by L. B. Dunbar
“What does it look like I’m working with, a gourmet kitchen?” he jests. Our kitchen had some improvements after Nolan’s accident. Compact and tight, shorter cabinets and lowered counters were installed, allowing better access for Nolan’s reach. In general, the house I’m building for Building Buddies is going to be nicer than this place, though.
“Yeah, yeah.” I laugh. “I’ll get right on it, along with the fifty other things this place needs.”
Nolan sobers a bit. “We don’t need anything, Jake.” His dropped tone has me looking up at him.
“I didn’t mean—”
Holding up a hand, he stops me. “I didn’t mean anything either. I’m only teasing. I can work with that kitchen. I’m just grateful you’re home.”
Twisting my lips side to side, I glance down at the hardwood floor and nod to agree.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” I am glad to be home. I’m happy to be outside the four walls that confined me for seven years. I’m happy to be free to kiss a woman, even if I did take the liberty with someone I shouldn’t. But Rita kissed me back, accepting what I gave to her. She responded to me, chased that kiss even, and I have little doubt if I wanted to take things further, I could have.
And thoughts like that warn me I need to keep my distance from Rita Kaplan.
Lots of distance.
7
Rita
For several days in a row, I arrive early at Building Buddies, check in with Sullivan, and then disappear as quickly as I can. I haven’t lingered at the building site for more than a few minutes each day, which means I have successfully avoided Jake for three days.
However, this morning, I’m not quite so fortunate. Jake is already present and digging through a toolbox at Sullivan’s feet as I hobble into the yard. Damn heels.
Jake is crouched down, his body low to the ground, and I force my gaze away from him. Almost as soon as I’ve arrived, Alfred Jennings pulls up to the project. The director of Building Buddies exits his car, and I note his paunchy belly looks even paunchier, stretching his button-down enough to strain the buttons over his middle.
“Alfred,” I call out as the older man nears where I stand.
“Rita, I was hoping you would be here. I wanted to speak with you a moment.” The roughness in his voice gives away the years he has spent smoking cigarettes. After my father’s second heart attack and subsequent death, I have more concern for the health of his older friends, especially Alfred. Still, there’s a sharpness to his tone that unsettles me, and for some reason, my gaze shifts sideways, noticing Jake slowly standing from his lowered position. With his body aimed toward mine, I avert my eyes from Jake and return my attention to Alfred.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, sensing something urgent and serious in his voice. My eyes shift once more to Jake’s unnerving presence. Feet from me, he’s stone-still, watching our interaction. I take a step toward Alfred and wobble again in my heels. Heels have no place at a building site. Cursing under my breath, I reach out for Alfred’s arm as if he can anchor me before I topple over. Once steady, Alfred shifts my hand to the crook of his arm and leads us to the front door of the house. We’ve had heavy rains this week and more predicted for the weekend. We need to get the siding on this place.
“Is everything okay?” Hesitating, I clutch at Alfred’s elbow as walking in heels on muddy earth isn’t ideal.
“Everything is fine. I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of stepping down from the director position.”
“What? No, Alfred. This is your program.” Alfred started Building Buddies back in the 90s with a few of his business colleagues, my father being one of them. The original crew of men rotated the responsibility of the directorship amongst themselves. Alfred is the only one who remains connected to the organization.
“It’s time. I’m overdue to retire, actually, and Regina wants to move south. She also wants the liberty to spend more time with our grandkids.” Alfred and Regina have several children scattered around the United States. A small pang of regret hits my chest as my own parents never had more children, thus no grandchildren. My father died before Ian and I were engaged. My mother wanted to remain in Vermont until I married. When that didn’t happen, she went south herself.
“I wanted you to know I’m going to recommend you take over the program.”
“Me?” I stare up at Alfred. “I don’t know anything about running a not-for-profit organization.”
“Yes, you do.” Alfred pats my hand. “You’ve been working with us forever.”
“Yes, working. I build, construct, design, supervise, but only when I can. I have a full-time job.”
Alfred chuckles. “We all did at one point,” he states, speaking of his status as still working. “The directorship is outside the scope of a job. It pays a stipend, but it’s not comparable to what you make as an attorney. Still, I think you can handle this. In fact, I’d hate to turn the directorship over to anyone else, so I’m recommending the board consider you as the new, permanent director.”
“Permanent director?” I question.
“We need someone with longevity, and as you aren’t going anywhere, I wouldn’t want Building Buddies to go to anyone else.” The comment should sting, implying I have nothing else in my life, so why not run the organization. Then again, I’m honored Alfred has this kind of faith in me. Still, I’m not certain I’m the right fit. While I’ve been splitting my time between the office and here—handing over more cases and contracts to May—is this what I want to do next?
“I’d need to think about it,” I say, and Alfred turns his attention away from admiring the single-story home to level me with a liquid gaze.
“What is there to think about?” Once again, his question suggests an unspoken assumption that I have nothing else to do in my life. Alfred takes a deep breath. “You know, when I started this group along with your father and some friends from the church, we wanted to give back and beef up our resumes.” He softly laughs.
“Nonprofit organizations look good on resumes. It says you’re involved in your community, care about others, and take on leadership roles, but over time, this work became a passion for many of us. We loved handing over the keys to a family in need. We appreciated what we had a little more, even if we wrestled with loss.” He pats my hand still tucked into his elbow.
“You’ve always been a go-getter, Rita. Leadership is within your blood. There’s no doubt you care for others, defending what’s been wronged, dealing with what’s right.”
I snort, not certain livestock disputes or housing contracts right wrongs.
“You need this,” he states, smiling back at the house, and now, he’s lost me. I glance up at it myself. I take great pride in working for Building Buddies. This is my third official project as a supervisor, and I’ve been honored to handle each build in the area. We span two states, so I’m not involved in every construction site. That falls to the directorship position.
“At our next board meeting, I’m going to recommend you. The board will need to vote, but I have no doubt they’ll lean in my favor.”
The next board meeting is a month away.
“As I said, I’d like to think about it, but I’m honored you consider me worthy.”
Alfred pats my hand once more, but this time I feel that pat as patronizing. It implies I have nothing else going for me, so I might as well take on the position.
Alfred leans forward, and air kisses my cheek, pressing his clammy skin to the side of my face. Releasing my hand, I watch him turn back for his car and notice Jake following the movements of Alfred’s retreat. As soon as the director enters his sedan and backs out of the yard, Jake approaches me.
“Everything okay?” His hesitant tone has my brows pinching.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
He holds a screwdriver in one hand and taps it against his other palm. “No reason, just wondering.” He peers back to the space Alfred’s car vacated and then returns his attention to me. “D
id something happen?”
I shift entirely and cross my arms. My ankle wobbles again in my cursed shoes.
“What is your concern, Jake?”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
My brows pinch again. “Why would I get in trouble?”
Looking directly at me, he waves the screwdriver between us. “Because you and me . . .”
“We what?” I give my head a little shake, suggesting I don’t understand and ignoring the discomfort between us.
“We . . . you know.”
The kiss. The incredible kiss that sliced me down the middle and zipped me back together in one swift movement. Kissing has been off-limits for me, but that kiss shattered all limitations. However, Jake’s cautious eyes have the fine hairs on my arms sticking upward.
“You aren’t worried about me. You’re worried about you.” I step toward him as I speak. Wobbling once more in my heels, I fight the urge to reach for him for stability. It’s hard to be tough when your shoes don’t support you. “You’re worried I told on you.”
“Told on me? What? Are we in second grade?”
“You know if I wanted to report that kiss, you might lose this position.”
Jake’s brows lift. His forehead furrows. “Would you do that? It was only a kiss, Rita.”
My mouth falls open, but I quickly shut it. Only a kiss? Only a kiss! I can’t even respond to that comment. However, I could do what he said. I could file a complaint and put Jake at risk of losing this parole situation, but I’d never do such a thing.
“You’re right. It’s just as you said,” I state through clenched teeth. Lowering my hands, I fist them at my sides. “It was only a kiss. I’ve had lots of kisses in my life. It wasn’t even a particularly good kiss. It was just . . . a kiss.”
Good heavens, what am I saying? However, Jake does not need to know it’s the only kiss I’ve had in seven years. He doesn’t even need to know it might be the best kiss I’ve ever had. I’ve never had someone just grab me and kiss the stuffing out of me. He kissed me like I was his first kiss and last breath all in one. And he most definitely does not need to know I went home and gave my pink pleasure toy extra time from only a kiss.
“Well, I wouldn’t say it was awful,” Jake defends, stepping closer to me. We’re only inches apart, and the screwdriver in his hand stops tapping.
“I didn’t say it was awful. I said it wasn’t particularly good. I’m certain I’ve had better.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” My gaze falls to his lips, and he drops the screwdriver to the ground. His breath mixes with mine. He smells of dark roast, cinnamon, and construction sites, and my mouth waters for another not-so-great kiss from him. His hands lift, and he leans forward.
“Rita, everything okay?” Sullivan’s voice breaks my trance. As I turn to our construction manager, Jake takes an exaggerated step backward. He bends at the waist for the screwdriver he dropped, and I meet Sully’s questioning glare.
“I’m good. Everything’s good. Not awful. Not great. Just good.” I huff out a nervous laugh. What am I saying? “I can’t stay again today. Office work.” It’s a lie. I’ve been purposely avoiding the site, and I hate that it has to do with Jake because Alfred was right. These projects are my passion.
“Okay. Well, see you later then.” A question lingers in Sully’s statement, along with his large mass suddenly stationary as Jake remains close to me.
“Yeah, I’ll be back later to check on the day’s progress.”
Sullivan nods but doesn’t move. Taking my first step in the ruts of the mud, my feet fumble, and I automatically reach out to balance myself.
“Nice heels,” Jake mutters, catching my forearm to steady me. As that smirky smirk of his slowly curls his lips, I glare at him. “They go well with your outfit.”
I’d like to show him where these heels can go, but instead, I tug my arm free of his support and stalk off. Only, it’s difficult to make a grand exit when your ankles wobble, and a heel collapses.
Damn these shoes and Jake Drummond.
Later that night is an AA meeting. I’m not chairing this one, and if Jake appears, he’ll have to beg someone else to sign off on his card. Good luck with that, handsome. Quickly, I rid my thoughts of Jake. I’m dressed in comfortable clothes of jeans and my hiking boots, telling myself I need a long hike this weekend to right myself. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, bringing myself into the mindset of the meeting.
The meeting begins with a reading of the AA Preamble, a prayer of the chair’s choice, and then the serenity prayer. I blindly follow along, keeping my eyes closed, until the chair mentions new members and introductions.
As I slowly open my lids, I see Jake directly across the circle from me. Our group is small in this community, so we’re often led by what the group needs. A chairperson could offer AA literature or discuss the 12-Step Traditions. If a new member joins and wishes to speak, we allow them to take the floor, guiding where we will go for the evening by their needs. Other than Jake’s introduction a few weeks ago, he remains quiet again tonight.
“Is there anything anyone wants to share this evening?”
I swallow as it’s always difficult to know where to start, but I have something to say, and I can’t shirk the sensation even if Jake watches me.
“I had something happen this week,” I begin. “I haven’t thought of Ian in a while.” I swallow around his name and shift in my seat, lowering my focus to the floor because the intensity of Jake’s eyes hurts my already aching heart.
“I don’t know if it was a panic attack or what actually happened. One minute I was fine, and the next, my thoughts were all muddled.” I lift a hand for my head, waving it around the side. “My heart raced. My chest constricted. I thought of Ian,” I say again. “And I wanted a drink.”
Some people nod around me. A few hum in sympathy with me.
“But then again, I didn’t want that drink. I knew I shouldn’t have it, but this . . . moment . . . it freaked me out.” Like Ian was sending me a sign. Like he was pushing me toward something or maybe warning me against it. It was all very hocus-pocus, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. The universe was speaking, but what was it saying to me. Maybe it was just my thoughts of wanting something different in my life colliding with—and confusing the issue of—Jake’s sudden presence. A person cannot be a replacement for what I need. I learned that lesson the hard way, and it’s why I’m sitting in this chair.
Alcoholics Anonymous isn’t therapy, so I don’t expect anyone to offer any advice or words of wisdom, just encouragement. A pause allows me time to collect my thoughts and continue or signal that I’m finished.
“Anyway, I wanted to share how I know the struggle can be real, continuous, and strike at any time. Sometimes, it’s at the most unsuspected moments, but I didn’t take that drink. I didn’t need it.”
I look up at the chairperson. “Did you do something else?” Often alcoholics are encouraged to find another means of distraction—prayer or physical exercise—but nothing that could lead to a secondary addiction.
“I had coffee with a friend.” I slowly smile, recalling how thankful I am Scarlett has moved to Vermont. My eyes drift up to Jake for only a second as he knows where I drink that coffee. “I went to my happy place.”
The chairperson smiles back at me, and I nod to signify I’m done. Another person begins his tale, and I fall into the story, sympathizing with mental support and offering up a prayer for his continued recovery.
You can’t help those who won’t help themselves. It’s a basic principle in life, but also something my father used to say often. It’s also a major philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous. If Jake doesn’t think he has an issue, there’s nothing we can do for him other than hope honesty happens one day.
When the meeting closes, Jake stands for the chairperson, and I make quick good-byes. Mentioning Ian to the group has me shaken again, and I hastily take the stairs to exit the church when I hear a familiar voice call
my name.
8
Jake
I call out to her the second I clear the exit door. Rita disappeared as soon as the meeting was finished, and I needed a second to get my card signed.
Calling her name one more time, she halts on the sidewalk and spins around. “What?”
“I . . .” Now that she faces me, I’m stumped. Why am I chasing her? Blurting out the next thought, I ask, “Who’s Ian?”
Rita crosses her arms and turns her head to the side, contemplating an answer. “Look, we don’t need to do this.”
“Do what?” I ask, scratching the back of my neck.
“Share our sob stories.”
Sob stories? Shit. Was he her fiancé? The one Sullivan said passed away?
“Okay, but—”
Rita has already turned her back on me and begins walking away.
“Wait.” I reach for her elbow, causing her to spin around once more.
“What happens in the meetings stays in the meetings, Jake.” Her eyes blink from behind her glasses.
“Okay, I—” I what? Want to know more about you? Want to understand you? What the hell am I doing? “How about that coffee I owe you for taking your spot at the Busy Bean?”
Rita sighs. “The Bean is closed this late at night.” It’s almost eight, and she’s right, but I still don’t want her to walk away for some reason.
“What about the diner?” I don’t live in Colebury, so I’m not familiar with all their haunts. The pubs and the coffeehouse are on the old gin mill property and the diner is in town. Those are the only spots I know that would have coffee.
Rita eyes me a second and then gives in. “Fine.” Giving me her back once more, I smile with a small sense of victory.