by L. B. Dunbar
“A lamp?” Scarlett questions.
“Or a light. I’m not certain what to call it. It’s very artistic and obviously handmade, but I don’t understand its significance.”
Scarlett ponders the gift for a moment before asking, “Do you believe him?”
Focusing on Harley, I answer Scarlett. “I want to believe him. Something deep inside me says there is no way Jake could have done it. He couldn’t start a fire. But I just don’t know. I don’t know him.” The statement is more a reminder to myself than Scarlett.
What do I really know about Jake Drummond?
I know how his lips taste and his mouth feels as he travels over my skin. I know how he looks when he enters me, his expression always full of wonder at our connection. I know how charmingly he smiles and how he knows it gets to me every damn time he uses it on me. I also know he’s been loyal to his family and worked hard his entire life, giving up his own dreams to take care of others.
It hits me that I’d done the same thing for my family. When my father had his first heart attack, I returned for him. When my father became a judge, I took over more of our practice, falling into all the places I am now: a practicing attorney, a Building Buddies supervisor, a woman alone.
“I think you should trust your gut. If it’s telling you Jake didn’t do it—couldn’t do it—then you need to go with that feeling. Find out more information.”
“You sound like May,” I state, holding Harley’s little fists and tapping his pudgy knuckles together.
“What does May say?”
“I should investigate.” Scarlett perks up next to me, and I have to level her with my best glare. “Not that kind of investigation.”
“What?” she teases, holding a hand to her chest in innocence. My friend might have played a sleuth in the past, but she didn’t always do it through proper channels, having used false sources and sketchy connections to report the goods on Hollywood’s elite and bad-boy athletes. But this was Jake. “I’m a genuine investigative reporter.”
“Was,” I remind her. “Past tense and presently mother to one beautiful baby. Isn’t that right, Harley? We need to keep snoopy-nose mommy out of trouble.”
Scarlett chuckles. “Well, that’s better than some names I’ve been called in the past.” We both glance at Harley, who responds to his mother’s laughter with a large, drooly smile. His dark eyes match hers and seek her next to me as I continue to tap his little knuckles together. Scarlett reaches out a hand and strokes her palm over her son’s fuzzy head.
“You need to believe in miracles, Rita. Weren’t you the one telling me the universe works in mysterious ways, and there are signs all around us?”
“Did I say that?” I softly chuckle, sensing the universe speaks to others, but I have no idea what it’s been trying to tell me for the past decade.
“Maybe Jake was put in your path for a reason,” Scarlett states, still speaking toward her son while addressing me. “Maybe his presence is more than restoration for him, but restoration for you. He’s your sign to move on.”
“I have moved on,” I snap, a little harsher than necessary.
“But have you really?” Scarlett asks, softening her voice. “I know you submerge yourself in Building Buddies, and you have a successful practice. You’re a great supporter of Alcoholics Anonymous. Those are all noble and self-assuring in many ways, but what are you doing for you, Rita? Where’s that stud you demanded over a year ago?”
My mouth falls open, but Scarlett raises the hand she’s been stroking over Harley’s head to stop me from speaking.
“I know you’re all independent woman and a man doesn’t define you, but . . . don’t you miss love, Rita? Don’t you miss sex? And before you say Ian was your stud, think again. He was a wonderful man, dedicated to teenagers and higher education, and he was good to you, but he’s gone, and you’re still here. You’re alive, Rita. You need to live.”
“I have been living,” I remind her. I don’t feel dead inside or even numb, but when I consider what Scarlett’s trying to say to me, I realize the truth. I’ve been content, like a steady stream instead of rolling rivers and crashing oceans. I’ve been moving forward at a trickling pace when I really want to rumble, tumble, and refresh. I want to be happy.
“You know what I mean, Rita, but I’ll spell it out just in case. You have before you a second chance to love.”
“I can’t love Jake,” I snap, more defensive than I need to be.
“You can if you want to.”
I shake my head and turn my gaze up toward the ceiling, toward the beams painted in chalkboard paint. Little quotes and inspirational sayings are written on the beams, and I stare blindly at the words at first while my thoughts race.
Could I love Jake? Despite his past, could I see around all that’s happened to him and how he connects with me? In Alcoholics Anonymous, one of our key philosophies is accepting our responsibility in our addiction. We are powerless to the pull and must accept ourselves as we are. But there’s also an underlying acceptance of others. No judgments. No prejudges. Accept that others have made mistakes, paid for them, and now must move forward.
When I think about Jake and how dedicated he’s been to his work at Building Buddies, I can’t help but give him the benefit of the doubt that he is trying to move on. He’s been rather accepting of his circumstance. He was convicted of a crime he claims he didn’t commit, but he served the time and can’t get it back. He could easily be bitter. He could have blamed his nephew or faulted his department, but he didn’t do either of those things. He came to terms with his fate.
My eyes narrow in on the beams above me, and I slowly stand, lifting Harley in my arms, to focus on a line of scribble facing the plush peach couch.
“Rita?” Scarlett questions, but I step around the low table before us as if I can see better what’s written over my head. Scarlett stands as well, following my gaze, and then her breath hitches.
“It says what I think, right?” I don’t take my eyes from the chalk writing.
“It does.” A smile fills Scarlett’s voice as she turns her attention back to me. I, however, cannot take my eyes off the beam.
“Is it a sign?” Scarlett whispers as I stare at the scrawled letters.
“It’s a sign,” I quietly echo.
Don’t lose faith in me, sweet.
On Monday, I’m headed to the office when another gift sits on my front porch along with another Busy Bean coffee cup. The new piece looks again like a person, a man perhaps, whose midsection is an old metal lantern. Another abstract head is attached with tubing for arms and legs, complete with feet and fingers. The lantern isn’t large, and the bulb inside is the size of a dining room chandelier. The inscription on the bottom of this one reads: You light me up. When the light is on, a faint heart illuminates to the upper left portion of the bulb. I can’t help but smile at the arrangement and the title.
Setting the lamp on a table just inside my front door, I want to leave the light on as a greeting when I return home later but decide against it.
Sitting at my desk, I’m deep in thought, clacking away with knitting needles in hand. The subtle tap of needles along with the steady stitching settles my mind. I’m wearing a summer dress, and the material is tucked between my knees to prevent all the goods from showing as my feet are propped up on the corner of my desk. I’m also wearing an old pair of Converse instead of my hiking boots as the days are warming up.
“You’re looking better,” May says as she enters our shared office.
“I’m feeling better, thank you,” I reply, not missing a stitch. I’ve had a long weekend to consider all Jake told me about his situation—a crime he didn’t commit.
“Did you talk to Jake?” May asks, and I settle my needles for a second. Shaking my head feels like admitting I’m a coward. I just don’t know what to say to him.
Silence falls in our office, and I resume knitting. Knit two purl two. Suddenly, the clacking of my knitting needles sounds too
loud, and I glance over at May, blindly working the yarn.
“What is it, chickie?” My younger counterpart is staring at me.
“He rocked your bedsheets.”
“I never said he rocked my bedsheets,” I scoff, fighting the sheepish grin that comes with instant images of Jake and me in my bed. There was that time he loosely tied my wrists and then he . . . I bite my lip and glance up at May. “It was a fire pole.”
“Ri-ta!” My name screeches through the office. “You skipped a few details.”
I laugh, not willing to share more. “I’m just trying to keep things in perspective. It was only lust. Good lust at that, but nothing more.” However, my heart drops to my belly with the thought. Was it really that simple? Was sex all we had? It wasn’t. We laughed. We’d argue a little. We’d kiss a lot. I don’t think I’ve smiled as much in years as I had in a week with Jake. It felt . . . good.
“I don’t believe you.” May’s voice softens, her eyes narrowing in on me, and I stop my knitting and drop my feet from the corner of my desk to face her better.
“What’s to believe?”
“I’ve worked across from you for over five years, lady. Nothing you do is off the cuff other than your remarks. You dive in with intention and purpose to everything, and I don’t think Jake Drummond was any different. He means something to you.”
“You told me he was my rebound man.”
“I never said that.” May’s voice rises. “I said I didn’t think he was a rebound. You bounced a long time ago. This is more.” Her eyes drop to the sweater in my hands, and her breath catches. “Is that for him?”
“Maybe. He said purple is his favorite color.” At least, it’s his favorite color on me. I fight the blush on my cheeks at the recall of all the times Jake commented on my purple undergarments.
“You can’t knit him a sweater. He’ll break up with you.”
“We already broke up,” I remind her, swallowing back the lump in my throat. I’ve been telling myself all weekend it was for the best. I can’t be with him. Because of Ian.
“You can’t knit him a sweater without a ring.”
I tip my head to lower my glasses and peer over them at my dear young friend. “What?”
“You know the rule. You can’t knit your boyfriend a sweater. Knit him anything else but not a sweater. When you get a ring, then you can knit him a sweater.”
“Boyfriend? Ring?” I scoff. “I’m a little old for a boyfriend, and no one is talking rings. Besides, we are not together.”
My attention returns to knitting this beautiful purple yarn into a sweater, but May has stood from her desk and rounded to mine.
“Rita Kaplan, I forbid you to give that man a sweater. He is your boyfriend or boy toy or man machine or whatever you want to call him, and I will not let you ruin your love life by giving him a sweater.”
She holds out her hand like a mother demanding the cookies stolen from the jar before dinner.
“You are being ridiculous.”
“And so are you. You like this guy. Let it happen.” Her voice softens. “There’s nothing wrong with falling in love again.”
My sweet chickie had her heart broken once upon a time and then found love in her beau, Alec. This isn’t the same thing. Jake and I were not in love. I could easily have fallen for him, but I wasn’t convinced I could love someone again. I couldn’t risk the shattering of my heart again, and it had shattered when I learned the truth about Jake. It isn’t memories of Ian breaking me but the trust I had in Jake. The belief he couldn’t do what he’d been accused of doing. Nothing made sense. He was a good man.
Good people make bad decisions all the time.
Even I was victim to this statement. People make mistakes, but the harder part comes in forgiveness and acceptance. If Jake had done it, could I forgive him? I consider how adamant he was in stressing he hadn’t started that fire. If he hadn’t done it, then who did?
I consider how Jake has suffered if it hadn’t been his fault. He took the blame in case it had been his nephew, but he wasn’t convinced it had been. Only a good man sacrifices himself for someone else. A man who loves his family, who works hard to protect them.
A man worthy of that same love in return.
“Enough about love,” I mumble, my feathers ruffling. “I have something else I want to discuss with you.” May lowers herself to the seat before my desk at the seriousness in my tone. A forlorn expression fills her face. “Don’t look at me like that. This is important but nothing earth-shattering.”
“Giving up on love is earth-shattering,” she mutters.
“May,” I warn, and she holds up both hands in surrender. I swallow hard before I speak. “I’ve been offered the directorship of Building Buddies, and I’m considering taking it.”
“What?” May’s eyelids flutter before her gaze focuses on mine, waiting on more.
“As you know, I’ve been struggling for a while, wanting a change but not knowing what that change should be. And as I’ve been passing more and more of our contracts and cases to you, I don’t really have as much investment in Kaplan and Shipley as I once did.”
It pains me to admit the truth, but I just haven’t been as busy as I once was, and it’s my own doing because I’m not as invested in the Eaton-Bottom cow-sheep dispute or the real estate contracts for so-and-so moving into the area. “You know you were hired on when I was coming out of a low point in my life with the intention that one day you’d take over when I retire.”
“You’re too young to retire.”
Her comment is sweet. I am still young, which is why I want to spend my time devoted to something I’m more passionate about. My flame for the practice of law is flickering. “I’d like to step back and give the directorship more of my attention.”
May nods again. “Okay. What would that look like?”
“You’d be in charge here.” Her eyes widen, but the gleam tells me she’s pleased.
“I’ve got this,” May states, confident and secure in herself. She’s been the best prodigy and friend.
My lips curve into a knowing smile. “Yes, you do, chickie.”
Now, I just need to speak with Alfred. I have an additional question on my mind for him.
Later that day, I stop at the building site after ignoring it for a week. It’s a poor display of supervision, and I apologize again to Sullivan, keeping up the ruse that the past week had been busy at work. Alfred is present as I asked him to meet me there.
“Have you considered my suggestion?” he asks after I pull him aside outside the house. The siding is up. Outdoor lighting is wired but waiting on installation from our resident electrician, and I don’t know why my eyes fixate on this object.
“I have, but I have a question for you first. Why did you select Jake Drummond for our program?”
Alfred shrugs, looking over at the single-story home. “We have a relationship with the prison system.”
“That’s not an answer, Alfred.” I pause a moment, allowing him to admit more, but when he doesn’t, I prompt him. “Did you know his past was connected to me?”
Alfred turns his gaze toward me, slipping his hands in his back pockets. His liquid eyes are difficult to read. “I knew of his crime and the victim, yes.”
The victim? It was difficult to be impartial. He had a name.
“Ian Sanders was my fiancé,” I remind Alfred as if he didn’t know the connection. Alfred purses his lips a second before glancing back at the house.
“You suffered a terrible loss, lamb chop,” Alfred states, calling me a nickname I haven’t heard in years. My father teasingly called me the name when I was young, and a wave of need for my dad washes over me. He’d know what to do. He’d know how to react to everything happening.
“Sometimes, a man has more to repair than a home. In the case of Jake Drummond, the idea of building a place equates to the building he destroyed on an elementary level. Jake also has to amend for the life taken in that building. He needs to show co
mpassion and seek forgiveness, both of himself and of those he wronged.” Alfred turns to narrow his eyes at me.
“Did you know that when your father and I started this organization, a few of us didn’t even know how to build? We tinkered with tools but hadn’t a clue how to construct a house. There were millions of mistakes as we went. Accidents happened. Sometimes people were hurt. But we persevered in learning, bettering ourselves, bettering the homes we built. We had a mission. We wanted to help those in need.”
I shake my head, knowing the concept behind Building Buddies but not finding Alfred’s point.
“Jake Drummond had a clean record until that night. Not a speck out of place in his past. In fact, it was noble of him to leave college and raise his brother and then his brother’s child. He’d been a success in his own right and helped numerous fire departments solve crimes.”
I nod to agree with his summary of Jake, but I still didn’t understand.
“He made one mistake.”
“How do you know?” I’m curious if Alfred knows something more I don’t.
“Ever hear the saying measure twice, cut once?”
“Of course,” I admit. It’s a basic practice in construction to prevent miscalculations before cutting materials.
“Sometimes mistakes still happen.” His rummy eyes search mine before he slowly smiles. “But you’re a measure twice kind of woman, Rita. You’d double-check all your measurements before you’d cut.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask, staring at the elder friend of my father.
“You’ll figure it out.” He pats my shoulder. “And take the directorship, Rita.”
With that, he walks away from me, leaving me with even more to consider.
19
Jake
A weekend without work should have been a godsend, but it was hell. I needed to work. I needed to keep my hands busy to settle my mind. Now, it’s a new workweek and another day without Rita. At night, I find myself out in the garage.