by Vivian Wood
I start to shake as I unbuckle my seatbelt and pull my phone out of my pocket. Britta beams at me as she holds Sarah; that’s the picture on my screen as I dial her number with clumsy fingers.
It rings four times. I glance in my rearview mirror on the fifth ring, and see the woman who is bagging things pick up one of the bags.
My heart goes into freefall when I see that she’s holding a cell phone.
No.
No, it can’t be.
I get out of the car, conscious of the fact that the edges of my vision are swimming around, growing unclear. That’s the first sign of a panic attack, but just now that’s the last thing on my mind.
“Sir?” a young woman steps in front of me as I start to charge over.
“The accident,” I say, not even looking at the officer. I’m too focused on looking at the things still on the ground, trying to see if I recognize anything. “Where are the people who were hurt?”
She reaches out to stop me when I try to move closer. “Sir, you need—”
I grab her wrist, my gaze locking with hers, desperate. My heart begins to beat faster, so fast that I think I might faint. My breath comes in short gasps, my vision is hazy, my hands tingle.
I am totally out of control.
“It might be my wife,” I manage. I let go of her wrist, clawing at my open collar. “My daughter. I just need to know—”
I push past her, ignoring the fact that she’s saying, “Sir? Sir!”
I walk determinedly toward Car B, until I see a faded silk rose on the ground, surrounded by a million tiny pieces of glass… and blood.
A whole body’s worth of blood.
I clutch at my heart, my legs locking up. I look to my right, and there’s an older male police officer by Car B. He’s talking into his phone, making observations. He doesn’t even see me, he’s too busy examining the damage to the SUV.
“It’s a shame,” he says, shaking his head. “Drunk driver comes along, kills a woman, nearly kills her baby, and yet he walks away unscathed. A damn shame.”
No.
It can’t be true.
The first officer catches up with me, grabbing my elbow, shouting for some help. I fall to my knees, feeling my knees looking at the silk rose again.
No.
Not Britta.
It isn’t possible.
There must be some mistake.
“Are you okay?” the officer who has my elbow asks.
I look at her, and the blackness threatens to overtake my consciousness. Both of my hands scrabble for purchase over my chest. I try to speak, but I don’t have the breath to do much more than whisper.
“My heart,” I say.
Everything goes black.
Chapter Two
Larkin
Current Day
Why won’t this stuff come off? I fume, trying to scrub harder.
I’m way up on a ladder that is propped up outside my mother’s house. Scratch that — my mom died three years ago, and before that she didn’t really take care of the massive old Victorian house.
That is why I am on this ladder right now, furiously scrubbing at the spiderwebs and other black crud that has gathered along the eaves.
I guess that makes it my house now.
I’ve got on an old long sleeve shirt, my oldest pair of jeans, and I have my long blonde hair tied up in a kerchief. It may be the summer, but it doesn’t get very warm here on the Oregon coast. At best, it will get into the sixties.
So really, cleaning the eaves of the house is a necessary task, but it also allows me to sunbathe a little. I soak up the vitamin D, hoping that it will somehow make me happier. Too bad that it can’t do anything about this black gunk on the side of the house.
At last I manage to chip away a piece, and it comes off.
Ah. I just have to chip and peel it away, I think.
As I work, I have to wonder how Mom let it get this bad. The house is right in the middle of what I think of as Pacific Pines downtown area, a huge open area of grass surrounded by houses and shops. My mom’s house — my house now — is two stories, gray-green and gabled.
At some point in the past, my mom paid to have the house converted into a duplex. Both sides of the house are decorated in bold, lurid designs that harken back to the early 1970s. But that’s my mom for you — Big Ruth, people called her. The elementary school principal, a serial philanderer, and a textbook narcissist if ever there was one. She didn’t do anything halfway, especially not home decor.
I intensify my efforts, and am rewarded when a big strip comes off. The whole point of coming back to Pacific Pines is to sell this house and use the proceeds to move to New York. I’ve been here for six months, working at the library and hanging out with my Aunt Mabel, my mother’s much older sister.
Unfortunately, like all things that had to do with my mother, it’s not a simple matter of putting the house up for sale. I’m going to have to fix the place up first. From the shutters hanging loose, to the paint peeling — inside and out — to the massive pile of rusting junk in the back yard…
This is going to be a massive project. And since I don’t have the money to throw at fixing it, I’m doing all the reasonable stuff that someone who is five feet tall can do. Today is the first time that I’ve ever put any elbow grease into the house, and I’m finding it…
Well, frustrating, if I’m honest.
Actually, that’s not true. I did spend a whole day last week opening up the other side of the house, the one that basically sat empty for years. I was curious what I would find over there, so I opened all the doors and windows, disturbed all the dust bunnies and moths.
To my mild surprise, the other side of the house is decorated as a mirror image of mine. Green cabinets and green paisley wallpaper in the kitchen. A large living area with cobblestone floors, contrasting wildly with the low sitting butter-yellow couch and chairs. All the bathrooms done in objectionable shades of green, pink, and yellow.
I even went upstairs and found the same bedroom furniture, all cedar and teak, the bedspreads the same geometric patterns in browns and yellows. I did the same thing there that I did on my side; I pulled all the linens off the beds and replaced them with fresh new ones, right out of the package. I cleaned all the carpets, vacuumed all the drapes, and basically clean the hell out of every available surface.
Yeah, I will have to replace everything over there or get rid of it sooner or later, but for now it’s clean enough.
“Hey, Miss Lake!” a young boy calls.
I turn my head and shade my eyes against the sun. It’s Sam Rees, a ten year old regular at my library. He’s wearing a little league uniform.
“Hey Sam. How’s it going?” I ask.
“Good,” he says. “I’m gonna go play baseball.”
“Well, that’s awesome!” I say.
He scratches his head. “Yeah… I would rather be in the library, though. Are you going to be there tomorrow?”
“Yep!” I crow. “Bright and early, to get everything ready for you guys.”
Sam grins. “Okay, good. See you then, Miss Lake!”
“Bye, Sam,” I call down, but he’s already taken off in the direction of the town’s baseball field.
I chip the last bit of black crud off that I can reach, and then start to climb down the ladder. As I pass the upstairs window, I’m sort of startled to see my personal zoo assembled there, watching and waiting.
Muffin stares at me intently through her one good eye, her little feline tail twitching. Zack and Morris are my two lab mixes with six legs between them; they both bark and pant excitedly when I tap on the glass. Sadie is my most special dog — she’s a blind and deaf Malamute, and she’s currently got her head cocked, trying to understand why Zack and Morris are excited.
I smile as I descend the ladder. They’re all considered broken in some way, but that makes them all the more precious to me. When I get to the ground, I see a tall, dark-haired man about my age coming toward me. He’s c
arrying a little girl that I judge to be about two. She has darker hair, but there is something about their bone structure that marks them as related.
I glance left and right, making sure that the man intends to talk to me. There isn’t anyone in sight, so I square my shoulders. As the man gets closer, I see that he’s so much taller than I am. There’s at least a foot and a half between the tops of our heads.
Not only that, but he’s a grade-A hunk, I admit to myself. Dark eyebrows sloping over bright green eyes, high cheekbones, broad lips, a day’s worth of scruff. He’s dressed casually, in jeans and a black hoodie, plus military-style black boots. And his body is blush-worthy. He’s muscular and big all over.
Yikes.
“Hi,” I say, keeping my tone light and friendly.
He hitches up the little girl on his hip, stopping in front of me. I examine her briefly; she’s wearing a light gray hoodie and navy leggings, plus a pair of black shoes.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m Charlie Lawson.”
The timbre of his voice is unexpectedly deep and rough. It gives me a chill of excitement down my spine. I feel bad suddenly for whoever’s husband I am clearly lusting after.
Well, not too bad. They do get to sleep with him at night.
“Larkin Lake,” I say, extending my hand. He bounces the little girl, then takes it. When his fingers clasp mine, I feel a little jolt of electricity. He drops my hand quickly.
“This is my daughter, Sarah,” he says. “Say hi, Sarah.”
The little girl laughs, showcasing a dazzling smile. “Hiiiiiiiii.”
I laugh. “Hi, Sarah!”
“We were eating lunch at Dot’s Diner over there,” he says, jerking his head to where the diner is visible on the far side of the grass. “And I asked where I could rent someplace around here. The lady that waited on me said to talk to you, said you have a place.”
I turn around, squinting up at my house. I do have a place, but it’s not exactly public knowledge. That will teach me to think I can air out one side of my house in this town and not have everybody and their sister know it right away.
“I do,” I say slowly. “It’s sort of a throwback, though. Everything was installed in the seventies.”
“Is it clean?” he asks, his brows hunching.
“Well, yes.”
“Yes,” Sarah mimics, looking proud of herself.
He doesn’t react, just bounces her on his hip again.
“Does it have two bedrooms?” he asks.
I bite my lip before replying. “It has three. Do you… do you want to see it?”
He narrows his gaze for a second, maybe trying to decide on my trustworthiness. “Sure.”
I turn and lead them up the steps to the second entrance, built to mirror the first. It’s not as grand as the original, the door plain old solid wood whereas mine is leaded glass. The two entrances are separated by a wall, so that each has its own private half of the porch.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Charlie, who just jogs Sarah on his hip. “I have to get the keys from my place.”
I run down the steps and up to my door. The keys are on a hook just inside, hung above my neatly arranged rows of coats on their hooks and rain boots on the floor.
I grab them and make my way back to Charlie and Sarah. I hold up the keys as evidence that I was successful, but he doesn’t even blink.
“So, uh… are you moving here with your… partner?” I ask as I unlock the door, swinging it open wide.
“Par-nuh,” Sarah repeats. I smile at her.
“That’s right, I said partner,” I coo at her.
I’m pretty sure he’s straight, but you know what they say about assumptions. We move inside, taking in the open layout of the living area.
“No,” Charlie says, in a forbidding tone that doesn’t beg for any follow up questions. “Just me and Sarah.”
“Ah,” I nod, cringing internally.
I’m noticing that Charlie doesn’t feel a need to fill the long pauses between his words with idle chatter. Not like me; I feel more anxious by the second when there is just silence.
With that and the look of his boots, I guess that he’s former military. My dad was in the military, when I was a little girl. He carried himself in a similar way, his eyes always constantly moving.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you moving to Pacific Pines for?” I say.
“I want to be closer to family,” he replies. He jostles Sarah on his hip, his attention moving toward the kitchen.
I follow him as he makes his way through the first floor. “And what do you do for a living?”
He opens up one of the green cabinets, and finds it empty.
“I work for myself,” he says. “Money isn’t an issue.”
My brows rise. “Oh?”
“Down,” Sarah says, tugging on Charlie’s shirt. “Down.”
He glances around, then sets her down. “Do you mind watching her for a second so I can look at the bedrooms?”
I look at Sarah, who walks over to the kitchen cabinets and begins opening and closing one of the lower ones. “Sure, no problem.”
He vanishes toward the rest of the house. I figure he’s capable of finding the stairs on his own. Sarah is not convinced, though.
“Dad’s gone!” she says to me, her expression one of perfect surprise.
Time to distract her. I move over to her and bend down, pointing to the cabinet.
“That’s a cabinet.”
“Cab-nee,” she says.
“Cabinet,” I repeat.
I hear Charlie’s boots on the stairs, and then I hear him walking around.
She looks at me, her expression solemn. “Cab-ney.”
“Mmmhm,” I murmur. Sarah turns and looks around.
“Where?” she squawks. “Dad gone?”
“Hey, did you see this?” I redirect her attention by pulling open a drawer. “Look.”
Her face grows curious. “Wha?”
I close the drawer, then open it again. She comes over and places her tiny hand over mine, pushing it until the drawer closes. Then she looks up at me.
“It work,” she says, serious as death.
“Yes, it does.” I pull the drawer open again, and she watches me with solemn eyes.
I hear Charlie thundering down the stairs, and a few seconds later he reappears in the kitchen.
“Da!” Sarah squeals, throwing her arms up. “Hold!”
Charlie scoops her up. She looks utterly delighted. There is something about the way her tiny fist clutches at his hoodie that makes my throat thick with an emotion I cannot name.
“I like it,” he says to me. “I’d prefer not to be on a lease. I’ll pay more if I have to. Assuming that you’ll have us, that is.”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on letting this place out so soon… so I don’t have a lease yet anyway,” I say with a shrug. “How’s… eight hundred a month sound?”
He doesn’t react, just shrugs back. “Alright. First and last month’s rent as deposit?”
My eyes widen. That’s a lot of money. Then again, he did say that it was no issue. “Sure.”
“Can I move in right now?” he asks.
“Now,” Sarah repeats, then cracks up laughing. It’s hard not to grin.
“Yeah, sure. You have a lot of stuff?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “We probably have less than six bags each, and that’s about it.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“Really,” he says, reaching for his wallet. He skillfully manages to pull a wad of cash from his wallet while Sarah finds the cord of his hoodie and pulls it. He counts it, then hands some of it over. “Here you go. That should be about sixteen hundred.”
He pushes the money into my hands. “Great. Here are the keys. Want me to watch Sarah while you move your bags inside?”
“Nah,” he says. “We’ll be just fine.”
“Alright,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll see you guys around. Bye
, Sarah.”
Sarah says a string of nonsense words, but I take it as goodbye. I walk back around the house to my ladder, scrunching my face at it.
Somehow, it seems a lot less interesting than it did an hour ago. I move the ladder over and climb up it again. If I climb to the very top and get on my tiptoes, I can just see Charlie and Sarah, going back and forth across the green grass, presumably to whatever vehicle he has.
Charlie is basically a giant question mark to me, albeit a handsome one. Still, I can’t say that I’m not glad to have some eye candy…
And Sarah is friggin precious, in the bargain.
I sigh and go back to chipping black gunk off the eaves.
Chapter Three
Charlie
I wake up the next morning to two year old Sarah staring down at me with a frown. I put her to sleep in her Pack N Play, but obviously she’s outgrown that, since she’s climbing on my chest right now.
I just lie there for a second, feeling the sweat from my nightmare making my cotton t-shirt and pajama bottoms cling to my body. The room that we’re in feels weird, and it takes me a second to remember that we’ve never slept here before.
Sarah peers down at me, her dark hair a wild mess. She has her mother’s looks, which make my heart ache every time I look at her.
“Ream?” she asks.
“Dream, yeah,” I sigh, moving her to the side and sitting up. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Sleep!” she chirps.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
Sarah thinks about that, then shakes her head. “No.”
I eye her with skepticism. She started potty training herself about a month ago. I’m always a little weirded out to find out she went to the bathroom by herself.
“I frush,” she says, matter of factly. I interpret that to mean that she did go by herself.
“Alright. Are you hungry?” I ask, moving to my feet.
“Yeah!!” she says, instantly cheerful at the mention of a meal. What can I say, the kid loves food.
“Okay. Let’s pick some clothes out, then,” I say, offering her my hand.
