by L. B. Dunbar
I’d asked Sullivan if I could have some of the scrap pieces of pipe and wire around the building site.
“Are you a junk collector or something?” he mocked. I had waited until I felt a little more confident with Sully before asking permission, but even after the awkward morning he’d nearly caught me with my pants down, I couldn’t resist requesting the materials.
“Something like that,” I stated.
Sullivan had only grunted in response, watching as I made my collection in an empty box. Maybe he thought I was a thief instead of an arsonist, and I was getting my fix by stealing construction castoffs.
As I stand in my garage, the door is open, allowing the warm, early-summer evening air to filter around me. My thoughts return to Rita as I work on another project.
What was she thinking? How was she feeling?
You set the fire that killed the love of my life.
Nothing could have hurt worse. She thought I stripped her of her future. Despite her doubts in me, it hurt to think she’d loved someone else. The love of her life—those were strong words. I didn’t want them to gut me, but they did. My feelings had been so fierce and fast for her. I often worried I’d misread them, mixing them up with the high of being outside the prison and the desire to start a fresh life. In many ways, I guess I had. Rita certainly didn’t feel the same about me, and now, she never would.
The sound of tires pulling into the driveway turns my head, and I freeze with the soldering iron in my hand.
“Rita,” I whisper, struggling to find my voice as she exits her crossover and approaches me in the garage. Today, she wears a summer dress and an old pair of Converse. Her appearance is eclectic, and so her.
“I would have called first.” She shrugs, entering the space. “But I was in the neighborhood.”
Lying isn’t something Rita does well, but I accept this bit of dishonesty and hold my breath.
“What are you really doing here?” I set down the hot iron and take off my gloves.
“I wondered if we could talk.” Her eyes travel around my shoulder as I’ve stepped before my workbench. “What are you working on?”
Slowly, I take a step to the side and allow Rita to see my work. An assortment of galvanized pipes, copper tubing, and electrical wires in a variety of shapes and sizes lay organized along the table.
“Are you . . . making another lamp?”
“It’s called industrial art, but yes, it can be used as a light source.” I rub at the back of my neck, nervous about showing her this side of me. It’s another reminder of where I’ve been.
“Did you . . . make those other ones for me?”
I shrug in response, and her eyes widen behind her red-rimmed glasses. Her head turns back toward the worktable.
“What will this be?” She steps closer to the table and examines what I’ve started.
I shrug again, not having defined it yet. Soft round bulbs will eventually dangle from the coiled metal tubing, giving the lamp an almost octopus appearance.
“Where did you learn to do this?” Rita asks, her voice full of admiration as she bends at the waist to further examine the beginnings of the structure.
“In prison. I’m sort of self-taught, but they offered classes in metalwork and art, so I gave it a try. I find it soothing, and it allows my mind to focus when my thoughts scatter.”
Rita stands upright. “What has your thoughts scattered?”
Lowering my face, I glance down at my feet. If she doesn’t know by now that my thoughts all include her, I can’t spell it out any plainer.
“You made those other pieces for me, didn’t you?” she asks again, her voice softening while full of awe.
“I did.” Sheepishly, I wonder what she thought of them.
“Is it me?” The question cracks her voice, and I glance up at her. “The first piece. Was it me?”
“It is. It reminds me of you when we went fishing.” When I kissed you under a covered bridge. “It was one of the best days of my life.”
Her eyes widen before she gazes over at the piece I’m constructing.
“And the second piece? Is it you?”
A hollowed man with a newly lit heart? Yes, I’d say that represents me, but I don’t. I just stare at her, certain she’s about to tell me to go to hell again. “You still haven’t mentioned what you’re doing here.”
She squints at the beginning of the sculpture. “Remember when I told you about my wake-up call to being an alcoholic?”
I remember too vividly. We’d discussed alcoholism, and Rita told me about the night that changed everything for her. I’d never been so angry on behalf of someone else. If ever there was someone I wanted to throttle, it was a man who goes home with a drunk woman and takes advantage of her. Rita assured me she didn’t think that’s how it happened, but that night scared her. It scared me for her.
“I made a mistake, right? A big one.” I nod to agree. Things could have gone so much worse for her that evening.
“Good people make bad decisions.” She’s said it often enough to me. She made a poor choice that night.
“You made a mistake, too.”
I lower my head. God, not this again. I can’t keep rehashing my past. I can’t seem to get away from that damn fire.
“You should have told me.”
My head pops up.
“You should have told me the whole story.”
“I didn’t know the man inside the building was your man, Rita. I swear if I had known there was a connection, I never would have—” What? I never would have fallen for her? I never would have touched her? I can’t take those things back, and I don’t want to. Swallowing hard, I stare at her. “We said no sob stories.”
Rita weakly smiles. “I think this is a little different.” In silence, we look at one another a minute. “But then again, everything about you has been different.”
My breath hitches at the implication. Does she think I’m wrong for her? Way to drive in the nail.
“Well, I don’t want to be a bad decision for you.” Sarcasm drips from my tone along with hurt. I don’t need her to keep rejecting me.
“You’re everything I never thought I’d need. You’ve gotten under my skin, and I think that’s exactly what I needed and didn’t know it. I needed a push. Maybe it was that winning personality of yours.” Her voice teases, and my eyes widen.
“I thought it was the smirk.” She’s constantly telling me I have a curl to my lip that I use against her.
“Maybe it was your fine ass on my couch.”
This makes me chuckle a little. “You don’t own that couch, sweet.”
“But you own me.”
“What?”
“I can’t let you go,” she whispers, and tears fill her eyes. She blinks rapidly, and I step forward, reaching for her shoulders and massaging them.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can’t go through this kind of heartbreak again.”
I exhale while rubbing at her arms. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t have faith in me.”
Briskly swiping at her cheeks, Rita pops her head up and meets my eyes. “I do. I do have faith in you.”
“You believe me about the fire?”
“I believe you about the fire.”
Suddenly, I’m suspicious although this is everything I want to hear. I tilt my head. “Why?”
“Because I know you’re a good man. In here.” She taps my chest over my heart. “You light me up.” She states the title of my second piece to her. “I just can’t believe a man who does such a thing, who has made me feel so alive, could do what you’ve been accused of doing.”
I swallow hard again. My own eyes prickle. She believes me.
“I talked to Scarlet and May and Albert, and—”
“Albert?” I interrupt.
“The director of Building Buddies. He told me something that made me pause. You didn’t have a spot on your record before that night, right? Not even a parking ticket.�
��
“Well, I might have had one,” I mock, wondering where she’s going with this.
“So it doesn’t make sense. You don’t become a criminal out of nowhere.”
“I’m not a criminal,” I state, squeezing her arms.
“I know. I know. That’s why we need to know the truth.”
“The truth?” My hands slip down to her wrists.
“We need to know who did this to you. We need to help right your name.”
I’m caught in the crossfire between her saying we and her wanting to investigate. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve already served the time. I can’t get that back. The State isn’t interested in the truth. They wanted a fall man, and it was me. They got what they wanted, and I’m almost free. I don’t want to go through this again. I don’t want to keep looking back at the past.”
“I know people.” Her tone softens. “Just let me look into things.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do this.” Releasing her, I step back and swipe a hand into my hair. I turn my back on her a second and notice my hand trembling. What would it feel like to have my name cleared? What would it mean? In many ways, I wasn’t certain it would change anything. I’d still have gone through what I’ve been through. I’d still have spent seven years in prison. I can’t get that time back.
“I can’t do it,” I say, turning back to her, my voice low.
“Just one name. The prosecutor? Or the defending attorney?”
“I didn’t pick Gordon Howard. He was a shit lawyer.” The department assigned him to me, and I took him in good faith he could help. He hadn’t.
Rita closes her eyes a second. “I agree. I don’t even think he’s still practicing. He was a terrible attorney.” The fact Rita recognizes his name surprises me. Is there some kind of lawyer club? Then I remember us discussing how she went to Vermont Law, as did her partner, as does my nephew. Vermont is a small state. Maybe many of them do know each other. I’m about to ask her such a thing when I hear the telltale sound of wheels moving down the ramp before the house.
“Hey.” Nolan’s hesitant voice rings out as he glances from Rita to me and back at her while he approaches us. Things have been strained between my brother and me since our big blowup.
“Hey.” The single word is a warning. Play nice.
Rita steps forward and holds out a hand to shake his, formal and proper as though he’s a client instead of my brother.
“Rita Kaplan,” she states.
“Nolan.” He sounds like a disgruntled teenager in response to her name.
“No hello beautiful today?” she teases, attempting to dispel the weird tension coming off my brother.
“Not feeling it today, no,” he replies a bit harshly. Swiping nervous hands over my jeans, I step forward, preparing to put myself between Rita and my brother. Why is he being so rude?
When Nolan doesn’t move or say more, Rita glances at me. “I guess, maybe I should be going.” Her eyes seek mine. I don’t want her to leave. We have so much to discuss, but maybe we’ve said enough for tonight.
Rita turns to Nolan. “Nice to meet you.” Her voice is bright, hopeful even, despite his strange demeanor.
“We already met, remember?” he mutters. My brows pinch at my brother’s belligerence, but I redirect my attention to Rita. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
Stepping forward, I feel the need to protect her from my brother’s glare although I know he couldn’t hurt Rita. Still, I place a hand on her lower back and usher her to her crossover at the end of the driveway, sensing my brother watching us. As we near her SUV, we pause, and I remove my hand.
“Can I ask you something? Just hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Sure.” One brow arches.
“You mentioned that Ian was the love of your life.”
Rita turns her head, glancing back at the open garage behind me. “I’m sensing a but.”
“Do you think lightning would ever strike twice?” Her eyes leap to my face, and she stares at me, giving me those sad blues behind her red-rimmed glasses.
“Hypothetically speaking, of course,” she says, chewing at the corner of her lip. “Why?”
“A wise woman once encouraged me to believe in second chances, and it occurs to me that leaves second chances open to a variety of interpretations.”
“I suppose, should the opportunity present itself, yes. Love can happen a second time.” Rita licks her lips, and I see her fighting a smile.
“So if I presented me as a chance I’d like you to take . . .”
“I’d be a fool not to take the opportunity. Of course. Or are we speaking hypothetically still?” she teases.
My heart races. My palms sweat. I want to kiss her until she says, “But maybe we should slow down a bit.”
I falter. How much slower can we get? We’ve practically stopped. However, I nod to agree. Having faith in me doesn’t mean she’s ready to jump to loving me.
“Guess I’ll be seeing you around the Busy Bean,” I tease, trying to keep my voice light when it’s the opposite of how I feel right now.
“The Busy Bean,” she whispers as if the words mean so much more.
20
Jake
When Rita arrives at the project site the next day, I’m a sweaty mess in the summer heat. Today is sunshine and blue skies and feels prophetic for some reason. Rita hardly looks at me, but I can’t seem to look away from her, following her inspection in and around the home. Her laughter travels through the open windows where I’m painting a bedroom. God, I miss her laugh. I especially miss when it’s directed at me.
It’s been difficult to cross the front room in this house and see the covered couch, knowing what Rita and I first shared on the dusty drop cloth that now protects the floor in this room. Memories of all our moments have filled my nights, especially the softer times spent in her bedroom. Rita is a spitfire in bed, willing to try anything, do anything, and it only fuels my desire for her.
As I told her, it wasn’t all sex for me, though. I liked spending time with Rita. Cooking in her kitchen. Hanging out in her living room. Watching television with her nestled into my side. I didn’t need to be out sowing wild oats after years of confinement. I needed comfort and a home. I needed Rita.
Suddenly, a throat clears behind me, and I turn to find her standing in the doorway of the bedroom I’m painting a denim blue color for the boy moving into this place.
“Looks good in here,” Rita states, eyeing the walls and the crown molding.
“I’m not really a painter,” I admit. Rita simply nods. Silence falls between us, and I hate the quiet. I want to drop the roller and rush to her, press her into the freshly painted wall, and beg her to go back to who we were.
“Sullivan told me about the light you designed for this room.”
It’s nothing, really. Just something I thought would be fun for the boy. I found an old catcher’s mitt in the garage at home and dipped it in melted copper, preserving it like people used to preserve baby shoes. Adding the attachments to make it a light fixture, it will hang on his wall with a ball-shaped bulb like it’s being caught in a mitt.
“Have you ever considered selling your work?” Her question surprises me.
“It’s just junk soldered together with a light bulb.” I downplay the craft.
“It’s art,” she states. “You might be on to something.” Slowly, she smiles, and her expression shows that faith she has in me. She believes in my ability to turn trash into treasure. To make art. Now I just need her to have faith in me with her heart.
“I’ll be headed to the Busy Bean later,” she finally states, and I dare to hope it’s another start for us.
“Is that a warning?” I tease as my lip curls, and I’m hoping to give her that smirk she claims works at charming her.
“Putting in my claim on the couch.”
“Not unless I get there first,” I tease.
“Maybe I’ll save you a seat,” she sheepishly offers. I star
e at her as she brushes a section of her light brown hair behind her ear. Gray streaks fill those strands, and I love how she unabashedly shows her age. Her face is still young-looking, and the twinkle in her eyes displays wisdom along with wit. The whole package is a gift.
“I’ll be there,” I admit, fighting the victory smile that wants to dance across my lips.
Rita Kaplan just asked me to join her for coffee—on the plush peach couch. I just want her to invite me to love her next.
When I get to the Bean later that afternoon, Rita is indeed sitting on the couch, right smack in the middle. I place my order for a dark roast and turn in her direction. The energy between us sizzles to near crackling. I want to spread her out on that couch and let her bare body feel the velvety fabric underneath. I might need to invest in one of these sofas and convince Rita to live with me; however, I curb my thoughts, knowing I’m five steps ahead of a simple coffee date. Not that this is a date, but I don’t know what else you’d call an invitation from a woman to join her for this drink.
“Is this seat taken?” I tease because Rita lounges backward, spreading her arms wide to hog the entire piece of furniture.
“I don’t know. Is it?” Her head tilts to the side, and I place myself in the space between her hip and the armrest.
“Yes. She’s taken,” I say, holding her gaze. Rita slowly grins and lowers her arms from the back of the couch. Leaning toward her, I cup her cheek and press my lips to hers, keeping it quick and chaste since we’re in public.
“We have some things to discuss,” she whispers. “But I hate to waste a good cup of coffee.”
“Drink fast,” I warn her, wiggling my brows before reaching for my own mug and taking a sip of the hot heaven. Rita giggles as I burn my tongue. “Think that’s funny, do you? I’ll need you to suck on it to make it better.”
Her eyes widen. The color matches the bright day outside, and that prophetic sensation returns.
Rita and I will be alright.
Half an hour later, my ears ring with her sweet moans.