by Jewel, Bella
“Has he kissed you yet?”
“Now what kind of question is that?” Miss Chelle pipes up. “Don’t you think that if he’d kissed her he wouldn’t be able to take his hands from off of her? Obviously he hasn’t kissed her; he’s being a gentleman and waiting for the right time.”
“I don’t think Jake’s interested in me that way, and I doubt either one of us are looking for a relationship right now.” I finish Maggie’s rinse and towel-dry the rods to remove the excess water before applying the neutralizer. I set a timer and wash my hands in the other basin, and then I move on to Chelle.
“Oh sugar, he’s interested,” Miss Maggie says. “Trust me on that.”
“It’s complicated. There’s Spencer to think about and Jake . . . well, he has his own self to worry about.”
“Terrible shame what happened to the boy. Tragic,” Miss Maggie says quietly, and I glance at the man in question. When Jake Tucker first came home, it was all over the news. He was hounded by reporters and our quiet little town was full to bursting because of it. Tourism was up, vendors’ pockets were lined, and our town thrived because everyone wanted a glimpse of a real-life war hero.
As a result, Jake never went anywhere. The next big tragedy struck and the reporters moved on to terrorize people elsewhere for their scoop. After all, news happened every day. We all watch our television sets and send our prayers to strangers we’ve never met, and then we go about our lives and last week’s news is all but forgotten.
Me though? I never forgot Jake Tucker’s story. I hadn’t grown up here, so I hadn’t known him like everyone else, but that didn’t mean my heart didn’t bleed for him. It didn’t mean that I hadn’t watched him every day for a year knowing that he was just as alone as I was and unable to find a way to reach out.
“I think all Jake really needs right now is a friend.”
“I think you hit your head harder than you realized in that accident,” Miss Chelle says. I shake my head. Good Lord. Does the whole town know? I begin unwinding Chelle’s rollers and comb the curls through with a wide-tooth comb, setting them with a spray of lacquer, and pinning back her long bangs in a modified victory roll with the same tortoiseshell combs she’s been bringing to me since I first opened.
“Well, you’re all done.” I pat Chelle’s shoulders and hope that the two of them are finished grilling me about Jake. Maggie’s timer buzzes, and I rinse off the neutralizer and bring her back to the chair to dry it off and style.
“I just want to say one thing.” Miss Maggie stares at me in the mirror as I stand in front of her and shape the curls by her face. “I know you have your little boy to look after and I know it hasn’t always been easy for you, Miss Ellie, but it’s been so long since you viewed yourself as a sexual being that you’re not seeing things clearly. That man out there wants inside your panties, but I think he wants more than that too.” She pokes a bony finger at my chest. “I think he wants inside here too.”
I balk a little at having an eighty-two-year-old woman talkin’ about my panties and who wants inside of them. What’s more, the second part of that speech is just as terrifying. In many ways, she’s not wrong. I’ve been without so long that I’ve forgotten what desire looks like when it’s reflected back at you from a man’s eyes. I’ve seen a glimpse of something akin to that in Jake’s gaze from time to time, but it’s shut down before it has time to evolve into anything more. I may want him, I’ll give her that, but there are so many variables, there are so many ways it could end badly for all of us. That’s not a chance I’m willing to take. Not when it comes to my son’s heart being broken in the process if this all doesn’t work out.
“It don’t matter, Miss Maggie—”
“You think on it,” she says, handing over her credit card for payment. “In time you’ll know what’s right.”
“Don’t think too long though,” Miss Chelle says, as she stands and collects her Zimmer frame. She waves her purse at Miss Maggie, the more mobile of the two, and Maggie takes it from her in order to pay me. It’s a ritual that takes place every Thursday and right after they leave me they have lunch down on the pier. “I may ask him to check beneath my hood when he’s done.”
“Chelle, honey, I’m sayin’ this because I’m your best friend, and I don’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of that nice young man, but there ain’t nothing but wrinkles left beneath your hood to be checked on.”
“Cab’s here,” I say cheerily, as Brian Bowdoin’s taxi pulls up to the curb. I help them out the door, one leaning heavily on her frame and the other a glossy wooden walking stick.
Jake still tinkers under the hood and they both stop and watch his behind for a beat, feigning exhaustion. He straightens and gives them a nod as they shuffle farther down the drive.
“You kids be good now,” Miss Maggie says, turning to grin at me. I give her a stern look.
Miss Chelle, who was slowly moving on ahead of her, stops in her tracks and shouts, “Don’t listen to her—be bad. Be very, very bad.”
I shake my head, turning crimson from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. When I glance over at Jake, he’s watching me, his brows knit together in confusion.
Do I have to draw this damn man I diagram?
Turning my attention back to the street, I notice Mr. Williams on his stoop, watching my place like a hawk. He normally makes himself scarce when Chelle and Maggie come in. I heard somewhere that he and Miss Chelle had a thing a long time ago, before he met his wife, and with the way she loves to provoke him, I’m almost one hundred percent certain it’s true. I give him a wave, but he doesn’t respond. When Chelle spots him, she blows him a kiss. Mr. Williams gets up from the step and disappears inside.
“Get in the car, you old biddy,” Maggie says, nudging her friend along with her walking stick.
I give them a wave as they climb in and the vehicle drives off, and then I turn my attention to Jake. He unhooks the metal rod and closes the hood. “I’m all done here. Should be good as new.”
“You are?” I ask, trying to hide the disappointment on my face. And just when I got a chance to put my feet up and really enjoy the show. “Oh my God, where are my manners? Let me get you something to drink. It’s hot out here.”
“Thank you, ma’am, that’s much appreciated.” He leans down and pats Nuke’s head. The dog has sought out the shade of my front porch. He’s panting hard, his big pink tongue lolling out to the side. I make a mental note to grab a container and put some ice in it so he can have a cool drink too.
I spin on my heel, preparing to do just that, but before I reach the door I turn and say, “Jake.”
“Mmm?” He bunches his shirt in his fist and fans himself, attempting to pull it away from his sweat-soaked body.
“Stop calling me ma’am.”
He grins, and I disappear inside before I start removing his shirt for him.
“You have somewhere I can wash up?”
“Of course,” I say with a little arm flourish toward the hall. God. I am such an idiot. “Third door on the right.”
He nods and tells Nuke to stay, and then he removes his boots before he walks the outside all through my carpets. I appreciate a man that thoughtful.
When he gets done washing up, I tell him to bring Nuke around back where it’s at least five degrees cooler. While Nuke laps at his water, Jake and I sit in the shade of the back porch with a pitcher of ice-cold sweet tea. He downs his entire glass before I’ve even had a sip of mine. I feel terrible forgetting that he was out here in the heat, slaving over a job he wasn’t even getting paid for and I didn’t even offer him a cool drink. I refill his glass and watch as he tips his head back to take his fill. I’m fascinated by the scar peeking out of his shirt collar. It’s thick, probably an inch wide, raised and a darker flesh-toned pink. It bisects his clavicle, and though I can’t see it, probably his pectoral muscle too. I stare, not because I find it ugly, but because I want to know where it ends. I want to know what it feels like beneath m
y fingertips, and whether it still hurts. I want to know how he made it through all those months without giving up.
I didn’t need last night to show me he struggles with the man he is now. I could tell that just by looking at him, but I can see the light in him too. I know next to nothing about the person he was before he joined the Marines, but I know the man sipping tea on my back porch is a man worth knowing. There’s good in him, light, and strength—he just don’t know it right now.
He catches me staring. His eyes grow a little wider and he adjusts his shirt collar. “What?”
I smile. I hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable. “Nothing.”
Jake clears his throat, his jaw tight as he looks out on my backyard. It’s in a state, but right now it’s the least of my worries. He scans the garden and frowns at the rundown fence and the pile of old rotten fence pales resting in the back corner that I’ve been trying to get Mr. Williams to remove for more than a year now. I don’t let Spencer play here unless I’m with him because I’m terrified he’s going to get stuck on a rusted old nail.
“You should have those taken away,” he says, “It’s not safe for Spencer.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to get Mr. Williams to send someone in, but you know how he is. ‘Just tell him not to play on it,’ he says, as if telling Spencer not to do anything has any bearing on what he actually does.”
“He’s a pretty terrible landlord, huh?”
“Actually, he’s been good to us. I could never afford a place like this on my own, and when Spence and me first came to town we had nothing but the clothes on our backs. Mr. Williams let us live here rent-free until I could get on my feet again. Spence adores him, and despite how surly he may be, he’s a pretty good role model for my son. I just can’t get him to spend a damn penny on fixing this house.”
“Where’s Spencer’s father?”
“He left when Spence was just a baby.” I take another sip of my sweet tea and shrug. “We haven’t seen him since.”
I don’t know why I said that. I’ve never lied to Jake in the past, but somehow the truth, spoken here in the sweetness of a gorgeous Alabama afternoon, just doesn’t seem right. The truth is so much uglier. And I’ve had my share of ugly for a while. In fact, I’ve had so much ugly in my past, I’m still running like hell to escape it.
13
Ellie
I’m woken at some ungodly hour by a loud bang, and then another, and another. I glance at the clock. Six thirty A.M. What in the world . . .? Launching myself out of bed, I head over to the window, but I can’t see anything from where I am so I throw on my robe and stalk through the house, yanking opened the back door, ready to annihilate whoever is in my backyard making such a racket.
It’s Jake. He’s dressed in the same grease-stained worn jeans from yesterday and a black Henley. His hair is damp, like he just got out of the shower, and he swings an axe at my back fence, splintering the rotten wood.
I pull my robe tighter around me and step out onto the back porch. “What are you doing here?” He ignores me and swings the axe again, this time bringing down one whole section of the fence with a loud crash. “Jake.”
Still nothing. Nuke looks my way though, and he barks. Jake glances down at him and pulls a pair of earbuds from his ears. I’m already halfway across the lawn when he turns and takes me in, and when I see the breath almost rush out of him I feel self-conscious. I should care more about my appearance when he’s around.
“Mornin’,” I say as he clears his throat.
“I couldn’t sleep.” He lifts the axe in his hand and shrugs. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”
“By waking up the whole neighborhood?” I tease. “You scared the hell outta me. I thought someone was demolishing my house while I was still in it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay.” I glance over at the partially demolished fence and sigh. “You don’t have to do that, you know?”
“I know,” he says, his knuckles tightening on the axe handle. Apparently that’s all the explanation I’m going to get.
I cross my arms over my chest, wishing I’d thought a bit more about my wardrobe choice because it may be summer in Alabama, but Fairhope mornings can start off just as chilly as fall ones, and my nipples are not immune to the cold. Neither are my bare feet. “You want breakfast?”
“I already ate.”
I frown. “Well, at least come and have a coffee before you wake my neighbors.”
He nods. “Yes ma—”
“Jake, do not call me ma’am.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he sets the axe down by the fence and follows me to the back door.
“Come on inside and make yourself at home. I’m going to go get dressed, and I’ll be right with you.”
“Okay,” he says, and pulls out a chair at the kitchen table. He sits down, dwarfing it completely. I wander off down the hall to get dressed, only when I make it to my room I can’t find a thing I want to wear. I have house clothes and work clothes and even one or two fancy dresses for special occasions, but all of it seems so . . . soccer mom. After staring for way too long at the items hanging in my closet, I realize I may have lost myself in motherhood. I don’t dress my age, I don’t act my age, and I certainly don’t feel it. At the end of the day, I’m so exhausted from being an ASD mom, from the meltdowns, clients, Spencer’s appointments, and making sure every single aspect of our lives follows the schedule, that I forget about me. I know my hair is clean, and each day I make myself presentable like all southern women, but I can’t remember the last time I made a decision that didn’t revolve around what Spencer wanted, or how Spencer would cope, or whether Spencer liked me wearing the color pink or not.
In an effort to just make it through the day with as little meltdowns as possible, I forget that I’m thirty years old, not sixty. I forget what it feels like to be desired. I forget what it feels like to want more. And that man in my kitchen makes me want it all.
Fixin’ my hair in a quick braid, I finally settle on a sweet navy sundress with enough flair at the waist to cover any imperfections around my mid-region and a cute cap sleeve. This dress was a present from Olivia, and though I loved it when I first saw it, I’ve never even taken the tags off because where would I wear a dress like this?
Practical or not, I’m wearing it today. I splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. Then I head out to the kitchen to find Jake sitting with Spence at the table. “Mornin’, Spence.”
He nods as he swallows a mouthful of cereal from the yellow bowl. “Mamma, did Jake sleep over again?”
“No!” I screech too loudly.
“I just came to clean up the yard a little and your mamma asked me in for a coffee,” Jake says.
“You pulled the fence down,” Spencer accuses him.
Jake nods. “Yes I did.”
“It’s not the same. What are we going to do without a fence?”
Uh-oh. Not now, please not now. I take a deep breath and whisper, “Spencer Mason, you remember your manners.”
Jake leans closer and says, “Don’t tell your mamma, but I’m going to build a new one.”
“When?” Spencer asks suspiciously.
“Hopefully by the end of the day.”
Spencer nods and chews another mouthful of cereal. I watch their exchange, the easy way Jake is with my son, who isn’t easy at all; the way Spencer seems to be testing him as much as he is enjoying having him around, and what’s more, it looks as if Jake is passing all those tests with flying colors.
For a brief moment, I let myself believe that this is just another day, that the three of us are a family, and that this is what breakfast looks like, but when Spencer pours a second bowl of cereal and Cheerios fly all over the table and Jake reaches over to help him with the box, all hell breaks loose.
“Not the same, not the same,” Spencer screams, upending the bowl. Milk and Cheerios fly everywhere, splattering my dress and pouring of
f the edge of the table, but they’re the least of my concerns right now because my son is beating his fists against his head.
“Hey Spencer, I’m sorry.” Jake reaches out to grab my son’s hands.
“Don’t touch him!” I yell. Jake reels back as if he’s been slapped, but I don’t have time to smooth things over because Spence is my number-one priority here. I grab Spencer’s fists and work on talking him through it. He fights me every step of the way, elbowing my chest with brutal force as he tries to free his hands.
“Shh, shh. Spencer, deep breaths.”
He screams again, but there are no words. He can’t convey them because there’s too much going on. This is all too much, Jake here two mornings in a row, the fence, the Cheerio box—it’s too much for him on a sensory level, and it was wrong of me not to know that. It was wrong of me to want more.
“I’m sorry,” Jake says, running his hand through his hair.
“It’s fine.”
“I didn’t know. I . . .” He stumbles over his words. “It was stupid of me.”
“Just go.”
I hate the accusation in my voice, as if this were his fault. He didn’t know, and I don’t have time to tell him it’s okay because I have to give all of my energy to the little boy in my arms who’s battling demons we can’t see.
I feel Jake’s eyes on the two of us, but he says nothing. He leaves, quietly closing the door behind him, and my heart breaks.
This is what I get for wanting more.
14
Ellie
On Saturday, I wake to the familiar sound of work going on in my backyard. I get up and brush my teeth and fix my hair, and then I put on a pair of shorts and the same Roll Tide tee I wore the night I cut Jake’s hair. I walk into the kitchen to find Spencer at the table, shoveling Cheerios into his mouth from the green bowl, and I frown. The green bowl is for Thursdays. There’s also a lot less mess on the table. It’s important for Spencer to feel a sense of independence, and even though it drives me mad most days watching him struggle with menial tasks like pouring milk and cereal into a bowl, I try not to mother him too much and worry over the mess, but breaking the routine like this? It’s monumental for a kid like Spence. I know this sudden change isn’t because he’s forgotten what day of the week it was.
