by T. I. Lowe
Sure don’t blame him. Opal shook her head, feeling a pounding edge along her temples from the effect of the long cry. With one last look at Bless This Mess, she walked to her van and left the uncertainty for another day.
It took a few days before everyone in town had their power restored, but it didn’t slow down Sunset Cove from picking up the pieces of their lives that Hurricane Lacy had scattered everywhere, and working on getting back to normal. Thankfully, most of the community had been spared, only sustaining superficial damage. While most were making progress, Opal had to sit tight until the building was thoroughly inspected. By that time, she’d been able to pick her basket back up and form a plan of action.
In a white thermal shirt, worn denim overalls rolled halfway up her shins, and high-top sneakers, Opal was ready to get to it. She surveyed the building and then the refreshment table Josie had helped her set up earlier for the volunteers, while tying a navy bandanna around her head. She didn’t have time to deal with wayward curls today. No, today was all about productivity. As cars began to line the street, a giddiness overtook her. She was ready for the new beginning to begin.
Clapping her hands, she skipped over to the small group from her church. Each one was dressed in their own form of work attire. “Thanks so much for coming out to help!” She brought their attention to the two yellow-and-white-striped tents she’d rented from the events company that took up the entire side parking lot. “We need to clear all the furniture out of the building and place as much as possible underneath the tents.”
The volunteers quickly formed an assembly line of sorts and began handing off piece by piece of furniture until making it to the tents, where Opal worked on arranging it all. Before they got the first tent a quarter of the way filled, a familiar Jeep pulled up, bringing with it a sight Opal had felt certain she’d never see again.
With his hair pulled up in one of those man buns that somehow worked for him, causing the frowning man to look even more intimidating, Lincoln slowly wove around the line of people snaking toward the tent until he reached her side. Opal regarded him, taking note of the high cheekbones that had been shielded by his long hair on other occasions. Even the thick scruff of beard didn’t hide them. In faded jeans and a flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, the man looked like he meant business.
“You’re brave,” Opal quipped as she set down a nightstand she’d fashioned from a coatrack.
Lincoln shifted his weight to his left leg and grimaced. Shifting it back to the other leg, he reached for the next piece to be handed over. It was an intricate wood bed frame she had turned into another bench. He sat it down and seemed to be pretending she didn’t speak. Maybe going as far as pretending she wasn’t even there.
“You’re not going to say anything?” About my crazy getting loose the other day? Opal wanted to add the last part, but he probably already knew what she meant, so she chickened out.
Her question was met by more silence. Finally, after another ten minutes or so of remaining mute, Lincoln glanced around and mumbled, “This place looks like a circus.”
Relieved he finally spoke, a smile tugged at her lips as Opal regarded the tents in a new light. “Oh, my! You’re right, Linc. It does look exactly like a circus.” She tightened her ponytail and allowed her imagination to carry her back to a childhood memory of a ringleader and an elephant underneath a tent her parents took her to one fall day. “I’d love to go to a circus. That’s such a happy place.”
Lincoln’s big brown eyes cut toward her as he was handed the rocking chair she had been working on before the storm. His gaze held a curious caution, like he was gauging his chances of being able to haul tail without getting caught.
“I’m not crazy,” she blurted.
“Ain’t suggesting you are,” he retorted, scooting the half-finished project over to the other side of the tent.
“Your eyes did.” She pointed toward them before taking the rocking chair and setting it outside. That would be a good project to take home and work on.
After that comment, Lincoln worked hard at filling the tents and keeping his eyes to himself. When the group of volunteers gathered around the refreshments before heading out, she assumed he had taken that as his chance to make a clean getaway.
Opal watched the Jeep disappear down the side road as quickly as it had appeared earlier. The man was too squirrelly for her liking. Not standing in any one spot long enough to let her get too close. She thought that perhaps he’d shown up to help out of some remorse for being so rude to her in the beginning. Or it might have been pity. Shrugging off the uneasiness, she moved her focus to her guests and kept their tea glasses filled until all the food platters were bare and the sun was slipping behind the inlet. All in all, it had been a good day, and she whispered a quick prayer of thanks before following the caravan of vehicles home.
The following morning, Opal beat the sun to Bless This Mess. There was too much to get done before the roofers showed up for her to wait on daylight. In the grays and pinks of dawn, her poor store looked puny and battered.
A considerable amount of time, love, and money had been invested in the building in the last six years to turn back now. She’d willingly put aside any inclination of a personal life in order to keep her focus on making the business a success. Her parents were great and had always supported Opal in anything she pursued, but she longed for independence. Even when they wanted to give her the start-up money for Bless This Mess outright, she refused and had the family lawyer draw up a loan contract. Sure, she didn’t pay interest, but the monthly payment was always paid on time. She had actually been on the path to paying it off early before the storm.
Sighing, she reached out to pat the charcoal-gray front door and whispered, “I wish for you to be restored. To be stronger than ever after the crew takes extra-special care of restoring you . . . Please, God, please bless my mess.” Her fingers skimmed over a dent that hadn’t been there before the hurricane, and she considered the flaw an added bit of character. Smiling, she gave the door one last pat and moved over to the tents to begin washing down each piece.
Armed with a bucket of soapy water and a rag, Opal took a deep breath to fortify herself, but the odor had her wrinkling her nose. The air trapped inside the tent was dank and held a mild mildew scent. Certainly not a healthy environment for furniture. She took the next little bit of time to set up large fans around the perimeter of each tent to help ward off the moisture and rolled up a few sections of the sides for better airflow.
An hour or so into cleaning, Lincoln walked through one of the tent openings. He was wearing similar work attire as the day before, and a similar frown.
“Good morning, Linc.” Opal gave him her best chipper welcome, and all that accomplished was causing his frown to deepen. The overwhelming desire to figure out how to make him smile tapped her on the shoulder. Rotating the sensation away, she reminded herself she couldn’t afford any distractions, Lincoln Cole included.
Without offering any form of greeting in return, Lincoln pointed at her hand. “You got another cloth?”
Opal scrutinized him, unable to figure out the man to save her life. He acted like he couldn’t stand her, yet there he stood, willing to spend more time with her. She shook her head and said, “I just needed volunteers for the one day to get everything out of the store. I’m good now. Thanks, though.” She dropped the large rag back into the bucket, swished it around, and then lifted it to wring the water out. Squatting beside a large dresser, she began wiping it down.
“I’m here to work.” His words sounded just as uncertain as they had the day before, but Lincoln didn’t wait for her response. Instead, he reached over and plucked the rag out of her hand and tore it down the middle like it was made out of nothing more than rice paper. “You take the bottom of each piece and I’ll wash the top half.”
“Taking charge and giving orders seem like something you’re well versed in,” Opal sassed but went about wiping down the bottom drawers as he’d instruc
ted.
“I was climbing the military ranks at lightning speed for a reason.”
Opal glanced up in time to catch him cringing, apparently having shared more than he’d wanted to. She decided to follow up with a snarky retort and snicker. “We both know it had nothing to do with your sunny disposition.”
The only response Lincoln gave to that was a grunt of discomfort, so she let it go.
They worked in amicable silence with the ocean doing its job as the tranquil backdrop. Hours crept by, with her becoming quite impressed by how well they worked together.
“Does this cleaner have honey in it?” Lincoln asked out of the blue as they tackled an entertainment center that was now transformed into a wet bar.
A fan ruffled a red curl loose from Opal’s topknot, so she stood and wound it back into place. “No . . . It’s just Murphy oil soap.” She picked up her rag and sniffed it, only finding the pungent scent of the cleaner.
“Oh,” he mumbled, moving a few steps away from her.
Opal wiped a film of grime off the side panel and glanced at Lincoln. “I’m guessing this means you want the job?”
He didn’t look at her, just kept working and answered in that tentative way he had with anything that seemed related to her. “I reckon.”
“I’ll probably only need you like three days a week, and the pay isn’t that much.” Her back and hamstrings were tiring, so she plopped on the tarp-lined ground and continued cleaning in a seated position.
“I don’t need much money. Plus, I start PT with my new therapist next week, so the three days will work good for me.”
Opal’s eyes moved over his jean-clad leg, wondering what sort of damage it concealed. “How’s your mobility?”
Lincoln leaned over and washed his rag out in the bucket, moving efficiently, not wasting a second before going back to cleaning the top of the piece. “Honestly, it’s not great but slowly getting better. I’m learning how to work around it.”
Opal twirled her rag in her hands and continued to watch him. The man cleaned with gusto and didn’t stop until the piece was immaculate. “What do you mean by working around it?”
He tipped his head to the side, giving her a fleeting look before going back to work. “My leg has weak spots and the dang thing has sent me flat on my back a time or two.” He chuckled, but it lacked humor. “That’s on me. If I’d use my cane like I should . . .” His voice trailed off as he shook his head.
“Why not use it?”
“Because I’m stubborn.”
“I already figured as much.” It was the first time Opal considered maybe Lincoln wasn’t the right guy for the job. “August said you’d be able to handle this.”
“And I can as long as I do what my other therapist back home has taught me. It’s all about back and upper body and compensating with my right leg.” He flexed his massive arms before dunking his cloth back into the bucket. “I’m strong as an ox. No worrying about that.” Even though he sounded sure, the visible part of Lincoln’s cheeks above his beard were elevated in color.
That little indicator was enough to make Opal realize how uncomfortable he was with discussing his injury, so she changed the subject. “I need a break and Seashore Creamery is the perfect solution.” She stood and stretched out her stiff back.
Lincoln made a face, one he was making too often in her presence—brows puckered, lips pursed, stare perplexed. “It’s kinda chilly for ice cream, and it’s lunchtime.” After wringing out the cloth, he brought it to his nose and took a sniff. Seeming to not find whatever it was he was searching for, he brought it back to the wet bar and slid it along the underside of a shelf that held slots for stemware.
She dismissed his weather and lunch observation with a flick of her wrist. “Nonsense. They wouldn’t be open year-round if you could only eat ice cream on warm days, and it can be a very satisfying meal, in my opinion. Plus, I have it on good authority that they’ve just made a batch of seaweed swirl as their weekly special.” She waggled her eyebrows, hoping to tease and tempt him, but one look at his stern face showed she had failed.
That perplexed look etched harsher on his face as he straightened to full height and stared. “Now you’re talking pure nonsense. Seaweed ain’t supposed to be in ice cream. That’s just . . .” He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Nasty.”
“You’re making assumptions again.” She dropped the rag into the bucket and dried her hands on her purple cargo pants. “I’m going for ice cream. You’re welcome to join me.”
He gave her a quick side-eye and went back to work. “I don’t care to.”
“Suit yourself.” She began weaving through the tent to the side exit, knowing good and well the ornery man thought she was a certifiable nutcase, but not caring enough to correct his fallacy. Nothing was going to sidetrack her from the pursuit of creamy goodness.
Opal set her pace to a lazy stroll just in case Mr. Cranky Britches changed his mind. She kept listening for the stomp/limp pattern of his gait to follow, but by the time she reached the crosswalk, she gave up. Even though it wasn’t surprising he chose to stay behind and sulk, disappointment still accompanied her on the way to the creamery.
“Good morning, dear,” Miss Dalma greeted, startling Opal.
Opal looked over and found the tiny lady sitting on a bench. “Good morning.” She tapped the side of a small laundry basket sitting beside Dalma, filled with mismatched socks. “Are you on your way to the Laundromat?” She hoped not, since the Laundromat was on the other side of town.
“Oh no. My Gerald bought me a washer/dryer set for the house.” Dalma hitched a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of her house on the inlet.
Opal glanced down the avenue to where Dalma’s house sat, three lots over. At least she hadn’t lugged the basket too far. Miss Dalma was nearing ninety years old and had been the town’s librarian for so long that even after retirement she was still referred to that way. Her mind hadn’t been faring too well in the last few years, but surely that came with living close to a century.
Opal scooted the basket over and plopped down beside her while sending a text to Josie, who had taken on the caregiver role. Just found Dalma on the bench at 53rd Avenue. Whose day is it to keep an eye on her?
Josie texted back immediately. Bertie Matthews. I’m on my way.
Opal responded. No worries. I’ll take care of her.
You sure?
Yep. She sent several smiley emojis, hoping to put Josie’s mind at ease. The poor girl worried herself silly over just about everybody. “Miss Dalma, where’s Bertie?”
Dalma laughed dryly and rolled her eyes, looking rather youthful for such an old lady. The high ponytail capturing her long white hair and the crewneck sweatshirt she had paired with denim capri pants added to the effect. “The ole gal is snoring away on the porch swing. She naps more than a newborn.”
“What’s up with the laundry basket?” Opal pointed, bringing Dalma’s surprised attention to it.
“Darnedest thing . . . I have no idea.” She made a face and dismissed it altogether, closing her eyes and tilting her head toward the morning sun.
Opal chose to do the same, knowing it was a waste of time to try figuring out the little lady. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and asked, “You feel like going to the creamery with me?”
Dalma’s cloudy-blue eyes popped open and her face lit up. “Why, I’d love to.”
Opal gathered the laundry basket in one arm, held her other hand out for Dalma, and happily led the way.
Once they’d each ordered a double scoop of seaweed swirl, Opal and Dalma decided the pier was the perfect place to enjoy their ice cream. Dalma chatted her up on basically nonsense, but Opal didn’t care. After being stuck with Mr. Antisocial, who was apparently allergic to words, it was a nice change.
Opal licked a dribble of ice cream escaping down the side of the cone before asking, “Do you think I’m too far out there, Miss Dalma?”
“I say the farther out ther
e, the better, dear. You make life interesting, but you’re no wackadoodle. Don’t let any sticks-in-the-mud tell you otherwise.” Dalma gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. She then launched into telling Opal about a historical romance she’d just finished listening to on her iPad. It was Dalma and Josie’s thing, sitting together on Dalma’s back deck listening to audiobooks. Opal didn’t do much reading, considering it required sitting still, but she enjoyed hearing Dalma’s lively take on a story.
By the time she walked Dalma home, Opal had come to the conclusion that she’d have to start working on softening Lincoln’s guarded exterior if he planned on sticking around. They’d both be miserable otherwise. She felt for sure they could become friends if he’d just give it a chance. Dalma had assured her she wasn’t a wackadoodle, not entirely anyhow, and Lincoln needed to understand that too.
5
“The woman has to be completely off her rocker,” Lincoln muttered as he limped over to the tents the next day and found all kinds of evidence to support his theory. The savory notes of butter and burnt sugar wafted toward him, and darned if he didn’t hear the familiar sound of brass instruments tinkling out the jovial tune associated with the circus—the dada-ta-ta-ta that seemed to be the universal theme song.
Pulling in a deep breath of the appealing aroma that certainly smelled of childhood memories, Lincoln didn’t know whether he wanted to step through the tent curtain and enter her curious world or just quietly slink away to never return. Confused and quite agitated with himself, his feet kept propelling him forward until he’d entered to find an antique-looking popcorn stand brimming full. A grinning sprite of a woman was twirling a paper cone around a cotton candy maker beside it, collecting a bright-pink ribbon of candy along the way. There she stood in blue, baggy coveralls with a name patch declaring her Bubba. Her red-gold curls were pulled high into pigtails. He wanted to tell her she was too old for such a hairstyle and that she should give Bubba his uniform back, but she was just too blame cute and happy for him to get the words out.
