Dirt

by Cassia Leo

  Our last delivery of the day was to Isaac. I couldn’t believe how nervous I felt. Dylan’s words kept echoing in my mind: I think Isaac likes you.

  If Dylan was right, that could complicate my neighborly relationship with Isaac. I didn’t want him to think that, just because Jack and I were separated, I was open to dating other men. I had no interest in dating anyone, and I would probably die of a broken heart if I found out Jack wanted to date other women.

  “Hi, Isaac,” I said as I exited the truck.

  My voice sounded much lower and more masculine than I had intended as I reached out my hand to him. My mind flashed to the brief moment we met last week, when I spilled cookies all over his walkway in our very awkward introduction.

  Isaac reached out to take my hand. “Nice to see you again… ma’am.”

  His hand was calloused and he didn’t seem to understand how strong he was, as his grasp on my hand was a bit too tight. He kept his confident gaze focused on my eyes.

  “Dylan mentioned you live sort of off the grid? Is that why you’re always working outside?” I said, my voice now sounding way too high-pitched.

  I just couldn’t seem to get it right around this guy. Something about him intimidated me. It wasn’t the tattoos. Jack had a few when we met, and he got an enormous tattoo of angel wings on his chest after Junior passed.

  I think it was the dirt.

  There were smudges of dirt all over Isaac’s clothes and skin. And the wild way his golden hair stuck out of the edges of his backward-facing baseball cap. He looked like the kind of guy I’d steer clear of. But with a chiseled face and bulging muscles, it worked. The man was undeniably sexy.

  “I do. I have some solar panels up there,” he said, nodding toward his roof. “I’ve got a backup generator and rainwater collection tank, with underground water treatment and filtration. Nice cozy fireplace to keep me warm. Within the confines of what the city will allow me to get away with, I’ve got pretty much everything I need to survive right here… Well, almost everything.”

  He tilted his head back a little, one eyebrow slightly cocked as he looked down at me with a confident smile.

  I cleared my throat, fully aware that if I made a habit of this nervous tic, I would soon turn into Trudy. “Well, that… sounds… like a really nice setup,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He chuckled softly. “It would be nicer if I’d gotten a property near a water source, like a river or a creek. But the rain collector does okay for now.”

  When he said “creek” in that regional accent I couldn’t quite place, it sounded like he was saying “crick.” It wasn’t a Southern drawl, but it was definitely charming.

  13

  Isaac

  Laurel didn’t look like the tourists I usually picked up on Saturday nights at the hotel bars downtown. I normally liked a girl with a bit more meat on her bones, a little cushion for pushin’, if you will.

  Laurel had dark shadows in the hollows of her cheeks and desperation in her brown eyes. Her straight blonde hair draped over her slight shoulders, her skinny jeans clung to her hip bones.

  But just like the first time I saw her last week, there was something about her I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something that sparked a deep curiosity in me. And the way she seemed to get so nervous around me just stoked the flame.

  “We should unload the truck,” Dylan said, cutting through the silence.

  I was about to express my agreement, when my eye caught a bit of movement in the distance, just beyond the beat up muscle car parked in the driveway in front of my truck.

  “Boomer! Come here!” I shouted at my German shepherd as he tried to sneak up on a cat perched on the fence post.

  The cat snapped its head toward the sound of my voice, then scurried off toward the back of the property. Boomer chased after it, letting out a deep, growling bark.

  “Boomer, come!” I shouted again.

  He finally turned around and galloped toward us, maneuvering through the space between my truck and the old Mustang I’d been working on all summer. I motioned with my hand for him to heel and he walked around me, coming to a sitting position at my right side.

  I scratched his head as he gazed up at me, his long, pink tongue lolling to the side in a goofy grin. “Good boy. Good heel.”

  “Wow,” Laurel remarked. “He looks like he’s pretty well trained.”

  “He used to be a bomb-sniffing dog,” Dylan said proudly, and I tried not to roll my eyes at his eagerness to share the details of my life with my new neighbor, who was still very much a stranger. A sexy stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

  Laurel’s eyes widened. “Really?” She turned to me with a plea in her eyes. “Can I pet him?”

  Before I could respond, Dylan replied for me, again. “You can’t pet him. He’s a service dog.”

  I wanted to tell him to stop ruining Boomer’s attempts to impress Laurel, but I bit my tongue. Didn’t want to scare her off.

  Laurel looked taken aback. “Oh, is he still a bomb dog?”

  I sighed. “Dylan is just giving Boomer more credit than he deserves. He’s not a bomb-sniffer anymore. He’s just a big ol’ goof now.”

  Dylan opened his mouth to contradict me, but I shot him a severe look that quieted him real quick. “You want me to back the truck in to make it easier to unload?” he asked instead.

  I nodded and stepped back as Dylan got in the truck. “Break,” I said to Boomer and he sprung to his feet, tail wagging as he began sniffing the grass behind me. “You gonna unload that truck all by yourself?”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny. What is it Make Fun of the Skinny Girl Day?”

  Her response troubled me, as if people making fun of her weight was a common occurrence. “I apologize. I meant no offense. Just speculating as to why a pretty girl like you would want such a physical job.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to bulk up,” she replied, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a phrase she’d learned from her husband.

  Nonetheless, it was obvious she did not want to talk about her weight.

  I laughed at her bulking up joke. “Point taken. I’ll let it go.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dylan and I unloaded the large bags of soil and fertilizer, while Laurel unloaded the small stuff, like a few flats of potted herbs, a few rolls of galvanized netting, and some packs of claws to secure the netting in the ground, for keeping critters away from my precious fruits and vegetables. Maybe I should offer some of this stuff to Laurel, for her mom’s garden.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge to myself that one of the things that intrigued me the most about Laurel was that she was Beth’s daughter. Beth taught me damn near everything I knew about gardening. I moved out here to Portland two and a half years ago without a clue in the world what I was going to do with my life. All I knew was that I wanted to disappear.

  Beth took it upon herself to teach me this stuff, even when I insisted I didn’t need help. She thrust her knowledge and humor — and friendship — into my life at a time when I needed it most. To say I was utterly shocked and saddened by her death would be an understatement.

  But here was her daughter, obviously trying to make right some kind of wrong she thinks she’s inflicted on her mother’s garden. It reminded me of one of the many times Beth spoke about Laurel.

  She said something like, “Laurel is everything good I’ve ever done, wrapped up in a beautiful package and tied with a fancy ribbon. She has so much to give to this world, but she doesn’t do anything anymore except spend her husband’s money and take care of her boy. I love that boy with all my heart and soul, maybe even more than I love Laurel. But I wish Laurel would remember who she was before she became a wife and mother.”

  Instinct told me it wasn’t my place to share these words with Laurel. Beth would have done so if she wanted her daughter to know how she felt. Hell, maybe she did say all that stuff to Laurel.

  But something told me that Laurel a
nd her husband — the dude who stared me down with his icy eyes — were probably separated because of the same things Beth had been worried about. Maybe they were on their way toward a head on collision long before their boy was killed.

  Either way, I was not about to let Laurel embark on her garden mission without a bit of her mother’s gospel. I was certain she’d been through enough lately. She didn’t need to take on such a Herculean task alone.

  As Dylan closed up the back of the truck, Laurel smiled as she sidled up next to me.

  “I’m not that old,” she said, as if I was supposed to know why she was saying this.

  “I didn’t think you were,” I replied, watching Boomer attempt to eat a bee.

  “You called me ma’am.”

  I chuckled at her interpretation of my politeness. “I call every nice lady I meet ma’am.”

  “Nice lady?” she repeated my words with disdain. “Now I feel like a little old lady you helped across the street.”

  “No, you’re just the little old lady I helped get a job.”

  This made her laugh and, boy, what a laugh it was. For someone as skinny as a twig, her laughter was rich and raspy, and sexy as all hell. But almost as soon as it began, it was over.

  She almost looked guilty as she stared straight ahead. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t laugh so hard at my misadventures in employment.” She crossed her arms over her chest, then she seemed to second-guess this move and settled on clasping her hands behind her back. “I should get going. I just wanted to thank you for helping me get the job at Sunny’s. I guess I’ll see you around.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you will,” I said, grinning as she narrowed her eyes at me.

  As they drove away, I began setting aside some of the stuff they’d just delivered. I had a feeling if I asked her whether or not she wanted it, she would politely refuse. I would just leave some of it on her back porch. And when she inevitably came to my house to thank me or insist I take it back, I would offer to help her with her project.

  I prayed I wasn’t stepping into the middle of a bitter separation. I’d seen her husband driving away from the house last week, but I didn’t have a good view of the porch from where I was standing. I didn’t know if she’d invited him inside or if they kissed goodbye.

  I should probably ask Laurel to clarify her marital situation, but it was none of my business. I’d just have to tread lightly, until I felt comfortable enough to broach the subject. In the meantime, I hoped I didn’t get Laurel or myself into any trouble.

  14

  Jack

  My phone pinged with a new text message. It was from Kent, informing me he’d landed in Tokyo and would call me tomorrow to let me know how the meeting with Akiko went. I leaned back in my desk chair and tried not to resent Laurel for deciding to leave me right as our company was considering opening a Tokyo office.

  If it weren’t for my fear of missing a counseling session, I’d be the one landing in Japan right now. Other than me, Kent was the only other partner who was qualified to negotiate large deals like this. But it didn’t make sense to send Kent.

  He was in his early fifties and didn’t drink. He wasn’t going to make the right impression on Akiko Hattori, the twenty-four-year-old founder of CXV Studios, one of the top five mobile app developers in Japan.

  Japan had the largest market in the world for mobile apps, but their culture was not as Westernized as many believed. The Halo messaging app, and a few of its spin-offs, had only done mildly well there. It was clear we needed to partner with a Japanese developer to cater the products to their market.

  Sending Kent to hobnob with a female tech genius half his age was a mistake I would probably regret.

  I shot back a text thanking Kent for keeping me up to date. As I set the phone down on the glass desktop next to my laptop, a head of pixie-cut brown and lilac hair peeked through the crack in my office door.

  My executive assistant, Jade, pursed her bright-red lips the way she always did when she had bad or annoying news to deliver. “Sorry for the interruption. I just picked up this call on my headset on the way back from the café. It’s Miranda. Do you want me to transfer it?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh and nodded. “Send it through. And bring me a Deschutes, will you?”

  Jade nodded. “I also have some more messages from that guy at The Oregonian. Should I delete them?”

  I clenched my jaw as I thought of all the professional journalists and amateur sleuths who had been calling for the past month, trying to get a statement from me on the two-year anniversary of Junior’s death, fishing for information on the status of the investigation.

  “Delete them all, as usual,” I replied.

  Jade nodded as she touched the button on her headset, sending Miranda’s call through to my desk phone, then she pulled my office door shut.

  I squinted at the ringing silver phone. I really didn’t want to talk to Miranda right now.

  Miranda worked in our San Francisco office. She and our California legal team had been communicating with me via Skype and phone for the past nine months as we worked to establish a charitable arm of Halo Enterprises, the Halo Foundation. She had also not-so-subtly been hinting at how much she wanted to fuck me.

  I didn’t want to talk to her, but now that I had recommitted to spending more time at the office, I couldn’t keep running away from the aspects of this business that made me uncomfortable. Like the constant, unwanted attention from female colleagues.

  “Did you get the bottle of bourbon I sent?” were the first words out of her mouth.

  Something about her deep, Demi Moore voice irked me. It was a disconcerting juxtaposition, like a loud, sparkly dress, torn around the edges. It probably explained how she’d gotten hired by Kent last year, while I was busy following other leads.

  I supposed there wasn’t really anything wrong with Miranda’s voice. Or her large breasts she liked to display with low-cut blouses. Or her black hair that flowed down, almost long enough to touch her plump, Kardashian ass.

  I just didn’t like her.

  I glanced at the $300 bottle of bourbon on my desk. “Yeah, I got it. That was a nice gesture. Thanks.”

  Her laugh sounded like the laugh of a sixty-year-old woman who’d smoked for forty years.

  “Well, I figured you’d probably want something to celebrate with when I tell you that we finally hashed out the business and financial plan and submitted Form 1023 to the IRS last week. We have officially applied for 501(c)3 status. The hard part is over.”

  “Wow. That’s great news,” I replied, making a mental note to share this with Laurel.

  “It’s not great. It’s spectacular! The application is the hardest process and we’ve cleared it. Plus, since we used the lawyer your brother recommended, we’re practically guaranteed tax-exempt status.”

  “Right. It’s really good news. I’ll have to call John and thank him.”

  The uneasy pause that followed was broken with a gasp. “Oh, my God! I totally forgot. I got the invitation to the company Halloween costume party. Is this in addition to the Christmas party or in lieu of?”

  “We probably won’t be doing a Christmas party anymore. Less than half the staff celebrates. We figured a Halloween costume party made more sense.”

  “Will you be going?” she asked eagerly. “I know it’s like eight weeks off, but I want time to plan.”

  My stomach gurgled with unease. “Of course I’m going. The Halloween party was my idea. I’d be setting a bad example if I didn’t attend.”

  She chuckled. “Are you dressing up?”

  “In a costume? I don’t know. I guess that depends if my wife wants to dress up. That’s assuming she can come. She got a new job, and her hours are…” Why the fuck was I talking about Laurel to this bitch? “I should get going. Keep me up to date on that 1023.”

  “Will do, Jack,” she replied, putting a bit too much emphasis on my name.

  I hit the speakerphone button to end the cal
l just as Jade walked in with my bottle of Deschutes beer. I thanked her, then I called Laurel from my cell.

  “Hey, what’s up?” she said, sounding somewhat out of breath.

  “Just thinking about you. What are you doing?”

  “I’m just making the bed.”

  I shook my head as I stood up. “Maybe you should just come home and make my bed.”

  She snorted. “Very tempting offer, but I know you never leave the bed unmade.”

  I wet my lips as I suddenly felt thirsty. “We can mess it up so you can make it again. We can play the sex robot game. I’ll let you program me to do whatever you want.”

  She laughed, but it didn’t sound like real laughter. She was probably keenly aware that I was trying to use sex to get her to come home.

  “We’ve had one counseling session that ended in me fucking you in your truck,” she replied. “We’re supposed to be finding new ways to communicate, but we haven’t even tried any of the communication exercises Bonnie assigned on Friday.”

  “That’s not true,” I corrected her. “I told you that same day how much I appreciated you.”

  “Pfft! I think your words were, ‘Thank God for this pussy,’ as I lowered myself onto your dick.”

  I laughed, though I probably shouldn’t have. “All right, all right. Let the gratitude exercise begin… Thank you for loving me.” I tried not to, but I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, it’s just so fucking ridiculous.”

  “Here’s my gratitude. Thank you, Jack, for not taking this seriously.”

  “Come on, pixie, you know it’s bullshit. We don’t need someone to tell us how to appreciate each other.”

  “No, Jack, it’s not bullshit. It’s marital counseling, and it’s helped millions of couples save their failing marriages. But apparently, ours is not worth saving.”

  “Our marriage is not failing. We lost a child!”

  “I know that! You don’t have to keep reminding me,” she said, and I could already hear her beginning to cry.

  Laurel only wanted to talk about the good times, when Junior was alive. She never wanted to talk about that night. In my opinion, this was her way of pretending that what we saw when we stepped inside that bathroom two years ago wasn’t real. She wanted to pretend that Junior and Beth weren’t brutally murdered. Like they just floated up to heaven on a cloud of fairy dust.