch him. “Are you okay?”
He gives me a look that’s a cross between frustration and disappointment. I can take anything from him but disappointment.
I rub my hands over my tired face and will myself not to cry again.
“I had a lot of time to think last night,” he finally says.
“Yeah?” I ask warily.
“The thing is, Trisha, all of this is too much for me. I made a vow to myself after Sharon that I’d never allow relationship drama in my life again. And honestly, you’re drama with a capital D.”
“Is that so?” I ask. I resent his accusation yet can’t deny it with the way things have gone lately. How can I argue with him like it’s been no big deal?
“Yeah . . . you’re an out-of-control wildfire, burning hot and I never know what to expect next.”
I squint up at him. “Some people would find that exciting, you know?”
He shakes his head firmly. “Not me.”
“Well, my life wasn’t like this before, and I don’t want it to continue like this now. I want the same thing, Joe. No drama. Surely you can see that most of what’s happened has been out of my control.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“As you pointed out, you’ve had big drama in your life that was out of your control,” I say.
He shrugs and doesn’t deny my accusation but instead agrees. “Another reason I don’t want yours.”
“Life isn’t flawless. Even if you get everything lined up like dominoes, in perfect order, I can guarantee that something unexpected will come your way and the tiles will start to fall.”
“Dominoes? What I do know is that I’ve risked my job and my home to be with you. After last night I’ve realized I can’t afford that kind of risk when you’re still figuring things out with your husband.”
I feel my blood pressure soar. “I’ve been clear with you that Mike and I are over. So you’re saying that I’m not a sure thing to you. Not someone you think you can depend on?”
“I’m saying I’m not sure.”
“I see. And where does love fall in the rulebook of Joe? Last on your list of requirements? A quiet, calm life is more important than love?”
He doesn’t say yes or no, just gazes off in the distance, his arms folded over his chest.
I feel the small cracks in my heart expand to fissures, and then full pieces start breaking away inside my hollow chest.
“So is this it?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“I don’t know. I need to process all of this. My rage right now isn’t logical. I hate your husband, and I’m angry at you for giving him the opportunity to screw up what we had together.”
“It’s only screwed up if we let it be that way. I’m going to get Betty fixed up as good as new—no matter what it takes, Joe.”
He gives me a wary look. “Like it’s that simple.”
“Why are you assuming it’s going to be too complicated? As for my divorce, I’m going to get it finished up, no matter what it takes. If that isn’t enough to make you willing to take a chance on me, on love . . . then what more can I do?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, I need some time to get this sorted in my head. Last night was one fucked up situation.”
He walks from one end of the porch to the other, and back again. Those damn long legs. It suddenly hits me that I may never be in his arms again, us stretched across his bed, my legs draped over his, skin against skin. The idea takes my breath away and fuels my fire. I stand up and face him, moving closer, a challenge to see if he’ll back away. He stands tall, unyielding.
He lets out a huff. “What?”
“Okay. I get it. I may have already lost you. Sounds like you’ve decided we’re not worth figh
ting for. But before you go you need to know one thing.”
He arches a brow at me, like he’s waiting for another one of my crazy proclamations.
“You were never my stray rescue. Never. You were anything but that. It all goes back to the time you called me to the office to check and see if I was okay after my marriage blowing apart. I’d always been a faithful wife, never looked sideways at any of you guys. That just wasn’t me. But that day the kindness you showed me, set you apart.”
He turns his gaze away, maybe my intensity is too much, but at least he’s still listening.
“From that moment on I watched you, and I liked what I saw. I’m not going to deny my intense attraction to you. You’re a handsome devil, you know that . . . but it was more than that. You were the kind of man I began to want, and the very man I knew I needed.”
He looks back at me, his gaze intense like he’s feeling my words.
“So yeah . . . that day in the yard when I cornered you and offered you my land . . . I was the stray who needed rescuing. Even the strongest people need help sometimes. Why can’t you see that? You saved me at my lowest point, damn it! Not the other way around.”
He shakes his head, as if he doesn’t accept what I’m saying.
“Believe me, after what happened to me, I could easily have just crawled into a hole. My brother and Elle were the ones who pointed out that I hadn’t really been living even before I found out the truth about Mike, and maybe it was time that I did.”
His brows knit together. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, that know it or not, you inspired me to feel alive again. I believed we were becoming a team, better together than when apart. You challenged me, and loved me with passion, in your bed, and in your heart. And God, I’ve loved you back . . . so big, so fiercely . . . like you were the fuel to my fire. Surely you know how real this thing is between us.”
He nods, but looks like it hurts to do so.
“You’ve read all those books about fascinating people . . . people who took chances at love and life, people who lived big. I want to be like one of those people, Joe. And I want to be that person with you by my side.”
He holds up his hands, like I’m driving too fast and need to slow down. “Please,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Believe me, I’m taking all this in but I can’t hear anymore. I need time, Trisha . . . and space. Give that to me so I can figure this all out.”
Right now in my emotional and physical exhaustion I’m tired of being patient. I put my hands on my hips. “How long are we talking about?”
“Trisha,” he moans.
“Okay, okay . . . get out of here. Just don’t forget me.”
“Like that’s possible,” he says with a huff.
“I’ll wait for you as long as this passion burns, Joe. But I’m telling you—if things grow stagnant while I wait for you, and this thing starts to die, I’m out. Okay?”
He visibly wilts. “God damn woman, you exhaust me.”
“Shut up.” Stepping closer to him, I gesture back and forth between us. “You like me. You like this. Us together . . . we’re alive.”
He gives me a look like I’ve had too much to drink or something. “Is that a haiku?” he asks before pressing his lips shut. I’d like to think he’s fighting back a smile.
There’s a long pause as I realize there’s a crack in his suit of armor and I could either flip him off or widen the crack to crawl inside. I opt for the later.
“It is a haiku that I just started writing, and I’ll be waiting for you to finish it.”
The next few weeks are a clusterfuck of weirdness.
The day I leave Elle and Paul’s place again to move back home, I see that Betty is gone. All that’s left are the grooves left from her tires. For a blurry moment I wonder if Betty was ever really there. It’s not that I’m surprised he cleared out, but it feels lousy nonetheless.
The day I return to work I learn that Joe changed the schedules so we’re now on opposite shifts. He wasn’t joking around about needing some space. Also, apparently Chief threw the rule book away since he let Joe park Betty at the far end of the station’s lot while he gets estimates for the fire damage repair. He’s also letting him stay at the firehouse until he gets things figured out.
Jim shares with me one afternoon that he’s worried about Murphy—that he’s been so on edge lately. I nod and keep quiet.
I know Joe asked me for time and space to “figure things out,” but I can’t help but start wondering if that was some bullshit line just to get me off his back.
In my quiet moments, I succumb to my weakness when the fears start to add up. I just miss him so damn much, but I need to prove to myself, and him, that I’m strong and I can be okay with him or without.
Three days later Mike calls me and asks if I want to reconsider keeping some of our old furniture, including his prized Regency pieces. I almost drop my cell phone out of shock.
“But you love that stuff, and I don’t,” I say.
He lets out a long sigh. “I finally realized that it’s time for a change. Stanley’s loft downtown in the old brewery building is industrial with that raw, edgy look. It’s growing on me. We’re talking about doing something Steam-punkish with the decor.”
“Really? So farewell to the Regency period and hello Steampunk? Will you be turning the elevator lift into a time machine?” I tease. “Sounds like you’re staying there permanently.”
“Yeah,” he admits sheepishly. “He asked if I would. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure. It’s good to know at least one of us is getting their shit together.”
“What about you and Joe?” he asks. I can hear the concern in his tone and his sympathy makes my heart hurt.
“Not so much. I think I was more than he could handle. Or more accurately, I was more than he wanted to handle.”
“His loss,” says Mike. “Maybe he’ll come around. He better, if he knows what’s good for him.”
I smile, picturing Mike shaking his finger in the air, his lips drawn together in a straight line.
“By the way, I have a carpenter friend that owes me favors who could do wonders with his trailer repairs.”
“Another one of these mysterious friends?” I ask.
He guffaws. “Never you mind, he did the carpentry rebuild at the front of the shop last year. Do you think Joe would allow him to look at his trailer?”
“Maybe you should have the friend call him directly . . .”
“Bruno,” Mike says. “That’s his name.”
“Seriously?” I chuckle. “Bruno?”
“Yes indeed. He looks like a Bruno too.”
“Okay, have Bruno call Joe and tell him that he’s a friend of mine and wants to bid on the job.”
“That could work,” Mike says.
“Okay, I’ll email the contact info for Joe.”
“Good.”
“And just so you know I’ve talked to Paul about designing something with this goddamned drought situation in mind for the backyard. I want to get this shit done so we can put this place on the market.”
“He’s going to do Xeriscape?”
“Wow! Our fancy florist supports Xeriscape?”
“Of course I do. It’s all the rage, what with the DWP chipping in to cover the costs. I think it’s a great idea.”
I don’t have to employ my rocket-scientist skills to know that the busier I am the less time I have to fixate on how much I miss Joe. So on Saturday when Paul and Elle come by the house to go over his design for the backyard, and we talk about the schedule, I ask them when they think I’ll be able to put the house on the market. I’m anxious to keep moving ahead with the divorce and all it entails.
“Do you have a real estate agent you like?” Elle asks. “I know a dynamo agent from this area I put an event on for. Why don’t you meet with her and see what she thinks? If you like her she’d be great to represent the house.”
�
�Shouldn’t I wait until the yard is done?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t. She’ll have suggestions for both inside and outside the house so you guys can get top dollar for this place.”
Paul nods in agreement.
So now it feels like my life is moving backwards and forwards at the same time. The backwards is when we move all of Mike’s furniture back in the house, pictures, lamps and all. It was like the furniture took a long vacation and now was back. All of this is because Jada the agent, who has a great eye, said that “staging” a house with Mike’s high-end stuff will help sell it.
Besides, houses sell fast in this area so I figure that I won’t be living with his pretentious stuff much longer.
So long, farewell, to Ikea-land, and hello to fancy pants Regency and velvet pillows. Mike said that we could offer the house furnished, or sell the furniture on Craig’s List once we’d accepted an offer.
The moving forward part is that Mike and I have come to agreement on all the key points of the divorce so now it’s just the technicalities of getting the house sold to wrap things up. Jeanine is very pleased, and has offered to let me stay in her guesthouse until I figure out what kind of place I want to move to. I really appreciate not having to rush into that decision. There’s enough crazy going on right now as it is.
So in this spirit of moving forward I’ve gotten very involved in the re-landscaping of the fire-scarred backyard. Despite Paul’s protests that we use his people to turn the soil in preparation for re-planting, I insist that I take a shot at rototilling the backyard.
Kellie, the woman I usually buy my plants and stuff from at Armstrong’s Nursery is anti-rototilling . . . something about terrorizing the worms and tiny creatures which keep the soil alive. But when I explain about the fire and ash she agrees to an exception and points out that as long as I used the shallow setting the replanting would benefit from the ash being worked into the soil.
Despite her encouragement, it was a clue that I may be in over my head when Joaquin, the equipment guy, gives me a nervous look as he loads the rental rototiller into my truck.
Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) Page 22