Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  Miles’s right hand formed a fist. “Jackass.”

  “That’s not even the whole story. When I declined his offer, he called me a conceited witch and said no other man would want me.”

  “I assume he actually called you a word that rhymes with witch.”

  “Correct.”

  He glowered at the phone in her hand as if it had personally offended him. “No wonder you almost shut down your account and acquired a crapload of cats. I’m only surprised you didn’t join a nunnery or decide to lop off all men’s private parts.”

  She couldn’t lie. If she hadn’t been Protestant, she’d have been sorely tempted. By the nunnery, not the penis-lopping.

  “Well, I’m obviously not going out with the guy from D.C. tonight,” she said. “So how do you feel about dinner at Sallie’s Diner? It’s casual, and the food’s good.”

  He froze. “You want me to eat out at a restaurant? With you?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “I don’t know you well enough to invite you to my house or visit yours. So a restaurant is really our only dinner option.”

  His eyes fell to the floor. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t. Not tonight.”

  “Tomorrow? Or maybe this weekend?”

  His answer was barely audible. “I don’t think so.”

  She understood. She really did. Maybe after meeting her face-to-face, his spark of interest had gone cold. Or maybe he was uncomfortable with public exposure because of his injury. But in either case, she’d stood someone up for the first time in her life because of him. Her stomach was growling. And she’d stayed at work an extra hour for a man who was giving out decidedly mixed signals.

  He was happy to disrupt her dinner with another man, but didn’t want to have dinner with her himself? Fine. Good. Tomorrow, she’d reconcile those two facts in her head and regard them with her usual equanimity. But for now, her patience had reached its limit.

  “Okay. No problem,” she said. “Then let’s tell Angie we’re ready to go. I’m hungry.”

  As they locked up the building and walked out to the parking lot, she could tell Miles wanted to say something. But whatever it was, the words didn’t emerge from his mouth, even when Angie climbed in her car and gave them some privacy. And Mary couldn’t exactly force him to speak his mind.

  “Good night.” She’d never learned how to hold on to anger or irritation for long. So when they reached his car, she couldn’t resist. She offered him a friendly hug, relieved once more that he stood in front of her strong and healthy. “Nice to meet in person at long last.”

  But because her annoyance had only faded, not disappeared entirely—not yet—she pulled away quickly. And also vowed to herself that she’d let him take the initiative in any future physical contact.

  “Yeah.” His mouth was tight, his lips downturned as they parted. “I’m glad we finally met.”

  When he drove off, she walked over to Angie’s car. “Thank you for waiting for me. I appreciate it.”

  “Is everything all right?” Her boss’s green eyes were searching. Concerned.

  “Yes.” Mary offered a halfhearted smile. “But let’s talk about it tomorrow. It’s getting late, and I need to eat something.”

  Angie’s forehead creased. “Why don’t you come over for dinner?”

  As much as Mary loved Angie and Grant, she didn’t want to chat. “I think I need a quiet night at home. But thank you.” In an attempt to distract her friend, she added, “Tomorrow morning, let’s talk about a program idea I have. I’d like to do more to assist job-hunting patrons.”

  With obvious reluctance, her boss nodded. “Okay. See you then.”

  The two women said their good-byes and went their separate ways, Angie to her loving boyfriend and Mary to her silent home.

  Well, not entirely silent. The television kept her company as she ate her Cobb salad and wrote out her proposal for the new library program. She had a long chat with her mother about which plants in her parents’ garden required weeding and fertilizer, and when she could come over to do the work. And in two other brief phone calls, she and her brothers agreed on good dates for her to babysit their kids.

  The flurry of plans and conversations was almost enough to push aside her troubled thoughts. Almost. Her uncertainty about Miles and her niggling dissatisfaction at work refused to leave her brain entirely, no matter how firmly she tried to banish them.

  Forgetting about Miles was a lost cause, she finally decided. Especially given the new voice mail on her phone, which she discovered right after taking a hot shower late that night.

  At some point while Mary had been talking to him in the library, Angie had apparently called. For what reason, Mary had no idea.

  The message itself only confused her further.

  “Hey, honey. Just a tip from me to you,” Angie said, her voice so low Mary had to turn up the volume on her cell. “Press Miles about his life in California. Trust me.”

  Mary played that recording a few times as she sat in front of her computer and watched her inbox, searching for a message from Miles that never came.

  Press Miles about his life in California. Press Miles about his life in California.

  Her bright computer screen hurting her eyes in the dark, she waited. Waited and wondered.

  5

  When Miles’s mind wandered to Mary for the thousandth time, he shifted without thinking. And the toothbrush he’d wedged between his knees fell to the cracked tile floor. Again.

  This time, he didn’t bother to replace it. Getting a fresh one would require opening yet another new plastic package, and he didn’t have the energy to get the scissors. Instead, he simply put the toothpaste on the counter, picked up the toothbrush, and rinsed it in the sink.

  The house cleaner he’d finally hired had scrubbed everything with bleach yesterday, including the floors. Good enough.

  Back between his knees the toothbrush went, braced there while he gave the toothpaste tube a one-handed squeeze. And after almost four minutes, he was able to finish brushing his teeth, a process that had previously taken a mere two minutes.

  At four months post-amputation, he guessed this was it. This was his new life, where simple tasks would require at least twice as much time as they once had.

  Twice as much time, of course, was a vast improvement from a couple of months ago. God only knew how long he’d taken to get showered and presentable when he’d first moved to Nice County. Too long. So long that he’d stopped bothering most of the time, preferring his own stench to the bitter taste of humiliation and frustration.

  And yes, he’d known how to fix many of the issues that made showering difficult. For God’s sake, he was a carpenter, not to mention a fan of Google. But even simple fixes entailed trips to local hardware and home-goods stores, when he didn’t want to be seen. Worst of all, they obliged him to find out for sure just how much—or how little—he could do with his one remaining hand and his carpentry skills. He’d employed his tools without thought for so long, as a natural extension of his own body. Now he had no idea how to use them effectively.

  More than a decade of experience, wiped away in a single stupid moment.

  So after checking the dwindling total in his savings account, a month ago he’d swallowed the bitterest pill of his life and hired a handywoman.

  Him. Hiring someone else to do basic home repair. He’d laughed after that first phone call to Jessie, laughed until his mirth turned into something else entirely.

  But now the wall of his shower featured push dispensers for shampoo and conditioner, like the ones in public restrooms. Near those, Jessie had placed a bath pillow covered with a scrub cloth, so he could put soap on the cloth and wash his right arm. She’d used suction cups for that, which meant he could have easily done it himself. He hadn’t, though.

  A non-slip mat for the bottom of the shower helped ensure his lack of balance wouldn’t betray him at an inopportune, naked, and soapy moment. In the
kitchen, she’d installed an electric can opener and a separate jar opener under the counter. And while she’d been working on those and other modifications to his cabin, he’d gone online to purchase additional fixes. A cutting board with suction feet, a lip, and spikes to hold foods in place for slicing or spreading. A mezzaluna for chopping. A fork-knife combo utensil called a knork. A hook to assist with buttons. A crapload of zippered plastic bags, since unsealing the ones that had to be pressed closed didn’t work without using his teeth, which wasn’t exactly sanitary. Lockable elastic laces for his sneakers.

  None of those items, of course, helped with opening a new box of cereal. Or changing a trash bag. Or peeling bananas. And while they improved his daily life to a startling extent, none of them replaced his fucking arm.

  Not that it felt gone. Not really. When he lifted his left shoulder, the ease of the movement, the lack of weight, always startled him, because he could still sense his phantom limb. Parts of it, anyway. Its size seemed to decrease month by month, the features becoming less defined. But it remained. And it remained immovable, no matter how small it got or how hard he tried to control it.

  At least the horrendous agony—the sense his missing arm was being crushed, bound tighter and tighter over the course of the day—had disappeared almost entirely, changing from phantom pain into phantom sensation. Other than occasional jolts of electricity in his fingers, brief but horrible, he was rarely bothered by it anymore.

  Another month and he’d be off his gabapentin entirely. The dosage he took to treat his phantom pain was already a small fraction of what he’d taken immediately after the amputation. And the amputation site itself didn’t hurt at all. No need for painkillers.

  Which was handy, since painkillers and driving didn’t mix. And he needed to run a few errands this morning, ready or not.

  After his new morning routine—one that lasted almost an hour, rather than the thirty minutes he preferred—he headed out to his car. His cell phone rang just as he unlocked the door. A single glance at the display, though, told him he didn’t want to talk to the caller. So for the millionth time, he rejected the call and let his brother leave a message. A message he’d never bother to access, like the messages of so many other people.

  Talking to his old friends and coworkers would only remind him of everything he’d lost. And talking to Teddy would only rekindle Miles’s helpless fury. Fury at his brother for betraying him, and fury at himself for his own naïve idiocy.

  He shook off the memories as he opened the door. Better to leave the past in the past.

  Once inside the car, he took his time setting the temperature and the music, since adjustments during the drive would mean taking his hand off the wheel.

  The drive itself he found soothing. The woods and fields rolled by on his left and right, punctuated by an occasional stream, farmhouse, or silo. The cows and horses regarded him with mild curiosity or dismissed him entirely, and he relaxed into a task he could still complete easily and anonymously. Only when he got closer to the center of town did his fist start to clench on the steering wheel.

  People. So many people everywhere. And surely some of them had seen him before.

  Mary, he reminded himself. Remember her eyes when you said you wouldn’t go to dinner with her?

  On a Monday morning, Battlefield’s small salon didn’t have any customers waiting, and the shop owner herself was the only stylist available. He supposed that was about as private as he could expect.

  Luanne smacked her gum as she herded him to her black padded chair. “You find gold in them thar hills?”

  He huffed out a breath, amused despite himself. “If I hit the motherlode, I’ll be sure to share a few nuggets with you.”

  “Much obliged.” She ran her hands through his hair, evaluating it with narrowed eyes. “You ready for me to turn you from a prospector to a fine prospect for local ladies?”

  “I only care about one local lady,” he said truthfully.

  Luanne’s nest of teased, unnaturally red hair didn’t move as she tilted her head and studied his chin. “She like that scraggly beard? Because right now, it looks like a blind, rabid chipmunk attacked it. Or maybe you just can’t use clippers worth a damn.”

  He cracked his first smile of the day. “The latter, ma’am. I’m desperately in need of your assistance. Could I get a haircut and a shave?”

  “Oooh. Ma’am.” Her blue eyes twinkled as she grinned back at him. “Aren’t you a charming young man? And I suspect you’re quite a looker beneath all that mangled fur.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” He bent his head forward so she could snap the black nylon cape around his neck.

  “Your hair feels clean, so no need to shampoo. Save you a little money.” She paused with her finger poised on the trigger of a spray bottle. “Did you have a cave-in at your mine, or should I be thanking you for your service?”

  Her face had sagged into tired creases, and her gaze strayed toward her mirror. On the top right edge, he now saw, she’d taped a faded picture of a young man in uniform.

  He winced, as he always did at the question. Or, more frequently, the statement. People assumed he’d lost his arm on a battlefield, rather than a construction site, and they thanked him without asking for confirmation. The shame of it burned every time.

  And this time, given his guess as to her circumstances, hurt even more.

  “I’m sorry.” He looked down at his lap. “No service. Just stupidity.”

  “Ah.” She sprayed his hair with water. “In that case, I’ll save my thanks for when you give me my tip. Chunks of gold ore, right?”

  A weak smile was all he could manage. “Right.”

  Thirty minutes later, he looked like a new man from the neck up. Or more precisely, like the man he’d been until a few short months ago. Only a little less cheekbone-y.

  “Huh.” Luanne smacked her gum for the thousandth time, accepting his substantial, non-gold tip with a pleased nod. “You’re a handsome devil. Just as I suspected.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” His face felt naked, and his smooth-shaven cheeks offered no protection against the chilly spring air when he stepped through the propped-open front door.

  “Come back soon.” Luanne poked her head out the door. “Good luck finding gold. And keep me updated on the pursuit of your local lady.”

  The pun was sitting right there, waiting to be used. How could he resist? “I’ll be sure to let you know if it pans out.”

  Luanne thought for a moment. “Oh, I get it. Very funny.”

  “Thank you.” He preened a little bit.

  “Just a hint from me to you: When you’re wooing your lady, I’d rely more on your looks than your puns, son.” With one final wink, she disappeared back inside her shop.

  That had gone better than expected. But next he was heading to the big discount store where all the locals shopped, and he was doing it without the cloak of a beard or overlong hair. Luckily, though, he’d thought ahead. After parking in the sprawling lot outside the store, he pulled on his baseball cap and cocked it low over his eyes.

  As he browsed through the endless racks and searched for clothing he could comfortably wear until he shed the rest of his pizza pounds, the weight of dozens of eyes seemed to drag at him, slowing him down even as he wanted to hurry.

  He’d moved long past trusting his own perceptions, though. Maybe they were looking at a stranger in town. Maybe they were looking at a one-armed man. Maybe they were looking at a guy they recognized. Or maybe they weren’t looking at him at all, and he was simply paranoid.

  Either way, he intended to be gone soon. One size up from his normal shirts and pants ought to do the job, so he threw a few basics into his cart without thinking too hard. Then he went into the dressing room, removed a small pair of scissors from his back pocket—brought along for just this purpose—and clipped the price tags from a green tee and a pair of dark jeans. His back pocket also contained a couple of small
pins, which he used to close the shirt’s left sleeve. Finally, he set the tags aside and got dressed in his new clothes, rolling up the old and shoving the bundle in his cart.

  At checkout, he wordlessly handed the loose tags to the woman behind the register.

  “Couldn’t wait, huh?” She smiled, and although he wanted to get out of that store without any more human interaction, his mother—God rest her soul—hadn’t raised him to be rude. So he smiled back with a nod, and she blinked.

  Her eyes flicked from his face to his arm and back. As she rang up his purchases and dumped his clothes into the bag, her brow remained furrowed.

  Finally, as he accepted his receipt, she spoke again. “Are you—”

  “Thanks.” He snatched the bag and fled, his cart still parked in the checkout aisle. His mother might have raised him not to be rude, but desperate times called for desperate impoliteness.

  Only one stop left. The hardest stop of them all.

  He’d spent the past month getting his life back together for a shot at wooing Mary. Stopped eating pizza. Exercised. Fixed and cleaned his cabin. Ventured just now into the public eye without the protection of his beard and floppy hair.

  But he’d sabotaged her first date with another man. He had one arm and zero visible ab muscles. He’d avoided sharing any real personal information for months. He’d refused her dinner invitation. Twice. And then he’d gone silent online all weekend as he’d finally thought through the full implications of dating her and what it would mean for his anonymity.

  He had no idea whether she’d forgive any of those things, much less all of them.

  Well, okay, he suspected she would, because she was Mary, the kindest of souls. Even if she did forgive him, though, he still had no clue whether her invitations had stemmed from mere politeness or actual romantic interest. Or whether she had any desire to repeat her invitation and receive a different response.

  He planned to get answers to those questions within the next few minutes.