by Jove Belle
“Thanks.” Sam looked up then. Her eyes widened and her breath hitched.
Olly noticed. Oh, how she noticed. And somehow, she had closed the distance between them until she was close enough to touch. Her fingers itched to move, to gloss over the bare bits of Sam’s skin barely visible through the worn spots in the T-shirt. The slightest motion, just a little tip forward, and she would be able to bury her nose in the crook of Sam’s neck, to inhale her scent and taste the goose bumps that were forming there.
“Olly.” Sam’s voice was breathy and hesitant. There was a compelling invitation mixed in with a weak warning. She tilted her head up slightly, leaving her throat exposed.
Olly stared at her, burning in places that had been coming alive since she’d started work at the motel. And then reality smacked her in the head. She was making a move on Sam. The woman who had hired her to do a few jobs. Who might be involved with Karen. She took a step back.
“Uh.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry,” Olly said, her face flushed with embarrassment and something indefinable. Shit. What the hell was she thinking?
Sam reached for her, but Olly moved away. She needed to regroup, to think about what she was doing.
“I’m, um, going to check on Beth.” Olly fled to the lobby and out into the parking lot, Rampart on her heels, where she filled her lungs, drawing deep and letting the evening air clear the fog in her brain.
Beth stood, hunched against the wall with an unlit cigarette in her hand. “What’s going on?” she asked. She glared at the cigarette for a moment longer and then returned it to the pack.
“Nothing.” Olly’s insides were still shaking. Her reaction to Sam wasn’t completely out of left field. After all, Sam was hot as fuck, and Olly wasn’t blind. Plus, she liked her. But that didn’t explain the intensity of her reaction. Before tonight, she’d teased and flirted, but this was next-level shit and she had no idea where it had come from. Or maybe she did and she wasn’t ready to think about that.
“Nothing?” Beth arched an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like you’re about to hurl?”
Olly wrapped one arm around her belly. Now that Beth mentioned it, her stomach was threatening to send all her insides out. She shrugged weakly. “Something I ate, maybe?”
A car pulled into the lot, and Beth pushed away from the wall. “That’s my ride.”
“Have fun.” Olly walked with her as far as the Scout and stopped.
“Yeah, thanks. Later.”
With a nod, Olly climbed into her vehicle, waited half a moment for Rampart to join her, and then started the engine and drove away, thoughts muddled and heart racing. What the hell had she done? Would Sam even want her to continue working for her? She groaned. Of all the stupid things she could’ve done, this was one of the worst. She thought this was it, that Bitterroot might be a place for her. And she went and did that.
Nothing to be done about it now. And there were other projects waiting for her attention that would distract her. At least for a while.
Chapter Fifteen
Olly parked just outside the barn. Since she’d decided to sleep in the apartment rather than her Scout, she preferred to leave the Scout in the driveway. That kept the place from smelling like a commercial garage. Inside, she found a new stack of building materials. There was stove pipe, fire brick, and several lengths of timber. In other words, exactly what she needed to start on the stairs and the heating system.
“That Sam kept you late tonight,” George said when he entered the barn behind her.
That Sam. Olly had been trying not to think about her, focusing instead on the work she had to do here. “Yeah. We were sanding the floors. Hemlock. Beautiful grain.” She walked the length of one of the long boards she would use to create the runners for the stairs, dragging her finger over the surface as she moved.
“I’m not trying to rush you. I just want this stuff here, on hand when you’re ready for it.”
“Sure.” Olly nodded, focusing on the grain of the wood as variations of stair plans gained purchase in her mind. “What do you see here? One long run? Or a modified spiral?”
There was more than enough length to the floor of the barn to accommodate a long run, and that’s what she envisioned, but would adjust to match George’s plan.
“Up to you. If you want a spiral, I won’t stop you. But a traditional flight seems more practical.”
“Mmm. It does.” Olly grabbed her tape and took some quick measurements. A little bit of math and she was ready to mark where to make the notches in the runner. She jotted a few notes on a piece of scrap paper and reached for her carpenter’s quick square.
“So, did you eat yet?”
“Not really hungry.” She marked off the first step and then stopped abruptly. “Shit. Are you? I can fix something for you now.”
“I already ate. Was going to bring you a plate.”
So far, their dining arrangement had been casual. When she was around, she cooked for George. She enjoyed doing it and he was willing to let her. When she was gone, he took care of his own meal prep. Maybe they should discuss a more formal arrangement to avoid any possible confusion.
“I’m good. Thanks anyway.” Olly went back to marking off steps. She’d definitely have enough time to cut out the first one and perhaps the second.
“I drove past the motel today,” he said. “You’ve made quite the difference.”
Heat flushed Olly’s cheeks. She hoped she hadn’t made a difference right out of the job with her ill-advised, aborted come-on. “You think?”
“I know.”
“Thanks.” Olly finished making the notches, looked at the length of the run, and then went back to her calculations. If she split it at the midpoint, she could include a level rest point that would also make the stairs more stable. It was common to have a landing such as that when a set of stairs changed directions midway, but not so much when it was one direction. Defying convention, she decided to insert the break.
“What are you doing there next?”
“Probably putting down a coat of finish in the living quarters. They’re still living out of boxes until the floor gets done. It’s not ideal.” She grabbed the jigsaw. It wasn’t her preferred tool, but it would get the job done. “Wonder if she’ll let me use something like linseed oil on it.”
“That’d be nice,” George said.
“Yeah.” She stood with the saw in her hand. She itched to keep working, to distract her mind and body from...everything. She leaned against a sawhorse, resting her weight on one hip. A paper in her pocket crinkled and she pulled it out. “Oh, hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you know anyone who does metalwork? Or custom sign-making?”
The hand-drawn design Beth had given her had been riding around in her pocket for the last few days. She unfolded it and showed the picture to George.
“This for that lady? Sam?” George glanced at the paper with a sniff.
“Yeah. Her daughter designed it for her.”
George slipped his reading glasses onto his face and took the paper. “Oh, yes. This is very nice. You could check with the blacksmith. Quinn. Ava knows how to get ahold of her.” He gave the paper back to Olly.
“Is she that hard to reach?”
“She’s—” George paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “Private. Work goes to her through a broker. But Ava is a more direct route.”
“I’m overdue for a trip to Bitter Ink anyway. I’ll stop in to say hi sometime this week.”
“Need any help with those stairs?” George scratched the back of his neck.
“Nah. I’m going to feed Ramp, notch out this one run and then head up to sleep.”
“Okay. I’ll let you get to it, then.” George made his way out of the barn with a slow, measured pace, his shoulders hunched slightly from carrying the burdens of a lifetime.
Olly set to work making her cuts and trying—unsuccessfully—to get thoughts of Sam out of her head.
∞
Olly was six and Gen was
nine. They had climbed so high in the cherry tree that there was no way their mom could get to them. As Linda stood at the base of the trunk, swearing and yelling for them to get down, Olly stared at the sky and laughed and laughed. She loved being up there, so high it felt like she could almost touch the clouds.
Gen watched their mom, a wary expression on her face. She urged Olly down. “It’s time to go inside. Mom’s real upset.”
Olly ducked Gen’s reach and tried to climb higher and higher and higher.
Then, just like that, she was falling down, down, down.
When she landed, her left arm gave a sickening pop-crunch sound, and pain shot like lightning through her body. She didn’t like this, her mom glaring at her, her arm hurting, and Gen calling down that she was stupid. She wanted to go back. Go back to touching the clouds and not hurting.
For a moment, she floated up, drifty and happy, but then her mom snatched up her other arm. She pulled hard, her fingers pinching and digging in until she couldn’t tell which arm hurt the most.
“Hurts,” she tried to say, but the words came out strangled and wrong. She couldn’t make her voice work, and still her mom was squeezing and dragging her toward the house.
Her mom’s voice, screeching and menacing, melded with the tinkling sound of rain that changed again to a bouncy piano tune. Each time her mom opened her mouth, another note came out.
Then the music stopped and her mom faded and the tree loomed large above her.
A moment later, the dream disappeared completely, and Olly sat bolt upright, clutching her left arm and trying to clear her head. The break hadn’t healed right and bugged her sometimes when the weather changed. It didn’t hurt as much as it had when she fell, or for the two days after when her mom had insisted nothing was wrong and she needed to stop faking it. On day three, she’d taken her to the doctor. The X-rays had sent Linda to parenting classes and Olly and Gen to foster care for six months while Linda figured out how to be a good mom.
The piano music sounded again.
She pressed her palms to her temples. The music was definitely coming from outside her head.
Her phone. She fumbled with the few belongings on the makeshift bedside table constructed from a series of stacked wooden milk cartons. It took a moment, but she eventually came up with her cell.
“’lo?” she said, her voice rough with sleep. “Hello,” she said, a bit clearer this time.
“Olly?”
“Yeah.” She rubbed her eyes. What time was it?
“Olly? Can you come get me?”
“Beth?” Just like that, Olly was awake. “Where are you?” She didn’t ask what had happened. The fact that Beth had called meant something was wrong, the details of which could wait until later.
∞
The night was cool and crisp and did absolutely nothing to dispel the tension and anxiety gripping Sam’s chest. After Olly had gone home for the night, Sam had taken a long, hot bath, changed into some comfy jammies, and curled up with a hot chocolate and her Kindle. It’d been so long since she’d had even a moment to read.
Midnight came. No Beth.
Another hour. Still, no Beth.
Sam tried her number; it went to voicemail.
At that point, she gave herself permission to worry. She realized now, in retrospect, that Beth had spent many, many nights away from home, either at a party or out with Denmar. That didn’t make this night any easier. Should she try Olly? She kicked herself. It was late and Olly had left on strange terms. That was another issue that was digging at her, what to do about the moment they had shared earlier that day. So, it felt weird calling her at this hour. She wasn’t family, after all, and Sam barely knew her. What could she do?
Maybe she should call the police. And say what? Her daughter was at a party. No, she didn’t know where. God, what the hell kind of parent was she that she didn’t have these details? In the future, that would be a new rule, too.
At two in the morning, Sam started to pace. She walked the length of her bedroom over and over, and when that was no longer enough, she moved to the living room. She walked from the corner by the rear, sliding glass door, out to the front lobby, where she would stare out into the night, willing headlights to appear. After a few moments, she reversed direction, returned to her starting point to repeat the trip back to the lobby.
A long forty-five minutes later, the headlights she’d been watching for appeared.
Olly’s light blue Scout swung into the lot, pulled to a stop in front of the lobby, and Beth tumbled out. She staggered toward the entrance, her steps clumsy and awkward. Olly walked next to her, a hand out to steady her, but somehow Beth stayed upright. As they approached, Olly’s expression was one of worry and sadness. Beth reached for the door and missed, her hand swishing away uselessly. Sam stared at her, incredulous. Beth tried again and managed to knock her knuckles against the handle. Before she could try a third time, Sam yanked the door open from the inside.
“Beth! For God’s sake, where have you been?”
Beth smiled at her, sloppy and happy. “Out. At the party.”
She moved past Sam and into the apartment. Olly stood just inside the circle of light that the lobby offered.
“Thank you,” Sam said, wanting her to stay but also knowing it wasn’t appropriate to ask.
“Yeah. Talk to you later.” She waved and returned to her vehicle. She pulled out into the night, back into her own life. Sam owed her. And why the hell hadn’t Beth called her?
“It’s nearly three in the morning,” Sam said to her. “I thought we agreed that you’d be home at midnight.” She was dangerously close to losing her temper.
“We did?” Beth turned suddenly. “Whoa.” She gripped the counter. “My brain is sloshy.”
Sam gripped her shoulders. “What. Happened.”
“Huh?” She scrunched up her nose. “Oh, Rachel took me to this party, and I explained that it wasn’t a date, couldn’t be a date, because I have a boyfriend, even if he is a complete dick about this whole pregnancy thing.” Beth flopped down on the floor.
Sam’s brain stuttered to a stop. Pregnancy thing? What the hell? Beth wasn’t old enough to be having sex—not that being too young stopped teens from hooking up—let alone getting pregnant. Why the hell hadn’t they had more conversations about sex?
“And she was bummed, you know? Because she wanted it to be a date. And then we got to the party, and I told the guy that I wasn’t drinking. He said no problem and brought me a non-alcoholic drink. Punch, I think. I drank it, and he laughed and brought me more. I think he might have been lying. And Rachel and I danced, like close slow dances, and it felt really, really nice. So, when she tried to kiss me, I let her. I shouldn’t have, because it wasn’t a date. But I don’t even like Denmar now, and she felt so good.”
Beth’s voice faded to static-filled white noise that crowded everything from her mind except for one word. Pregnancy. Pregnant. Beth was pregnant? The question ran through her head on a loop, pushing everything else out. She couldn’t make sense of anything.
“And I don’t think I’ll go there...” Beth continued as if she hadn’t just thrown Sam’s entire world off its axis.
“Beth,” Sam said, sharper than she intended. “Stop talking.”
“Because he’s an ass, but Rachel is really nice and she smells like raspberries and her hands are soft.”
Sam knelt in front of her and shook her, maybe harder than she intended. “Beth. What pregnancy thing?”
Beth looked at her, her focus sliding to her after her eyes landed on Sam. “Huh?”
“You said pregnancy thing. Who is pregnant?”
“I said that?” Beth closed her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“But you did.” Sam forced herself to breathe through the band of panic that closed around her chest. “Who’s pregnant?”
Beth opened her eyes, and for a moment, the clouded haze cleared from her eyes. “Mom.” She started to cry.
“I’m so drunk. Don’t listen to me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.” Big, sloppy wet tears slid down her face, and she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Sam pulled her into her arms and let her cry until her shoulder grew damp and her sobs gave way to a series of ungraceful hiccups. Beth hugged her and then pulled away. Her face was a wreck, covered in black smears of makeup, snot, and red splotches. She pulled the hem of her own shirt up and wiped away the mess. When she was done, most of the snot was gone, along with some of the makeup.
“Come on, sweetie.” Sam helped Beth to her feet and led her into her bedroom. It was a disaster of moving-in progress—hastily unpacked clothes, unmade bed, and haphazard stacks of boxes along one wall.
Beth fell onto the bed with a grunt. Her eyes drooped, and she moved with a rubbery lack of definition. Sam removed Beth’s shoes and tucked her in. The rest could wait until the morning.
“I’m really sorry, Mom,” Beth said, her voice far away and sleepy.
“It’s okay.” Sam patted Beth’s leg. Any talk they needed to have would wait until morning, when Beth was sober and Sam was rested.
Sam was at the door, ready to turn off the light, when Beth mumbled something.
“What was that, baby?” Sam asked.
“I didn’t mean to get pregnant.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sleep, as it turned out, never came for Sam. Those words—I didn’t mean to get pregnant—rolled through her brain on a constant loop. She stood in the open doorway to Beth’s room long enough to lose track of time. In slumber, her daughter looked so sweet—innocent, even— and Sam just couldn’t reconcile the two.
When she wasn’t staring at Beth, she was on the computer, doing research. She found the nearest abortion clinic, which wasn’t as far away as she expected. Unsurprisingly, she couldn’t find a single one in Idaho, but there was one just over the border in Missoula. It was one of two located in Montana, and she was thankful to be so close to the almost-progressive college town.
