by R. K. Ryals
There’d been a test after his shoe’s question, another short discussion about poetry and a new required reading book, and finally free time. I’d started working on the mirror assignment then, but first I dropped a sheet of paper, the marker in my hand as I knelt to retrieve it.
My shoe bumped against his shoe as I sat upright, a clumsy, blue cookies instead? written on the side.
It was then I found the words to start Mrs. Callahan’s assignment. Every now and then, words just happen. For me, these words were like a recipe, an odd order that may not make sense at first, but completely works together when it’s finished.
Hawthorne Macy
I’m a cook. I like making food because I can take a variety of components and make something old, comfortable, new, or unique out of it. My life is like a recipe. In my mirror, I see the ingredients, my uncle and me. I’m not sure how we work, but we do. Each time I’ve glanced into the glass growing up, I’ve seen him behind me. At first, I was a little girl with terrible hair, my bewildered uncle standing at my back, his flabbergasted eyes on my tangled head. I think that’s how we came to be, Gregor and me. He was left with a terrible muddle of a girl, and he had to figure out how to put her back together.
The bell rang, and I startled, my notebook snapping shut. The classroom emptied, busy feet rushing for the door. Only one pair of shoes other than mine remained.
His shadow loomed over me. “You said something about cookies?”
Standing, I stuffed my things into my messenger bag, my face averted. “Today? You don’t have anything else you have to do?”
Heathcliff rocked back on his heels, his hands finding his blue jean pockets. “One delivery. You wouldn’t want to go with me, would you?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what Heathcliff saw in me, why he felt this need to keep trying so hard. He was taking me out of my comfort zone, and while it bothered me, it also felt oddly exhilarating.
I was quiet too long, and he leaned close. “Come on, ride with me. I’ve got my truck today, and I’ll take you home afterward.”
With a quick, unsure glance at the door, I found myself murmuring, “Okay.”
His shoes rocked forward, his step light as he led me from the room and out of the school, his feet pounding over brown grass and pavement. An old two door Toyota truck sat in the parking lot, the red paint having seen better days.
Heathcliff pulled the squeaking passenger door open, and then patted the roof. “1985, four wheel drive, 22RE motor, and over 200,000 miles on her. She’s not young, but she’s strong.”
My gaze fell to the cracked and faded black leather bench seat within, and I ducked under his arm, my messenger bag hitting the leaf and dust strewn floorboard.
Heathcliff rounded the truck, his fist tapping the hood before he swung open the driver’s side door and climbed in. Reaching for the floor, he grabbed a work jacket, shook it off outside, and offered it to me.
“I’ve got to do a little work on the heat and air,” he admitted. “I kind of like riding with the windows down though. Even in winter.”
My fingers dug into the rough blue jean coat, my arms sliding into the insulated sleeves. It smelled faintly of oil and pine needles.
He started the truck, his arm falling over the back of the seat as he pulled out of the parking lot. “You seemed distracted at the end of class. Finally started writing on the paper?”
A couple of turns, and the road began disappearing under the truck, the yellow lines moving faster and faster. The wind rushed in through the open windows, roaring through my ears and chilling me. It smelled like bark, exhaust, and ice, even though it wasn’t snowing and rarely did in our hometown.
When I didn’t answer, Heathcliff’s voice rose above the wind. “I know why you won’t look at me.”
My head shot up, my gaze on his windshield. There was a crack in the glass, one line that curved upward over the windshield wiper before sinking back into the hood.
“You’re scared I’ll see the pain.” His fingers brushed the jacket I wore, his hand dangling near my shoulder. “You’re not hiding anything, Hawthorne.”
My lips parted, my fingers gripping the open window, the metal cold against my palm. “Why are you trying so hard to get close to me?”
The truck slowed, the wind becoming less desperate, its fingers no longer ripping at my hair.
“You’re genuine,” he said. “I could use genuine.”
We passed a large Vincent Hardware & Quik-Stop sign, and Heathcliff pulled the truck into the parking lot. Vincent’s was one of those one stop kind of places. There were three wooden buildings, all attached in some way, all square and mostly unadorned. The largest was the hardware store, a separate dirt parking lot behind it. The middle building, attached to the first by a breezeway, was a small café, and the smallest was a convenience store with four gas pumps. The smell of wood, gas, and greasy hamburgers infiltrated my nostrils.
Heathcliff’s door creaked. “I’ve just got to grab a few things.”
Leaving the truck idling, he jogged into the hardware store. There were a wide variety of vehicles parked in the lot, most of them newer and older model pickups. A group of rough, oil-stained men stood outside chatting. Kids from school crowded into the café, yells rising over strains of country music.
Curious gazes met me through the window, and my eyes fell to my lap.
The truck’s tailgate came down, voices rising as wood hit the bed. The truck shook.
“This needs to go to the Parkers. If there’s no one around, Kenny said you could just stack it in the old barn,” a deep male voice ordered.
The tailgate slammed shut, and Heathcliff’s door re-opened.
A large figure paused just outside my window, rough, work-chapped hands curling over the edge. “Got company, I see,” a man greeted.
I glanced up, my gaze meeting a kind, lined face that reminded me of my uncle’s. This man was rougher around the edges, broad and tall, a denim work top buttoned over a white T-shirt. His hair was black, a bit of silver touching his sideburns. A name tag was stitched to his shirt, the name Dusty sewed across it.
“Yeah …” Heathcliff hesitated, and I wondered if it was because of me or because I’d met the man’s eyes. The thing was, I wasn’t afraid of looking at people. I was afraid of looking at the ones I might care for. “This is—”
“Clare Macy,” the man muttered. “We don’t see much of you and your uncle in town.” He studied me. “It’s amazing really. You look just like your moth—”
“It’s Hawthorne now, sir,” I said quickly.
The man’s startled gaze met mine, something akin to pity crossing his features. “Hawthorne,” he repeated. Stepping back, he reached into the truck and offered me his hand. “Dustin Vincent. I’m Max’s daddy. Tell your uncle I’d love to see him more.”
Accepting his offered hand, I mumbled, “Yes, sir. I will. Thank you.”
Throwing his son a quick glance, he backed away.
Heathcliff eased the truck out of the lot. “I’ll be home a little after dark, Dad!” he called.
Gravel crunched, the tires spinning out onto the road, the wind rushing once more into the cab. It helped chase away conversation, but I felt Heathcliff’s gaze when he glanced at me. He shifted gears, the afternoon sun glinting across our faces. Outside, fields rolled by, bare and brown but full of idle life, the soil antsy for spring.
We turned onto a dirt strip, dust flying up along the Toyota’s thin, red paint.
“You like speed?” Heathcliff asked.
My head had fallen back, the wind’s cold fingers a welcome relief on my too busy scalp and chaotic thoughts. But while the air felt good, it didn’t mean I liked going fast.
I shook my head, and Heathcliff hit the brakes. “Do you even know how to drive, Hawthorne?”
My hands clutched the leather bench seat, my fingers pushing through the cracked material to the yellow stuffing beneath.
Heathcliff parked. “You’re what … seve
nteen? Eighteen at the oldest?”
“Seventeen,” I volunteered.
He glanced out the window at the pasture next to the road, the ground flat and the grass low. “Want to learn?” he asked.
My stomach lurched. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
He laughed. “Of course it is.” Flinging open the door, he climbed out and rounded the truck before entering the passenger side, his hand falling to my hip, urging me gently to scoot across the bench.
Moving carefully behind the steering wheel, I sat stiffly, my back tense.
Heathcliff slid as close to me as he could get without impeding me. “You know,” he said, “I like driving. It clears my head. The windows down, the wind in my face. The air kind of speaks to you when you do that. It drags away the cobwebs and leaves behind an odd kind of resilience.”
I grimaced. “More like the smell of road kill on the back roads.”
He chuckled. “I was thinking more along the lines of honeysuckle in summer. I thought girls found that kind of stuff romantic.”
My brows arched. “The road kill or the honeysuckle?”
Heathcliff’s hand found mine on the bench, his fingers lifting my fingers. Placing my palm against the shifter, he snorted with amusement. “You’ve got a lot of sass for a quiet girl.” He should have released me then, but he didn’t. “Let’s drive. I’m going to shift with you at first until you get used to the sensation. Once you figure out how to use the clutch and get the feel of the gears, it’s pretty easy from there.”
He went through the steps, walked me through the operation and the feel of the different components, his words carrying me and the pickup into the pasture.
It was one of those days—the sun shining and short brown grass swaying around the old truck—that I couldn’t remember exactly how we ended up racing through the field, our laughter rising through the cab and out the open windows. In truth, I was a terrible driver, and we lurched more like a boat in the middle of a storm rather than sailing smoothly.
“Slow it down a little,” Heathcliff laughed. “You’re doing fine.”
Turning sharp, I literally grinded to a stop. “I’m going to kill your truck,” I gasped, my ribs sore from the laughter. “Don’t you have a delivery?”
His hand tightened around mine on the shifter. “It was worth the stop.” Releasing me, he pushed open the door and trudged through flattened grass to switch places with me. “It was good to see you smile.” Once behind the wheel, he faced me. “Admit it, driving clears the cobwebs.”
My low chuckle filled the cab. “If you like being seasick and all.”
“Look at me,” he pleaded suddenly. “Look at me when you smile like that.” My grin slipped, and his fingers found my chin. He didn’t force my face in his direction but I felt the frustration. “You looked at my father.”
“I don’t know your father.”
He was staring at me, but I gazed past his shoulders at the pasture.
“You don’t want to know him, is that it?” Heathcliff asked finally.
My eyes fell shut, the breeze from outside brushing my cheeks. “I do want to know him. I’m just not looking to keep him.”
Heathcliff’s breath fanned my face, and my eyes tightened. “You want to keep me?” he asked, chuckling. “You do realize that sounds kind of strange.”
I was suddenly imagining a glass figurine version of Heathcliff sitting on my dresser, and my lips twitched.
And then, the smile was gone, stolen by his lips, the sudden pressure causing me to stiffen. It was quick, the kiss. A simple warm press of skin against skin before he was gone, his mouth replaced by wind and the smell of pine and woodsmoke.
He cleared his throat. “Better get this timber to the Parker’s.”
Turning my head, my eyes flew open, my breathing rushed. The urge to touch my mouth was strong.
Grass slapped the truck, the engine revving.
Pulling the pickup back onto the dirt road beyond, Heathcliff asked, “Was that your first kiss?”
My gaze remained on the landscape beyond the window, on the passing trees and scattered houses. The wind beat against my face, but it wasn’t clearing away the cobwebs in my head. I didn’t want them gone. His kiss was my first, the feel of it strange but nice, as if by kissing me he’d exposed something. Like a stubborn jar of pickles, the lid finally wrenched open.
He drove, and I watched him from the corner of my eye, my heart pounding. There was no music in the truck, only wind, but the air was suddenly our dirt road song, the rattle of wood in the back of a short bed pickup the chorus. Everything about me felt funny, like I’d eaten way too many lemons, my stomach on fire from the acid.
His head turned, and my gaze flew forward.
“It was your first, wasn’t it?” he asked.
There was a smile in his voice, and I placed my hand on the dashboard to steady myself as he drove over rough spots in the road.
“Just drive,” I said.
I didn’t have to look to know he was grinning.
Chapter 5
It hadn’t taken long to deliver the wood. With Kenny Parker’s help unloading the timber, Heathcliff had finished twice as fast, shaken Kenny’s hand, and then driven away.
Kenny’s curious gaze followed our disappearing pickup. His wife joined him, her graying hair pulled away from her face. From the side mirror, I watched his arm circle her waist, their heads close. It’d be all over town by nightfall that the Vincent boy was seen with a Macy.
My heart sank. There’s this thing about small towns. Rumors festered here, growing until they became open wounds that never seemed to heal. My parents were gone, but I’d heard the whispers growing up. I was living in the shadow of my parents’ sins. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been the one to leave, I was marked.
“She’ll run off and break Gregor’s old heart,” I’d heard people say. Because, in their minds, the running was in my blood, the antsy need to see the world and never return in my veins. That’s what people did here. They either stayed or they never left.
The pickup turned down the tree-covered lane that led to my uncle’s plantation, its ramshackle appearance not quite so disheveled after Heathcliff’s work.
“I’m bringing the paint I promised this weekend,” Heathcliff said, his hands spinning the steering wheel as he eased into an empty spot next to the shed.
We climbed free of the truck, the ill at ease, after kiss moment gone. It had been so fleeting that it seemed an imaginary moment now rather than a distinct memory.
“Tell me you really have those cookies,” Heathcliff added.
Slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder, I stepped toward the house. “Are you looking for an invite in?”
He trailed after me. “I’m looking for a reason to stay.”
My feet froze, and his shoes paused next to mine, the marker questions still scrolled on the side. I stared down at them. “I have chocolate chip cookies and pralines, and … um, would you want to work on Callahan’s assignment with me?”
“Perfect,” he responded. Leaving me, he headed for the door.
I followed. “Are you sure there’s nothing you’d rather be doing instead?”
“Trying to get rid of me so quickly?” Stopping at the door, he pulled it open and stepped aside.
“No.” I walked past him into the dark foyer. “I’m just finding it hard to believe you want to do homework.”
“I have an idea.” He snapped his fingers. “Grab the cookies and show me your room.”
Heathcliff had the uncanny ability of making everything he said sound like it was perfectly reasonable. Cookies and my bedroom wasn’t remotely close to that, but I found myself marching into the kitchen anyway to grab the covered plate on the counter. My feet were traitors, their love affair with Heathcliff’s shoes making them blind. It was my only excuse.
“I’m upstairs,” I mumbled, the thud of my shoes quieted by the carpeted stairwell.
Heathcliff’s muffled
steps followed.
Musty flooring and moth-eaten curtains assaulted my nose and eyes, the hallway suddenly new to me, seen and smelled the same way I imagined Heathcliff saw and smelled it.
“We aren’t really into decorating here,” I muttered.
I nodded at a door, and Heathcliff breezed past me, his hands removing the plate of cookies from my palms as we entered the room. My bedroom. My sanctuary.
There was silence, and then, “Wow, Hawthorne. No posters or tubes of lipstick anywhere?”
My cheeks heated as my gaze scanned the room. It was barren other than my dresser, my bed, the window seat, and a shelf of books. The only decoration was the gilded mirror propped on the dresser, its current reflection a tall young man and an uneasy young woman with windblown hair and a bulky work jacket.
Removing my messenger bag and the coat, I held the jacket up before tossing it on the end of my bed. “I forgot to leave it in the truck.”
Heathcliff set the plate of cookies down on the dresser and moved past me to the bookshelf. “Don’t worry about it.” His fingers ran along the books’ worn spines. “No TV or anything here?”
The books were in alphabetical order by title rather than author, and his hand wavered over the W’s, over my tattered copy of Wuthering Heights.
“My uncle was never one for television, and I guess he didn’t think I needed it.”
My gaze fell to my feet as he glanced at me. “That’s where it comes from,” he said thoughtfully. “This genuine air of yours. It hasn’t been corroded by things.”
I snorted. “You don’t read much do you? There are tons of sordid, not so innocent stuff in books.”
Heathcliff stepped toward me. “Like what?”
Clearing my throat, I backed away, my hand falling to my bag, to the notebook that lay within. “We’re supposed to be doing homework.”
“Oh!” Heathcliff exclaimed. “That reminds me! My idea!” Leaning close, he took my bag from me, his hands digging through the contents for the composition book and pens within. “Let’s make this more interesting. I’m going to write your paper and you’re going to write mine.”
