Love in Smoke

by Holly Hall

  “Morning,” I greet, stepping up to the edge of the porch while he rummages through his backseat. He pops his head around his truck door and gives me a bright smile. Friendly, open, hot. No, not hot. I’ve got to get my mind under control. I think it’s gone wonky from the emotional whirlwind it’s been through.

  “Good morning. I’m just grabbing a few things I thought we’d need.”

  “I assumed we’d have to go to the hardware store. I don’t have any man-supplies laying around.”

  “I thought so.” Dane shuts the door and leans over the truck bed, lifting out two painter’s buckets that are heaped with tools I don’t know the names of. “Luckily, I’ve got plenty of man-supplies.”

  “I see that.” I duck back inside and grab the three bottles of water I have waiting, setting them outside by the steps.

  “Where should we start?”

  Dane drops his buckets on the top step and stands back, hands poised on his hips. He’s wearing jeans with holes that I’m sure he wore in himself and a faded Titans t-shirt. The shirt might have taken one too many trips to the dryer—it’s a little tight around the biceps and chest. Not good for my wandering mind.

  “Well, we could start by checking all these spindles on the railing and replacing the ones that are weak. We’ll knock ‘em out, replace ‘em, then paint ‘em all to match. That right there will brighten up your entire porch.”

  Yes, I think “that right there” will.

  Dane roots through one of the buckets and hands me a hammer. “You shouldn’t need much more than this to loosen them up.”

  I accept the hammer, then go to one end of the porch while Dane starts on the other. I try not to glance over at him too often, but when I do, I see that he’s fully concentrated on the work in front of him. I’m pleased I don’t have to make awkward small talk or dodge his advances for however long this will take.

  The work is strangely calming, uninterrupted except for the taps of the hammers and the bird calls overhead. I’m surprised by how at ease I feel being around someone I hardly know, but his presence serves to anchor my thoughts to this porch instead of all the other places they could go—like my shortcomings and mistakes and failures. It’s a blessed break from what’s become my new normal.

  We’ve each made it through half of our sections when Victor comes sulking over, pushing a prehistoric lawn mower. It’s beaten up and probably on its last leg, but if it cuts grass, I’m not judging. Dane pauses, wiping the sweat from his brow and resting his arms on one knee where he’s kneeling.

  “Hi, Victor,” I greet him warmly, and he gives me a fleeting smile. “You know Dane, right? He’s going to be helping us today.”

  “Hey, buddy,” Dane says, reaching out and bumping knuckles with him.

  Victor goes to fill up the mower using the little gas can he’s brought, looking a little dejected, but his gaze flits over to us curiously as we resume our task. Dane hammers at a post to loosen it and tosses it over onto the pile of scraps we’ve accumulated, but before he moves on to the next post, he pauses and gestures for Victor to come over.

  “Hey, Vic, you’re over ten years old, aren’t you?” Dane asks.

  “Eleven,” Victor answers, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Perfect. I bet you’re strong enough to help us out over here. Mind giving me a hand?”

  Victor shrugs, but I can tell he’s interested. He walks up onto the porch and kneels next to Dane, and as Dane explains what he’s been doing with each spindle, speaking to him as an equal instead of a child, I turn back to the ones in front of me to hide my smile.

  After a quick tutorial, Dane hands over his hammer and gets up to start the mower. He takes off, pushing it in neat lines across the stiff grass of my yard. Victor is so intent on his new job that he doesn’t pay a lick of attention to Dane, or the task he took over.

  Once we finish knocking out the railings, Dane asks Victor to help him load the scrap wood into the back of the truck. They make a game of it, as boys do, while I dump the old, stale soil out of the pots on either side of my front door.

  “You’ve got quite the arm, bud. You been practicing since the last time I was here?”

  Victor shrugs glumly. “No. I tried, but—” He angles his chin toward my house.

  “Ah. The window. Well, I may not be Jamie Santos—I do remember him throwing a mean change-up—but maybe, if Raven doesn’t mind, we can cut this workday short and play some catch.”

  Victor’s eyes brighten, and when they both direct hopeful smiles at me, I throw my hands up in surrender.

  “Fine, but you both owe me another day of hard labor.”

  It’s early evening when the paint on my revamped porch is finally drying, and the sound of a baseball slapping against leather fills the air. The sun will be setting soon, but Dane’s already run through some basic drills with Victor, and now they’re practicing their pitches—parallel to the house so none of my windows are at risk. Thankfully, the town’s glass man doesn’t have a whole lot of business to keep him occupied, so he was able to get to mine earlier this week. I go into the house for another water for Victor and, on second thought, two beers for Dane and myself. It’s the least I can do after the work he’s done today.

  Marissa calls for Victor just as the sun is about to dip below the tree line behind our houses, and he starts to run to her. Right as he draws even with the line of trees separating our yards, his steps falter, and he looks back at Dane, torn. “Are we gonna practice next time you come by, Dane?” he calls, his childlike voice ringing over the yard.

  “We better. You’re already starting to dial in your fastball. Couple more weeks and we can get you on that team.”

  Victor’s smile is wide in answer, and he turns and darts toward his house, where his mother is waiting. He forgot their mower, but it’s not like the thing is going to walk off by itself.

  Dane’s looking down at the grass as he strides toward me, a tired yet satisfied smile on his face. It’s kind of sweet.

  “Here you go, Babe,” I say with a grin, holding the bottle of beer out to him. My smile falls, and I clear my throat. “Like Babe Ruth. And I didn’t know what kind of beer you liked.” What the fuck—why is the only great baseball player I can think of nicknamed Babe?

  He chuckles lightly, accepting the bottle and dropping down onto the porch steps beside me. “Anything cold. Thank you. And I knew what you meant. Either way, it’s an honor,” he says, popping the top and taking a long swig. The knot in his throat bobs when he swallows. I can imagine the way he probably smells—like grass and a hard day’s work. Sweat. Temptation. Shit.

  “I guess we’ll have a few more of these before we’re finished,” I muse. It’s an intimidating thought, withstanding the undercurrent of tension between us two or three times over. Although it’s starting to look better, I know my house could use a lot more work, and Dane seems well equipped for the job.

  “Beers or work days?” he teases, giving me a sidelong glance. “Are you trying to get me drunk, or just taking advantage of the free labor?”

  I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at him. “Very funny. The beer is dependent upon the quality of your work. And you insisted that I take advantage of your free labor. Just reminding you of that.” He is also decent company—not at all intrusive or overbearing—but I don’t need to make that known. I’m not inviting him over just for the hell of it.

  “I’m messing with you. You’re just a hard person to read. Hell, I didn’t even know your name was Raven until you gave me a check with it printed on there.”

  I say nothing. I don’t need to defend myself or explain why I’ve been so cautious.

  “Here, I’ll put my number in your phone. If you want to continue this—fixing up the place, I mean—just give me a shout. Ball’s in your court.”

  I chew on the edge of my lip for a few seconds while I mull it over, before shifting and pulling my phone from my back pocket. He inputs his number and hands it right back to me. My “f
riends” in Nashville would have a field day with this. Less than a week in a new town and I already have a guy’s number. A criminal’s, at that.

  We drink our beers while the crickets sing, enjoying the quiet. Until Dane asks, “What brought you out here, Raven?”

  I scowl. Not at him, but at the piece of ground I’m staring at in place of him. Eye contact with him makes me feel wobbly inside, and the sun falling behind the trees is just casting us further into darkness. I should’ve turned on the lights so this moment wouldn’t seem so daunting.

  “All right. Where did you come from? That’s easy enough. Everyone came from somewhere.”

  “Nashville,” I say with a sigh, taking another swallow of beer. It hits the back of my throat and makes me cough because I took a way larger gulp than I intended. Nashville means more to me than just a place I lived for a while. It’s the city where I built my adult life, and where that life subsequently fell apart. The place where my friends became traitors and forsook me for my ex.

  “I’m sure this place is worse for you than it is for me, then,” he says with a scoff, and I shoot him a glance. “I’ve been here my entire life. Nearly everyone here is someone I’ve known since I was a kid. They’ve all made their opinions of each other long ago, and nobody can escape that box they’ve been put in.”

  I immediately want to tell him he made the decisions that led him to this point in his life, and if he hates his hometown so much, he can leave. It’s scary to make a departure from what’s familiar, but it’s better than being constantly reminded of your mistakes. His expression, on the other hand, makes it seem like there’s more to the story. For the first time since I met him, worry seems to settle into the creases of his forehead and the downturn of his lips. Without that charming grin in place, I can see his stormy thoughts flicker across his expression, like his openness is just his version of a mask.

  Maybe we’re both more alike than I thought. Maybe we both have things we’re not quite ready to say aloud. But I can’t tell him that. I’m not some wounded bird that needs to be taken under his wing.

  “I like Heronwood,” I say with forced indifference, polishing off my beer.

  His gaze searches mine and, finding nothing, he pairs a quick exhalation with a shrug. “Give it some time.”

  “You know you could leave,” I finally say, stating the obvious. “Take a risk. Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

  Something barely discernible flickers across his features. “I wish it was that simple. I have a . . . life here.” He says “life” like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “You should know. It couldn’t have been easy to leave Nashville.”

  Careful, my internal alarms flash. He’s fishing for information. Too bad the fish aren’t biting tonight. “You’d be surprised. It can be simple if you make it that way.” Or if your home suddenly feels like a garment of clothing you’ve outgrown.

  I feel his eyes on the side of my face for a few seconds longer, but I don’t meet them. It’s time for this conversation to end, and it’s time for me to get back inside, alone, where I’m meant to be.

  “Finished?” I hold out my hand for his bottle, and he hands it to me. “Thanks for your help today, by the way.” It’s a declaration that he should leave, without really telling him to. A sleaze ball would lean up against the door frame and ask if we should continue this inside. Someone subtler might ask for another drink.

  Dane surprises me and does neither. He stands up and brushes off his jeans, avoiding my eyes. Maybe I’ve wounded him. It’s better that way.

  “Sure. Just let me know when you want me to take care of this porch.” He gestures toward the uneven slats below us, and I nod. Like he said, he’s placed the ball in my court. It’s a place I want the ball to be but also don’t. I think we both know that me calling him would mean more than just me needing his help to fix this dump.

  “Good night, Dane,” I say, pulling open my porch door and switching on the light so he can find his way to his truck. The yellow glow casts half-moon shadows beneath his eyes, and he turns away and hops off the steps.

  “Good night, Raven.”

  “Oh my God, look at your porch! It looks better. Not awesome, but better,” Lynn says, nodding in approval.

  “I appreciate your honesty,” I tell her with a laugh. We’re going to one of the little bars in town for dinner tonight. Lynn said it’s the best place to go for an artery-clogger, and right now, I couldn’t ask for anything more. I’m on my period this week, and my mood has been swinging like a pendulum between wanting to kill someone and wanting to make a cave in my comforter to hole up in and mope over my failed marriage.

  I drive us over to The Pit—yes, that’s what it’s actually called—and we get long looks from each person planted so firmly in their stools along the bar they might as well be barnacles on a ship.

  “Can we get a booth? Far from the bar?” I ask the hostess. I want to put a healthy distance between us and the “usuals.”

  “Alrighty, right this way,” she says, clicking her overgrown acrylic nails across the menus as she leads us to a booth. There’s stuffing spilling out of a hole in the bench, but I slide across it and say it’s fine when she asks if it works for us.

  “You’ve got to get this. I mean, unless you’re into avocados and lettuce and shit,” Lynn says, reaching across and tapping the Swiss-bacon-mushroom burger featured as a Town Favorite Item.

  “I like my avocados, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never said no to bacon.” We order a couple of beers and bacon-topped grease pits, and our waitress squeaks away on her non-slip shoes to grab our beverages.

  Without missing a beat, Lynn launches into a dramatic retelling of the challenges she’s faced while refinishing a bedroom set for an extremely picky couple in town, and she’s almost all the way through it when she stops suddenly, mid-sentence, and scowls at me. My head withdraws back an inch, and I look from side to side to make sure nobody’s behind me that I haven’t noticed.

  “What?” I ask, seeing no one else around.

  “Your porch—I just thought about it! I’m a wood person, that’s what I do, and yet I didn’t think to offer to help you with your porch. I guess I assumed that was something Bill would’ve done.” Bill is the former owner of the house, who was renting it to the previous tenants—the storied Millers.

  “Bill thought that porch was charming. Also, I was a little over-eager to get out of Nashville, so he probably sensed he had me bagged without the repairs.”

  Lynn rolls her eyes. “You would think, as someone who sells and rents properties to support himself, he would care more. I guess he’s used to the bumpkins around here who don’t care what kind of place it is as long as there’s a roof over top and the floor won’t cave in.”

  “I’m not entirely confident the floor won’t cave in,” I interject. “But I could afford it without Jenson’s money, there’s not any mold or termites—that I know of—and that’s all that matters.”

  “Who helped you with the porch, then?”

  The waitress drops off our drinks, a convenient distraction for all of seven seconds, and Lynn’s scrutinizing eyes return to me. She’s like a bloodhound for lies. I already know she’d call bullshit if I fibbed.

  I take a long swallow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before answering, “Dane.”

  “Hmm,” she says suggestively, nodding and taking a swig from her own bottle. “Nice of him.”

  “Well, the Crosses fixed my car, and when he came by, he basically wouldn’t leave my porch unless I told him he could help fix that too.”

  “He threatened you?” she asks, leaning forward a fraction.

  “No. But he ripped up the check I gave him for the car and told me he wouldn’t take the money unless I let him help with the porch.”

  “Classic Cross manipulation. So when are you seeing him again?”

  “Who says I’m seeing him again?” I shrug nonchalantly.

  She gives me a you can’t be serious face. �
��Your porch does. It’s still screaming for help, although not as loudly as before.”

  “Saturday.”

  After analyzing my text message for entirely too long, I sent Dane something that was straight to the point, with no room for misinterpretation. Then I realized how cold it sounded and debated sending an emoji to lighten the mood, but I resisted. I don’t need to spare his feelings.

  “You’re a sucker.”

  “I’m new here. You can’t blame me for failing to recognize the warning signs of this ‘Cross manipulation’ you speak of.”

  “Oh, I think you recognized them,” she says. “Maybe you just want to play with fire.”

  I’m about to respond to that accusation when her eyes flick up somewhere over my right shoulder, and she groans just loud enough for me to hear.

  “Shanalynn, is that you?” I turn my head in time to see a woman approaching, maneuvering a stroller through the tables, with a curly-headed kid seated in the front. When I glance back toward Lynn, she says, “Rachelle,” in a low voice out of the corner of her mouth.

  Rachelle has the type of hair that’s been bleached to within an inch of its life, all fine and drifting around her head like cotton candy. She’s got one manicured hand gripping the stroller, and the handle of her diaper bag is resting in the crook of her other arm, sported as proudly as a Birkin. I know of women like her. They name their palm-sized dogs things like Princess, or Peaches, or Punkin—yes, Punkin, not even a real word.

  “Long time, no see!” she greets enthusiastically, parking the stroller.

  “Yeah, how’s the uh . . .” Lynn looks around the edge of the stroller, perhaps for a hint as to what the kid’s name is.

  “Bryson. He’s good! Growing like a weed. Anywho, look who it is!” I shoot Lynn a panicked look a fraction of a second before Rachelle directs her gaze at me. “You’re our newcomer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Newcomer. That’s me,” I say, offering my hand. It’s only polite.

  “Raven, right? Word travels fast around here.” She wiggles her eyebrows like she’s just been told something especially juicy, and it makes me uncomfortable. “I’m Rachelle Pickens. Town Mom and part-time Beauty Distributor.”