by Holly Hall
The rest of the women rise from their seats, and the same ones who admonished me no more than five minutes ago begin to fuss over me in some half-assed attempt at being sincere. I’m hugged and patted goodbye, and one of them even tells me to take care of myself. Like they’re sending me out the door to get slaughtered or something. I halfheartedly return their goodbyes and breathe a long sigh of relief when we step outside.
“Jesus. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to one of those,” I say on the way back to Lynn’s car. I feel like the survivor of some nuclear attack, and I wasn’t even the one they were bashing.
“I know, and I’m sorry I volunteered us, but it was better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. You cleared up the rumors, and they can now say they themselves have met you and can confirm you don’t have three eyes or two heads,” Lynn jokes. I just shake my head in disbelief. “Take what they say with a grain of salt, all right? What happened with the Crosses was our only piece of news for, like, half a decade. It’s the only thing people think they have to talk about, so the facts have gotten a little fucked up over the years.”
I nod, even as red flags pop up left and right. Try as I might, I can’t justify getting caught up in controversy, whether it’s true or not. I can’t allow myself to be swallowed up again. There’s a chance I’d never find my way back out.
After Lynn drops me off, I dart across my yard like a child who’s afraid the monsters under the bed are going to grab her feet if she doesn’t. Dodging shadows, my heartbeat only slows after I’ve locked myself safely behind my front door.
EIGHT
Me: Looks like I won’t have to exploit you for free labor this Saturday after all. I finally broke down and paid someone to finish the job. I appreciate all your help
Dane: Oh, ok. You sure you don’t need anything else?
I don’t want to lead him on, so I don’t answer. And Dane doesn’t write back. Now I have another problem on my hands: actually finding someone to finish the job Dane and I started. I can handle a paintbrush well enough to spruce up the place, but I’m out of my league when it comes to replacing wood that’s meant to support human weight.
So, Saturday morning finds me at the hardware store. I know next to nothing about the population of Heronwood, aside from the plethora of useless shit I’ve learned from the Town Moms, so I don’t know where to start when it comes to finding a handyman. I have a feeling Mr. Kirkwood would have a few suggestions, but that conversation would likely occupy my entire day.
Weaving my way through displays of cable ties, hacksaws, and screws galore, I land at the end of a line of three men coated in either dust or paint—at least I think that’s what it is. I’m not going to be “that girl” that skips the line to ask a question, so I try to get comfortable. While I wait, I pretend to be intrigued by the selection of chainsaws displayed on the wall so nobody thinks I’m bored and decides small-talk would be a better use of our time.
Thoroughly distracted, I jump when I feel a sudden presence looming over me, and I look up, straight into the exotic ocean eyes of the one person I didn’t want to run into today.
Except, he’s different.
“Hey, I can see your face,” I muse, taken aback by his noticeably naked jaw—the one that’s surprisingly solid and statuesque, that looks like it could cut diamonds if put to the test. His skin looks so undeniably smooth that I feel the strong urge to touch it, though that would be wildly inappropriate. I just blew this guy off, for one, and I was semi-afraid of him just two nights ago. The sudden change of emotion is giving me whiplash.
“Yeah, well, I heard my beard was disgusting,” Dane says, glancing at me mischievously out of the corner of his eye.
“Rude,” I say lowly, my cheeks coloring. Can nobody keep their mouth shut here? I avert my gaze so I don’t focus on his full lower lip—the one I couldn’t see beneath all that hair.
Dane follows my gaze to the chainsaw display. “You into power tools?”
“I’m . . . exploring some options,” I say, for lack of a more sensible explanation.
“Mmm. Creepy.”
“Or just handy,” I suggest, willing the men in front of me to go faster. What would make this trip even better is one of the members of the Bob Squad showing up and witnessing my proximity to Dane Cross, criminal extraordinaire, firsthand. I feel a brief sense of panic before remembering their tediously manicured nails—the kind with fluorescent palm trees and sunsets painted on them. I don’t think any of the Bob Squad would touch a pair of gardening shears, much less anything that cuts or drills.
“Do you even know how to start a lawn mower?” He angles his head at me, face taut with amusement.
“You pull the string. Duh.”
Jenson and I had a lawn guy, but I saw him do it a few times. Perks of being a woman—you aren’t usually expected to do things like mow.
He chuckles, and the sound travels straight to my belly, warming me from the inside out. This is a charismatic man who knows he’s attractive, I tell myself. Get your shit together! One of the customers in front of us takes his bag and receipt and walks out the door. Two more to go and I’m home free.
“So, ‘exploring options’ for your next project, handywoman?” He says it casually, but it strikes me then that I’m about to reach the counter and ask for the salesman’s opinion on a handyman. A handyman I was supposed to have already found. A handyman that I lied to Dane, the guy who pummeled someone’s face for saying something he didn’t like, about.
“Yes. Just waiting to ask the cashier about something.”
“Chainsaws?”
“Yes,” I lie. I look over at him and, noticing that his hands are empty, raise my eyebrows. “What are you here for?”
“Painter’s tape,” he says simply.
“Right. Painter’s tape.” I look pointedly at his hands, and he just smiles innocently back at me, eyes sparkling. I want him to know that although our conversation was nice the other night—and okay, it was a little heart-melting how attentive and patient he was with Victor—he can’t fuck with me. I’m not some unsuspecting lamb who will let the big bad wolf chew on her leg before realizing anything is amiss. Graphic, I know, but such is today’s world.
The second man accepts his receipt and leaves, and I’m the next person in line after the guy who’s currently paying.
I look sideways at Dane, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t see my car out front and decide to confront me about the whole porch thing?”
“Nope,” he says definitively, giving me another cordial smile. My insides simmer. That asshole is purposely screwing with me. He knows how this looks.
“My mistake, then.”
“Unless you fall through the floor one day, it’s no business of mine who fixes it.” He shrugs languidly, pursing his lips and beginning to whistle. I look back at the chainsaws and fantasize about smacking him with one.
The next guy is paying, and Dane’s still behind me. I have two choices: cut and run, or persist. I would love to make an excuse and tuck tail, but there’s no way I’m letting Dane scare me out of the hardware store. Sure, he could get offended that I lied to him, and maybe turn into the Incredible Hulk when he gets angry about it, but even after everything the girls said the other night, I can’t see him doing something so irrational. Still doesn’t mean it’s smart to be alone with him for hours on end.
The customer departs, and I step up to the counter, with Dane hot on my heels. The back of my neck prickles. I decide to play it semi-safe and go the vague route.
“Do you have anyone you can recommend for general handyman work? Someone reliable?” I ask the associate behind the counter.
“Well sure,” the man says with a bright smile, reaching beneath the counter for a beat-up old binder containing an index of names. “I’ve got a few I can point you toward, but some are better than others for certain tasks. What exactly do you need a hand with?”
I close my eyes in disappointment, imagining I can feel Dane’s
breath on the back of my neck. Geez, what’s happened to me? One night with the Town Moms and I’ve become this giant pussy? He’s a man, not a fire-breathing dragon.
“Woodwork,” I reply with a smile.
“Then Mike Branson’s your man! He does some work when he’s not busy with his sheriff duties, and he’s always willing to help. You should give him a call.”
I suppress my groan. The sheriff? He could be a nice guy for all I know, but there was something about that I know something you don’t smile that gave me a bad vibe. I want to ask if there’s anyone else, but I know the answer to that. He’s standing right behind me.
“All right. Thank you for your help,” I say before taking off. I don’t even turn my head when I push out the door and stride for my car.
“You could’ve told me, you know,” I hear from behind me, and I clench and unclench my hands. What is it with this town and confrontation?
“Told you what?” I say without stopping, digging my keys out of my purse.
“That you didn’t want my help. Did you think I’d get my feelings hurt or something?”
“I just wanted to be nice, Dane.” I go to step out onto the street just as a car rushes past, and I feel a hand close around my upper arm, jolting me to a stop. When I look down at his hand, he releases it.
“I don’t want to witness roadkill today, all right?” he says harshly, running a hand through his golden hair.
I huff out a sigh, glancing between him and my car that’s waiting just across the street. I shouldn’t have taken the chance coming into town, and I should’ve been honest with him in the first place. I can at least amend one of those things.
“I think it’s best we keep our distance from each other,” I say, wincing inwardly when I realize how similar those words are to Caroline’s de-friending speech. Now Dane looks genuinely confused. This is something he didn’t predict in that perceptive brain of his.
“Why? We hardly know each other.”
“I know enough, Dane,” I say gently. We’re still on the sidewalk leading to the square, so there are a few people milling around, going about their errands. Broadcasting an argument with Dane Cross is the last thing I want. “I ignored most of the talk, but I can’t just dismiss someone’s entire criminal history. I’m sorry, but I just think it’s better for both of us. I can’t get involved with something like that.”
“You mean someone like me,” he says boldly, his features determinedly impassive. Before I can respond, he continues. “You could’ve asked me, you know. You could’ve asked me whatever you wanted to know, and I would’ve told you the truth. It may not be pretty, but I have nothing to hide. But you didn’t ask me anything because you didn’t really want to know me in the first place. You wanted to be free to make your assumptions and move on without anyone else having a say in it.
I’m temporarily stunned, called out by someone who hardly knows me when my husband of four years couldn’t find such succinct words. I can’t even give him a valid excuse because most of that—no, all of that—is true.
“You’re right,” I say feebly. “I didn’t want to get to know you, and now I think it’s better that I don’t.” The words taste bitter and harsh, even to me. He looks down at me unflinchingly, and for the first time since I met him at Henderson’s, his sea-blue eyes turn steely.
“I don’t know why you came to Heronwood—whether you’re looking for something or running from it—but, believe it or not, some of us don’t have much choice if we stay or go. I can’t just shed what’s happened in the past, no matter how much I want to, but I’ve always owned up to it. If I hadn’t made those mistakes, who knows where I’d be now, but this is the life I was given, and I have to live it the best I can. Now if the rest of Heronwood refuses to forget the past, that’s on them. But I didn’t expect it from you.”
Every excuse lined up in my arsenal flees the scene. Instead, I’m speechless. I expected Dane to immediately turn defensive, shoving his mistakes onto anyone else but himself. I did not expect him to shoulder the blame and embrace what I had to say.
But I can’t apologize now—I need to be assertive. And all I can manage is an inadequate, “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Okay,” he says. He is almost expressionless, but I can feel the disappointment coming off him in waves, and when he half-turns away from me to leave, he says, “Later, King.”
It’s only when he’s walked around the corner and out of sight that I realize he called me by my married name. The one he, and everyone else, wasn’t supposed to know.
“Everything okay, Ms. Sutter?” someone drawls from beside me, the voice tugging on my memory. When I drag my eyes from the place where Dane disappeared, I see a white squad car pulled over next to me, with none other than Sheriff Mike Branson sitting inside, his elbow propped in the open window. Speak of the devil. He’s parked facing the wrong way, just a few feet away from me, but I guess anything goes when you’re the sheriff of a town the size of a button.
“Yeah, fine,” I say distractedly.
The sheriff pulls his aviators down his nose and gives me a look I’ve seen from about a thousand TV dads. The one that’s directed over the glasses’ frames and says you’re about to get a stern talking to.
“Was that Dane Cross I saw runnin’ off?”
“I wouldn’t call it running, sir, but yes.”
“Hmm. Knows how to stir up trouble, that one,” Sheriff Mike says in his languid tone. He speaks like he wants you to fill in the blanks with all your indiscretions, which makes me both impatient and irritated.
“I don’t think he’ll be stirring up any trouble. At least, not involving me.” I consider darting through Heronwood’s lazy version of traffic to get to my car and escape. Problem is, I don’t think Mike will easily forget my evasion of his questions, and I don’t want to provoke his suspicion.
“I certainly hope not, Ms. Sutter—you’ve only just arrived. Don’t want you getting mixed up in the wrong crowd.”
What is this, high school? There’s a lot I’ve heard about Dane, but nothing leads me to believe I’m in any immediate danger simply by just existing. I resist the compulsion to roll my eyes, pulling my sunglasses off my shirt collar and sliding them on.
“I’m not a crowd kind of gal, Sheriff. Have a good evening.” I spot my opening, and just like that, I round the hood of his car and trot through a gap between two slow-moving concrete trucks. I feel his eyes on me the entire time I’m fishing my keys from my purse, starting my ignition, and backing out of my parking spot.
Because I don’t want to invite the sheriff to my house to chat about woodworking, I tiptoe across my death-trap porch for the better part of a week as I leave the house for work and not much else. Meanwhile, guilt eats away at me. I didn’t anticipate feeling remorseful about something I said to a man I hardly know, who I feel deserved it.
I get so frustrated with my new friend Guilt that I go outside to pull weeds from the garden on a Thursday evening. Garden is a generous term for the dirt patch on either side of my front steps, bordered by broken bricks, but I choose to see the potential in it. I’ve worked up a good sweat until the crunching of footsteps on grass tells me someone’s approaching. It’s Victor, tossing his baseball in the air and catching it as he walks over.
“Hey, buddy,” I call, wiping my brow. I’m sure I look like something akin to the swamp monster. He should be running in fear right now, not looking at me with a hopeful grin splitting his face in two.
“Hey, Ms. Raven. What are you doing?”
“Pulling weeds.” I gesture to the pile I’ve already created. “I’ve already found, like, ten worms. Gross, right?”
Victor laughs, slapping his ball against his glove. “Not really. Hey, do you know if Dane’s coming back anytime soon? The spring league starts in a few weeks. I should probably practice some more before I sign up.”
Ah yes, here comes the guilt. It returns, galloping, and tackles me full force.
“I don’t know,
Vic. We’re not really friends or anything. He was just helping me out.”
He gives me that laser-eyed look, both scrutinizing and innocent, that only eleven-year-olds can pull off. “Friends help out friends, right? You seemed like you were friends the other day.”
I cock my head, feigning indifference. “Did we? I didn’t think so.”
Victor giggles again, shaking his head and showing off his toothy grin. “It was right in front of your face! You didn’t see? Dane wanted to be your friend.”
“That’s probably because I’m a super nice person,” I respond, and his smile disappears. “No?”
“You are to me. But I’m a kid and you have to be,” he says suspiciously.
“No, it’s because you’re my neighbor. You have to be nice to your neighbors,” I tease.
“Well, Dane treated you like a neighbor, then. He helped you build stuff, and then he helped me with baseball. That has to mean something good.”
Kids and their reasoning. Sheesh. Instead of debating the finer points of neighborly relations, I stand up and brush the dirt off my knees, preparing to do damage control. I’ve basically ruined this kid’s athletic future by chasing off the only willing coach he’s got left. After all, why would he want to spend any extra time at the Santoses when he’d be risking a run-in with their judgmental neighbor?
“Is your mom busy?”
“Not really. Too busy to play baseball, though,” he says a little disappointedly. I wince, then put my hands on his shoulders and turn him in the direction of his house.
“Let’s go have a chat with her, shall we?”
“It’s not going to do any good,” Victor grumbles, but his feet are moving in the right direction, and that’s all I need.
Victor is about to lead me right through the front door, but I stop on the front step. “Why don’t you send your mom outside, okay? I have something to talk to her about.”
