“What?”
Exactly.
Clay’s brows knitted. “Look, it’s easy. See—”
“Easy as pie?”
He gave her a pointed look that said, Don’t interrupt. “See the dot on the front sight? That’s the pumpkin. The rear sight notch is the fencepost.”
She lowered the gun. “Why a pumpkin? Why not an apple or a tomato or a cookie or a pancake? Or a bird. Now that’s something that might actually be on a fence. I don’t think a pumpkin could balance—”
“That’s not the point.” He dropped a hand to his hip. “And I think you’re stalling.”
“I think your pumpkin saying needs work.”
“Not mine. Can’t take the credit.”
“Be grateful for that.”
He shook his head. “It’s a well-known expression.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Should we debate it all afternoon, or are you gonna shoot?”
Debating was more fun than shooting. “I can’t take it seriously.”
“You don’t need to. Just remember it.”
“It’s too silly to forget.”
“Good.” He raised her arms back up, clearly wanting to return to business. His finger touched her trigger finger, annihilating all thoughts of pumpkins and fenceposts.
“And don’t close both eyes when you fire. Keep your right one open. And try not to flinch this time. Ready?”
“I think so.”
“Be sure.”
She fought to cancel Clay’s presence and hold the gun still while aiming, nestling the front sight between the notches of the rear sight.
“Okay, I’m sure.”
“Then fire.”
She squeezed the trigger while remaining braced for the recoil.
Crack.
Bull’s eye.
“All right!” Clay shouted.
Her face stretched into a smile.
“A couple dozen more practice shots like that, and you’ll be set. In fact . . .” He grinned. “I think you’re ready to try the zombie target.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes as he lifted the large paper which featured a grotesque, contorted, flesh-dripping face.
Several mutilated paper zombies later, Clay unfastened the latest one from the wooden frame. “Now that, Annie Oakley, is a target to be proud of.” He held it out to her.
“Ah, no thanks.” She rubbed her aching wrists.
As he rolled the target up, she eyed, for the hundredth time, the cloth strips wrapped around the base of his knuckles. “So what’s the deal with those bandages? Did you get those in the hospital, after, you know, Lance?” She knew he’d had them before that, but she was curious as to what his answer would be.
“No.” He tucked the target under his left arm. “You ready?”
She nodded and began walking. Once they’d both removed their eye and ear protection, she tried again. “So if your knuckles aren’t hurt, why do you wear the bandages?”
He stared straight ahead. “I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not important.” He picked up his pace.
“Then why can’t you tell me?”
“I don’t want to.”
She blew a strand of hair from her eyes. The more he avoided the subject, the more she wanted to root out the truth. “Can you at least tell me when you’re going to take them off?”
“Sure. Never.”
“Seriously? That’s . . . really strange.”
“There’s worse things than strange.” He gave a humorless smile. “Now can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
He stopped to face her. “Who answered your phone when I called yesterday?”
“Oh, that was Ben. He’s—”
“I remember. Why’d he answer your phone?”
“I was with him. I mean, I wasn’t right with him—I’d stepped away—but he would’ve taken a message. He’s my—” she caught herself at the word boyfriend—“my fiancé.”
“Really?” His lips pulled into something of a smile. His face looked much better these days now that the swelling had gone down. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.” He resumed tramping up the hill. “I always knew you’d end up with someone like him.”
“Someone like him?” Breathing heavily, she caught up to his side. “What do you mean? And you hardly even knew him. I’m surprised you remember him.”
“He seemed like a decent guy. He treats you well?”
“Yes, yes he does.” Her heart warmed with a poignant sadness. “He always has.” He always will.
Clay appeared about to ask another question, then didn’t.
So she did. “Why were you calling, anyway?” Her voice dropped. “It was because of what I told Brook, wasn’t it?”
He nodded.
“So Brook,” she said, to change the subject. “What about her? How’d you meet?” She wanted to hear his guy version of it, wondering if it would be as sensitive and sweet as Brook’s story.
He squinted ahead at the shooting range office. “We met in a grocery store.”
She waited. “That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“You’re not a good storyteller.”
“And my mouth doesn’t get me into trouble.”
“Really?” She couldn’t help herself. “How about that broken jaw?”
“Yeah, how ’bout it.” Not taking the bait, he marched ahead to the parking lot.
In her car, he crammed the creepy photos under the passenger seat with a couple scuffs of his boots. He drummed his fingers against the side of the door. “So how’s Max these days?”
She turned onto the road and gave a noncommittal shrug.
He shot her a sideways glance. He knew how close she and Max had been. “He still in California, doing magic shows?”
“Yep.”
“You been out to visit him?”
“No.” Under her breath she added, “Someday.”
“You could use the change.”
She huffed. He sounded too much like Max.
“There’s lots to do there. Great beaches.”
“You still trying to get rid of me?” she half joked, yet felt hurt.
Clay faced his window.
She turned on the radio. After a few uncomfortable strains of a country song, she lowered the volume.
“I was hoping to get to the beach this summer,” she admitted. She rotated her neck and her tension drained as she imagined relaxing on the sand, soaking up sun, listening to waves.
“Then go.” Clay returned to tapping his fingers obnoxiously. “Don’t wait on anyone to make it happen.”
She tried to entertain the thought. “I just don’t know how great it would be to go alone.”
“So go with Ben.”
“We really need to save for the wedding though, and for a house.” She didn’t like the thought of being forced to live with Ben’s family. Facing the blame in their eyes every day . . . Her grip on the wheel tightened.
Clay’s boot nudged the manila envelope on the floor. “You should take the pictures to the police, you know.”
I’d rather ignore them. She kept her eyes on the road.
“You going to?”
“Fine.” She’d do it the next time she visited Ben. She knew the drill by now. They’d take her statement, ask questions, maybe check the pictures for prints, and hold them on file. Nothing that would change anything. Every fiber of her tension returned.
“A reminder.”
“Huh?” She glanced at Clay, baffled by his abrupt, random statement.
He didn’t return the look but kept his gaze out the window. “The article in my wallet. I keep it as a reminder.”
Like Lance had said? Seemed rather ridiculous. The sentencing wasn’t something Clay would forget. “A reminder?”
“To never be that man again.”
“That man . . .” She let her voice trail off, still not understanding.
“A c
oward.”
She stared at the road. “Clay. That was over four years ago—”
“Four years, four decades. Doesn’t change the fact that I held that camera. Me, and no one else.”
“I forgave you. You more than made up for it.”
“You’ve still got the scar.”
She pressed her palm tight to the steering wheel. “I don’t care.”
“Well I do.”
“Throw it away.”
“What?”
She tossed her hair. “If you still have the article, throw it away. It’s nothing but garbage.”
* * *
A few days later, Clay made his way over to Charlene’s work space. His nearness made her fingers still on the sandpaper. She looked up. “What?”
He cocked his head. “Feel like helping me load and deliver an order?”
“Really?” Why wasn’t he asking Sam? Not that she minded. She’d welcome any change of pace from her typical workday. She dropped the sandpaper. “Sure.”
“Sam’s in the middle of drawing up a plan.” Clay jutted his chin in his direction. Sure enough, Sam sat hunched over his workbench, scratching paper with pencil. “You never want to mess with him when he’s tackling math.”
“Good to know.”
Clay moved to a group of large blanket-wrapped wood pieces. He gripped one end and she took the other. His muscles flexed. “Ready?”
She nodded and they lifted the bundled wood together. He moved backwards out the door to his open truck bed, where they set the load down and returned for more. None of the pieces were terribly heavy, just awkward and big.
She adjusted her hold carefully and tried not to think about how he might react if she dropped and damaged anything. With the last piece safely strapped in the truck bed, she asked, “So what is this creation, anyway?”
“A bunk bed.” He opened her door. “Need a hand?”
“I got it.” She hoisted herself up and enjoyed the high view from the front seat. She detected a faint hint of Brook’s perfume. As Clay pulled out, her gaze roved the truck’s interior. Not bad, but the dash could use dusting. A couple empty water bottles sat in the console. “So what’s Sam’s story?”
Clay glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“You know, what do you know about him? Besides the fact that math makes him cranky.”
Clay gave a short chuckle and merged into traffic. “I know that he learned carpentry as a kid, from his dad. He did odd jobs for a while, then joined the army in his twenties and traveled after that. Lived out West for a while. Spent time backpacking, hiking, fishing, hunting. Sounds like a great life to me.”
“He never got married?”
Clay braked at a red light and draped his wrist over the steering wheel. “Don’t think so.” The corner of his lip twitched. “Why? You lookin’ to set him up?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “No.”
Green light. The truck surged forward and she braced a hand against the seat. “So how long has Sam lived here in Creekside?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ten years? Something like that.”
“You like working for him?”
“Yeah, I do.” He angled her a look. “You?”
She straightened her shoulders. “It’s hard work. I don’t mind it, but I’m not planning on making a career of it.”
His eyes returned to the road. “What did you do back in Woodfield?”
“I worked in a library.” A smile touched her lips as she remembered the circle of kids eagerly awaiting storytimes.
A few minutes later, Clay parked in the driveway of a tall blue frame house, and she realized they were going to have to carry the bunk bed up a flight of stairs. The door was flung open by a woman with a plump baby boy perched on her hip and two identical little boys hopping excitedly near her legs. “Where’s our bunk bed? Where’s our bunk bed?” the twins cried.
“Oh for the energy of a four-year-old,” their mom said.
Clay grinned. “We’ve gotta haul it in piece-by-piece and then set it up.” He looked at the boys. “You guys wanna show us where it goes?”
The boy in a blue shirt squinted up at Clay. “Your mouth’s funny, mister.”
“Kevin!” His mom frowned.
His red-shirted brother added, “It is, Mommy!”
Clay’s smile widened and he crouched to the boys’ level. “You’re right, buddy, it is funny. ’Cause it’s full of metal right now. Kinda like a robot, huh?”
“Neat!” Kevin cried.
“I want a robot mouth!” his brother yelled.
Their mom tried to thrust a few strands of hair back into her messy bun and failed. “Show the nice man where your room is, and he’ll set up your new bed.”
With a whoop, the boys took off, scampering up the stairs to a small toy-laden room. The freshly vacuumed spot on the far wall was obviously the intended location. Charlene and Clay hauled the pieces in several trips, then Clay brought in his toolbox to find the boys armed and ready with their own black and orange plastic tools.
Their mom hovered in the doorway. “Stay back, Kevin and Tommy. Give the carpenters room to work.”
“They’re fine,” Clay assured the woman, and Charlene sensed he was enjoying the boys’ eager attention and awe as he bolted the frames together. She was simply amused at being referred to as a carpenter.
Kevin pressed the button of his toy drill and Tommy wielded a plastic hack saw. “Think this saw could cut through a dinosaur bone?”
“Good question.” Clay looked thoughtful as she helped him maneuver the top bunk frame onto the lower one. The boys continued to ask a stream of questions that blew her mind, but Clay tried to answer every one. She wondered if she and Max had been this high-strung at four. The woman paced with the baby in the hall, who was fussing and flailing his fists.
“I gotta go potty.” Kevin dropped his drill and raced from the room. A door slammed. Not long after, he called, “Mommm, I need more toilet paper!”
Struggling with the energetic baby, the woman eyed Charlene and her empty arms.
“Here, I’ll hold him,” she offered.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the woman deposited the hefty boy into her arms and disappeared into the bathroom. Kevin’s voice carried through the door. “It fell in.”
His mom said, “No, don’t—”
Flush!
There was a loud giggle and then Kevin yelled, “Hey Tommy, come look, it’s a waterfall!” Over the gushing noise, Charlene was sure she heard their mom groan.
Tommy hurtled into the bathroom. “I wanna see!”
The baby grabbed for Charlene’s curls and squealed in delight.
Clay gathered his tools into his toolbox while she disentangled chubby hands from her hair. “You’re just too cute,” she muttered into the child’s impish face. But she realized when she was a mom someday, she’d have to tie her hair back. Extremely well. And what are my chances of having twins?
The boys came flying out of the bathroom, hollering excitedly when they saw the finished bunk bed. They scaled the ladder like a pair of monkeys. Their mom emerged and admired the completed bed. “Thanks so much.” Then her desperate eyes glanced back into the bathroom. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about plumbing, would you?”
“Let me take a look.” Clay rolled up his sleeves and moved through the hall to the bathroom.
As the boys started to follow him into the cramped and wet room, Charlene spied a pile of books in the corner of the bedroom. “Hey you guys, want to hear a story?” She settled on the floor and started reading about dinosaurs, successfully luring the boys to her side. The baby even focused on the colorful pictures and forgot her hair.
Two stories later, Clay emerged with a plastic action figure in hand. “Found this hero taking a swim.”
“Yay!” Kevin jumped up, grabbed the toy, and started swooping him through the air.
“Thanks so much. Both of you,” said the boys’ mom. She showed Charlene and Cl
ay to the door with a laugh. “Come back any time.”
“Bye!” the boys chorused. One of them added, just before the door closed, “You’re a real neat robot, mister!”
“Whew.” In the truck, Charlene sagged into her seat, buckled, and pushed the hair back from her face, enjoying the peaceful hum of the motor. “That was . . . quite a call.”
“You never know what you’re gonna get.” Clay eased onto the road and smiled. “Thanks for your help. You did a great job.”
“Huh.” She shifted in her seat. “You weren’t bad either, mister robot.”
* * *
On Sunday, the woman eased away from the curb and followed the girl out of town, observing from a distance and soaking up what she needed to know.
So the girl came back to Woodfield every week to go to church and pretend she was perfect, while the floozy had two men dangling on the side.
Her man wasn’t enough? She really was a piece of work. The audacity. The self-entitlement.
The woman’s fingers grappled the steering wheel. Her nails dug at the faux leather, picking, picking. How would the girl like it if someone interfered with one of her men, hmm?
She just might have to find out.
Chapter Twenty-One
Spring days slid into summer, and intense sunshine crinkled the grass into prickly, tawny blades.
Inside the woodshop on the first of July, Charlene felt like she was working in a sweatshop. Lack of circulation caused pent up air to hang heavy and smothering, but it didn’t seem to bother Sam or Clay at all. While their foreheads and biceps shone with sweat, they worked on, focused, driven, and never complaining.
Unlike her.
“I can’t take this wretched heat,” she moaned to the cabinet she was sanding. Damp curls tickled her forehead and neck. She could barely breathe the stifling air. Missing her old job, she dreamed of the cool library. “I can’t take another day of this.”
“If you can’t take the heat, Charlene, take the day off!” Sam barked.
His hard manner didn’t faze her anymore, but she could take a hint. She dropped her sandpaper, gave a quick wave, and was out the door. Better to chill in her air-conditioned apartment and read a book than to roast in that shop.
She was surprised to find Brook lying droopily on the sofa, one hand hanging over the edge. “Hey, Charlene,” she said listlessly.
After the Thaw Page 20
