by Jove Belle
“If you’d rather wait until tomorrow, I’ll finish up outside. If you want it done tonight, I’ll leave the yard debris until morning.” Olly nodded toward the door.
“So, either way, you’re not rushing to get out of here?”
“No. I hate leaving things undone. I’d finish both, but I promised George I’d be home in time to fix dinner. He worries when I’m late.”
“George?”
Sam had no idea who George was. What role did he fill in Olly’s life? Why did he worry? And why did Sam care?
“George, the apple farmer.” Olly looked at her expectantly.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“George was the first person I met here in Bitterroot. At the farmers’ market. He sold me apples and refilled my water bottle. And he told me about the job postings on the bulletin board.”
“So, George is the reason we met?”
“Not quite. We met because you have a thing about people sleeping in your lot.”
Sam’s face flushed with heat. “Yeah, I really am sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. You clearly had some damage done to your property. And you were totally fierce, defending it like that.” The slight teasing glint in Olly’s eyes didn’t diminish the compliment.
“Fierce?”
“Yeah, like a straight-up Amazon warrior.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“Maybe. But you definitely scared the crap out of my mom. I had to call her three days in a row because of the way I hung up on her that day.”
“You were talking to your mom? Oh, crap. Now I’m doubly sorry.”
Olly laughed. “My sister says it was good for Linda. She tends to think of us as commodities to be traded rather than people she’s responsible for nurturing.”
“Linda? That’s your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Does she live around here?”
“Upstate New York.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“You have lots of questions.” Olly smiled. “I’m going to start demanding answers from you in exchange.”
“Okay. My mom’s name was Viola. My dad was Archer. They never came to visit me, either, but they did fix me and Beth dinner every once in a while.”
“Where are you from?” Olly asked.
“Ah, you never answered that question.”
“Upstate New York.” Olly gave her that crooked grin that short-circuited Sam’s ability to think.
“Las Vegas.”
The banter between them felt good, trading questions and learning little bits. If the ridiculous smile that was making her face ache was any kind of indication, Sam liked it. A lot.
Chapter Thirteen
Olly studied the loft. She’d worked steadily over the past week—whenever she wasn’t at the Queen with Sam and Beth—to make improvements on the space.
First, she’d checked the roof for leaks. The corrugated metal, which she loved when it rained, was in good shape, as was the shiplap beneath it. When she finished inspecting the roof, she’d found several rolls of attic insulation with an R value of 49, in addition to some rolls of R-21 for the walls, electrical wire, boxes, outlets, light fixtures, and a roll of vapor barrier. All good stuff.
The supplies were stacked neatly in the middle of the barn with a note: Let me know when you are ready to do the plumbing and sheetrock. ~ G
Installing the insulation was by far her least favorite activity, but also necessary. Old barns such as this weren’t built for energy efficiency. In summer, they were hot as hell and equally cold in the winter. The insulation required her to wear long-sleeved shirts and long pants, and still, no matter how careful she was, she always ended up with fiberglass strands all over herself. It itched with a crazy fury.
If things had been left to her, she would have picked out an ecofiber insulation, the kind made of recycled denim. It was dusty as hell to work with, especially if she used a blower, but it was much better for the environment, had greater sound dampening and insulating properties, and didn’t make her want to scratch her skin off. But she didn’t bring it up, because George was being so helpful, and since he’d provided the insulation, she was going to use it.
She was finishing off the last section of the ceiling when George joined her in the loft. Rampart barked from his post at the bottom of the ladder, alerting her too late that someone was coming.
“Looks good.” George inspected the area as if he hadn’t seen it before. “You’re right. It does feel good up here.”
Olly folded open the corner side of the insulation and stapled it in place. Six quick, precise hits with the swing stapler and the roof insulation was finished. She descended the ladder, skipping the last few steps and dropping to the floor of the loft with a gentle thud.
“Yep. It’s coming along. Thanks for the supplies.” She hadn’t talked to him about that yet. Not really. There were a few other things she wanted, but was hesitant to bring it up. When Sam paid her, she’d have enough to buy some supplies on her own.
“What’s this?” George indicated the scramble of electrical wires poking out from one section of the wall, opposite the ladder. She’d strung all the wiring, including all the boxes, prior to starting the insulation. Before the sheetrock, she’d fill in the appropriate outlets, switches, and fixtures.
“Oh, that.” Olly brushed the insulation from her legs and then stripped off her gloves and long sleeved shirt. “I’d like to put a breaker box there.”
“Yeah?” George looked around the room, tracing a pattern in the air with his finger that followed the path of the wiring. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
“Stepdad number three was an electrician. I’m not licensed or anything, but it’ll pass.”
“Anything you can’t do, kid?”
Olly laughed. “I’m sure there is.”
“Well, when you find it, let me know.”
“Will do.” Olly checked her phone for the time. She’d promised Sam she’d be over by nine to start the exterior paint. She could chat with George a little longer.
“What kind of box do you want?”
“Huh?” It took Olly a moment to realize what George was asking. “For the load center? You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll pick it up.”
“Are you sure?” George asked.
“Sure. It seems only fair, what with you letting me stay here and all.” Olly still wasn’t willing to commit to a time frame, but she knew one thing was certain, the busier she was, the more likely she was to stay. When she was idle, her thoughts got away from her until, eventually, she had no choice but to move on. It was inevitable.
George nodded slightly in acknowledgement. “Have you given any thought to heat?”
Olly had given it a lot of thought, actually. She was loath to use wall heaters, as they were inefficient and drew a lot of electricity. Her hope was to make this space as self-contained as possible. She had a couple of ideas, but wasn’t sure how George would feel about them.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“I figured. You’re always thinking about something. What’s on your mind?”
“Do you know what geothermal heating and cooling is?”
George scratched the top of his head. “I remember hearing something about that a few years back, but couldn’t tell you what it means.”
“It’s an old practice that got forgotten somewhere along the line. Basically, it’s a system that draws from the earth to maintain a stable temperature. Requires a lot of digging and pipe.”
“How much digging?”
“Enough that I don’t want to do it with a shovel.” Olly glanced at her phone again. Time for her to get moving.
“I’ve got that Ditch Witch. Is that big enough?”
“That’s the right idea, but it doesn’t go deep enough, unfortunately.”
“I’m sure we can come up with a backhoe if that’s what you need.” George smiled conspiratorially, a
s if he and Olly were plotting a great adventure.
“Sounds good.” Olly patted his shoulder. “I’d like to use a combination of geothermal, a rocket stove mass heater, and a series of ceiling fans, but I’ll have to tell you more about it at dinner. Sam is expecting me soon and I need a quick shower to get the insulation off before I go.”
“Sure thing. Of course. About that, do you plan to add a shower up here?”
She went back and forth on that. She certainly didn’t need a shower when there was already one downstairs, but the next person, assuming George rented the apartment after she left, might appreciate it.
“Maybe. What do you think?” As she talked, she gathered up her things, a towel, change of clothes, wallet, phone, keys, and hat. Rampart was already downstairs and ready to go.
George walked with her toward the ladder. “I think it might be nice. Proper stairs, too.”
Olly laughed. George had been so standoffish when they’d met, now he doted on her like a loving grandfather. It was adorable and surprisingly didn’t feel suffocating at all. That was an odd turn of events.
After they made it down the ladder, George continued on toward the open equipment door, and Olly headed toward the small, functional shower room. Once again, she was struck by how okay she was with the exchange. Everything that Olly put in place in that apartment was one more little root taking hold in this community. Conversations where George alluded to her future didn’t frighten the hell out of her. The feeling, a curious mix of contentment and belonging, settled in her chest in a way that made her feel safe and warm.
While she waited for the water to warm up, Olly sent a quick text message to her sister.
She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.
I think I found it.
Olly didn’t explain what “it” was. Gen would know. They’d certainly talked about it enough. On her sixteenth birthday, Olly had driven away from Linda’s house and Gen stayed behind. Since then, Gen had asked the same question every time they talked. What was Olly looking for? For nine years and more stops than Olly could remember, her answer had always been the same. She would know it when she found it.
It? Seriously?
Seriously.
I decided it was a myth a long time ago. I’m shocked.
Olly laughed. She missed Gen and she almost regretted leaving her behind. It was for the best, though. If she’d stayed, she wouldn’t have been able to almost forget the person Gen became to please their mom. She embraced the con, bent and twisted until she virtually disappeared, leaving behind a grifter Linda could be proud of. In spite of that, Olly remembered the girl who shared her secrets, who protected her, and who encouraged her to reach for what she wanted, even if that was simply to drive for a decade in search of something. That’s who she texted, the sister who was her champion in a world of sliding standards.
Me too. But it’s here and it’s real.
Should I tell Mom?
Don’t you dare.
Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.
A moment later, before Olly could send off her reply, another message from Gen came through.
I’m happy for you.
I am too.
Gen had changed a lot in the past few years. So much so that Olly worried that she was making a mistake by sharing any of this with her. But it felt so good, being in Bitterroot, and who else could she confide in? Who else knew her well enough to get it?
∞
“Are you sure you know how to use this?” Sam asked, the instructions clutched in her hand as though the slight breeze might snatch them away permanently.
“Yep, I’m sure.” Olly continued to set up. She’d caulked the cracks and taped off the trim yesterday. Then, to simplify today’s work, she had asked the man at the paint counter to pre-strain the paint. It was something they did upon request but didn’t advertise. The only thing left was to insert the feed tube into the five gallon bucket, plug in the machine, and pull the trigger.
“But you didn’t read the instructions.”
That wasn’t true. She’d read them over three times the previous day, plus she’d used this exact machine a couple of times before. She didn’t believe in being unprepared to work. Frankly, she would have preferred to spend the day sanding and finishing the floors in Sam’s apartment, but the industrial sander wasn’t available until the weekend. Painting the exterior was a good second choice, assuming Sam let her start soon.
Beth stood off to the side, petting Rampart, cigarette dangling in her other hand. The ash had grown unrealistically long, and Olly was pretty sure she hadn’t taken a drag from it since she’d arrived.
Olly set the spray nozzle on the small impromptu workstation she’d fashioned from two paint buckets and a stack of flattened cardboard. She faced Sam fully and said, “Yes, I did. I know how to use it. I promise.”
“But Beth doesn—”
“I can teach her.”
For some reason, Beth wanted to learn how to use the sprayer. Fifteen-year-old girls, even artists, generally didn’t sign up for menial labor, and Olly wasn’t about to turn it down. Showing her would slow the process a bit, taking time to go over the way it worked, but that was okay. Olly liked Beth. She liked her spirit, and how even though she and Sam were often at odds, she sensed beneath that a fierce loyalty to Sam and a craving for her guidance, which Sam was still trying to figure out how to give her without stepping on her toes. Linda had never been that way, had never asked Olly her opinion or tried to understand her. As far as she was concerned, Olly was a stranger in her life, tied only through genetics and the misguided sense of obligation Linda tried to foist on her.
“Mom,” Beth said with a sigh but also a smile as she stubbed out her cigarette on the heel of her boot and then tossed it into the trash bin. “It’s okay. Go work on the website or something.” She picked up the spray gun and kept her fingers far away from the trigger as Olly had instructed.
“We really do have this. No problem.” Olly pried the instructions from Sam’s grip with a grin. She had developed an easy way of interacting with Sam. She flirted just a little, spoke with candor, and laughed often, things she enjoyed doing anyway. And when that wasn’t enough, she flexed her arms. That always distracted Sam from whatever she’d been focused on. It had taken her a few days to pick up on that, but once she did, she sank her teeth into it. Sam was crazy sexy, glamour and polish, even in her work clothes, but Olly had seen her gaze linger on her arms much longer than necessary and though she was a little uptight to be Olly’s usual type, that was okay. She was beautiful, had spectacular breasts, and she blushed every single time she caught Olly checking her out. It made for a fun work day.
“Um, okay,” Sam stammered. “I’ll be inside.” As predicted, a pretty flush of pink spread over her cheeks. As she stepped inside, Olly wanted to call her back, press her lips to Sam’s, and taste—
Beth slapped her arm. “Stop trying to break my mom.”
“Ouch. Don’t hit. I’m delicate.”
“As if.”
“Besides, your mom’s pretty tough. She’s been through a lot, and she’ll get through a lot more. I admire that.”
Beth stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “What do you mean?”
“It’s pretty ballsy to make a change like this. To try to make a better life for you and her. She bought a place she’d never seen in person, found what she did, and rolled with it. She didn’t give up. That’s the definition of ballsy.”
“You seem pretty ballsy yourself.”
“Maybe. I think your mom might have me beat in some departments, though.” She grinned. “Let’s paint.”
She led Beth to the far corner of the building, the paint hose uncoiling lazily behind them, where she painted in slow, even swipes, letting the color coat the building. The key was to let the paint guide her, and not try to force it to do otherwise.
“You ready to try?” She held the sprayer out to Beth. “Don’t fight the pain
t. It’s like a mutual agreement kind of process.”
“First, I need to ask a favor.” As she spoke, Beth pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and offered it to Olly.
“What’s this?” Olly opened the page to find a well-drawn sketch of the Queen, featuring a large, negative-space metal sign with back lighting on the exterior section of wall in front of the office.
“I designed this, but don’t know anyone around here who does metalwork. I don’t know anyone, really, except you and Rachel. Can you help me find someone? I want to surprise my mom.”
Olly studied the drawing. It showed a fair amount of skill. In contrast to the free-flowing mural she’d painted in their living room, this had been done with careful precision. It showed a level of discipline that Olly hadn’t attributed to Beth. She folded it and tucked it into her own pocket.
“I can ask around. George seems to know everyone.” And if George didn’t have any suggestions, she’d swing past Bitter Ink and ask Ava.
“What is it with you and that apple guy?”
“That apple guy gave me a place to stay after your mom threatened to mace me.” Olly grinned.
“Like she had any choice, what with you lurking around like an up-to-no-good punk.” Beth grinned back.
“Lurking? I was talking on the phone. Right in plain sight. There was no lurking, young lady.”
“Oh, okay. Whatever.”
Olly laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see if I can find someone who works in metal. Speaking of, you’re a decent artist, you know that?”
Beth shrugged. “Yeah, of course.”
“What are you planning to do with it?”
“My art? Probably nothing.” Beth stared in to space, a wistful look on her face. “Artists don’t make shit.”
“Ah, the ever important money.”
“You say it like it doesn’t matter.”
“Look, I’m not going to lie. Money can be a good thing to have. It pays the bills and can take care of some things. But it’s not everything. There are artists out there doing what they love and making enough money to have the kinds of lives they want. Ultimately, it comes down to what you love, what brings you joy. If art is your thing— if that’s what you absolutely have to do and it’s your passion—believe me, you’ll find a way to make it work.”
