Haven

by J D Worth

  “Are you sure that was four years ago?”

  “I swear that truck swung in here four summers ago. Violet spent all summer cleaning the garage before she entered high school.”

  “That was the same summer my mother spent in Haven.”

  “Sure was. Everything’s connected if you look close enough.”

  Flecks of mica sprinkle down upon us as silence settles over the garage like a heavy snowfall.

  Mace rubs a thumb across his nails, inspecting them. “Don’t have your shoes if that’s what you’re after,” he says with what sounds like disappointment deep in his voice.

  “I hope they made their way to Violet. I wanted her to have them as a gesture of gratitude.”

  After a long silent beat, his hardened eyes meet mine. “You sure ’bout those glass slippers, Princess? They’re mighty valuable.”

  “You can drop the princess business. I’m no Cinderella.”

  “You lost your shoes running away from a fancy ball, and you got yourself a wicked stepmomma. She’s the real deal.” He shrugs, working the grease out of his nail beds. “And your grandmomma is a real witch.”

  “You’re right about that.” I sigh. “Lilith is back in New York. Georgina’s on her honeymoon, so I get a break. I’d rather not think about either one.”

  “You had plenty to say the other night.”

  “I was upset and shouldn’t have shared as much. It would be in both our best interests if you never repeat anything I said. The Asters protect their privacy with an iron fist. You won’t like what happens if they catch you spreading rumors.”

  His eyes remain on his hands, not meeting mine. “Sounds like I hit a sore spot, Princess.”

  “I am not a princess.”

  “But you are.” He stares me down.

  My mouth stretches thin, much like my patience. He just won’t give this up.

  “Why even pretend you’re not sweet and innocent? Look up.” He lifts his hands up. Swirls of twinkling dust trail his motions. “Glitter follows you ’round where ever you go. Look at your skin.” The heat of the afternoon has produced a fine sheen over my body. With the added mica, my exposed skin shimmers under the fluorescent lights. He laughs when I rub both forearms. The sunblock makes it impossible to scrub the mica off. I can’t help but smile.

  “Happy? You win the glitter war. Look, Violet will appreciate those ‘glass slippers’ more than I will. My goodness, I have at least five pairs from the same designer sitting in my closet!”

  A laugh rumbles deep in his chest. He’s right. I do sound like a damn princess.

  “I admit that sounds bad. But I’m not spoiled! I’m hoping she’ll sell the shoes and use the money for college. She sewed my torn dress like a pro. She has real talent.” I glance around the bare-bones of the old garage. “Can I have my car back now?”

  Mace plants his large hand on the hood. “You telling me this is your car, Princess?”

  “Obviously, this is my fancy sparkling princess carriage covered in your fairy dust.”

  “And you don’t believe in fairy tales.”

  “What does that have to do with my car?” I scrunch up my face.

  “I’m just saying, making your way to Doc’s, you might be Snow White.” Mace pushes off my car.

  “You believe in the proverbial happy ever after?”

  “I never used to, but I’m making my own.” He tosses the oily rag on a nearby workbench. “Cal knew this was your car when he called me earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he dropped you off?” Mace asks, glancing to where Cal’s truck is long gone. “Unbelievable.”

  “He also wanted me to give you hell, so here goes. My evil stepmother informed me that my carriage awaits here. I gather you work here by that wrench in your hand, so can you tell me what’s wrong?” Crossing my fingers in a wishful way, I plead, “Please don’t tell me my carriage is turning into a pumpkin.” He stifles a laugh.

  Mace points to the license plate. “Yeah, what’s wrong is that your ride is a rare model Benz from New York.”

  I tap the plate with my foot. “You don’t like my car because it has New York plates?”

  The corner of his mouth lifts. “Thought the Benz had Pretty Boy’s name all over it. Like a pretentious graduation gift or some ridiculous shit. Drove his own car down so he could brag ’bout making the trip in seven hours instead of nine. It’s a common thing for Yankees who party down here on spring break.”

  “Let me get this straight. First you stole my Jack, and then you jacked my car?” Mace smiles as though he can’t believe his luck. “Did you lift the keys or hot wire my car for fun?”

  “Needed a ride. Wasn’t ’bout to lift a local’s car.”

  Cal was right. I’m ready to fine-tune my hollering skills. “You did steal my car because of the plates! I can’t believe this.” Then it hits me. “Oh, shit. You just happened to use my car to set Chaz up at the bar.”

  “Pretty much.” Mace knocks his knuckles against the hood. “What are you doing with this car anyway?”

  “I’m certainly not on spring break. According to my GPS, the trip took me a full nine hours and twenty-eight minutes.”

  Mace clenches his jaw tight as a silence falls between us. I take a deep breath and regain my calm.

  “The drive was better than taking one of the private—” I stop myself before making the ludicrous statement about the private jets—as in multiple—that my family owns. A frown tugs at my mouth as I shuffle my feet against the oil-stained cement. I keep failing to prove that I am not a princess. I try again: “Ah, my life in New York is different.” Clearing my throat, I shift under his locked gaze. “I try to hold onto what little freedom I can.” I steady my hand against the cool metal of the Benz, searching for solid ground.

  “Why not a new Benz? I saw the reception. Your family can afford the two-hundred-thousand-plus price tag of a brand new model. Your wicked stepmomma’s dress cost that much.”

  “How do you know how much her dress cost?”

  His voice grates low, saying, “I asked. She was more than happy to share.”

  Mace knows wedding details that I don’t. I’m more out of the loop than I thought. “This car was my mother’s.” Adverting his eye contact, I trail my fingers over the body.

  I catch him eyeing my black yoga pants and long-sleeved shirt that cover the bruises. He zeroes in on my ankle before marking off all of the places Chaz hurt me. His probing gaze stalls on my fat lip. It takes all of one second for the confidence I’ve built up around him to shatter. My vulnerability is fresh. All I can do is roll my upper lip over my swelling lower one. I’m weak and injured while exposing myself, once again, as a fraud. Not the image a mighty Aster should project. He seems to sense this and looks away.

  “Is there actually anything wrong with my car?”

  “Did your daddy have your car checked out before the long drive down?” he asks, looking relieved by the change of subject.

  I frown, unsure. “I don’t know. William doubled down on his business, prepping for the time he’s off on his honeymoon.”

  “William? You call your daddy by his first name?”

  “Yes. That’s fairly common in my world.”

  He squints at me. “That’s all sorts of fucked up.”

  “There’s a certain level of formality to which we adhere. Because we’re accustomed to doing things in ways you find unusual does not mean they are wrong.”

  “I beg to differ. When your father has you call him ‘Daddy’ or even ‘Dad’ that means you hold a significant place in his life. That lets people know you got that special bond, which you proudly broadcast.”

  I cross my arms, asking, “As a grown man, you still call your father ‘Daddy’?”

  “Sure do. I bet you didn’t call your momma by her first name.” He pulls a small wrench from his pocket and pitches the tool off to the side, rattling a nearby tool chest of drawers. I s
hift away from him and turn towards my car. I drag my foot along a crack in the cement as he nears me from behind. “I want clarity here. You drove a car all the way down here that hasn’t been checked for some time?”

  The look upon his face intensifies as he sidesteps in front of me. My father asked me to park my car in a private garage near our apartment. Not the garage where he maintains his fleet of vehicles cared for meticulously by his drivers. I’m so used to my father’s dismissive behavior that it no longer fazes me. “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “I can tell you take care of those ’round you. But who takes care of you?” He reaches over to my chin, angling my face towards the overhead light, checking out my lip.

  A deep breath helps me push back the tears that threaten to break my composure.

  “Let’s take your car for a ride and make sure the engine is running good. Especially now I know you gotta drive back to the city. I went over everything. Tightened a loose belt and changed the awl.”

  “I don’t know anything about vehicles. What is the awl?”

  Mace laughs and swipes at his mouth. “O-i-l. Oil.”

  “Oh.” I pitch my head back in embarrassment. “I feel so silly asking that. That’s the strongest accented word I’ve heard here.”

  “No big thing when you’re hearing correctly.” He smirks at me and makes his way into the driver’s seat. “So far your car’s good, but only the road can tell us for sure.”

  Sliding into the passenger side, my face flushes as I swipe empty Twinkie wrappers off the seat. Mace is going to think I’m a slob on top of everything.

  He makes a call while folding into the driver seat. “Where you at, Hal? I’m ’bout to pass your ass going seventy in the Benz from Saturday night. Don’t pull me over, you bastard, ’cause I’m not lifting it. Not this time.” Mace laughs a low rumble. “Later.” Flooring the car down Main Street, Mace passes the small downtown of Haven and flies along the vacant main road.

  “How did my car wind up at the garage the other night?”

  “Hal’s the sheriff in these parts, and he dropped the Benz off early Sunday morning after sitting at Sonny’s bar all night. My garage doubles as the impound lot. It’s an easy way to make a little extra cash. Hal must’ve let the resort know.”

  “My car was impounded by the sheriff?”

  “Yeah,” Mace says, not going into any further detail.

  Studying him, I can’t place his age. He seems more mature than Chaz is at twenty-six, but that isn’t saying much. “How old are you?” I question without thinking, snapping my mouth shut as soon as the words pass my lips. I must learn to filter my thoughts before saying anything aloud.

  “Young enough to cause a shit load of trouble, yet old enough to know better.” Mace’s eyes squint on the main road as we speed through Hearth. The question seems painful for him to answer. “Smile,” he says, changing the subject, “we’re gonna pass Hal now.” We blow by a sheriff’s cruiser as the man inside points a radar gun at us.

  Mace receives a call on his cell as he pulls off the coastal peninsula onto a back wooded country road. “Really, I only hit eighty-three mph? I’ll try harder next time. Listen, the Benz wasn’t Pretty Boy’s, and the owner doesn’t wanna press charges. Just glad the car is in one piece. I won’t bill you this time, you lucky bastard. Later.” Mace ends the call, chuckling at my open-mouth reaction. Perhaps I am being too hard on myself when casual conversations seem to be the norm here. “Good folks,” Mace says. “Hal is Sonny’s boy, and Sonny’s the mayor of Bell Peninsula.”

  “The mayor owns the local bar?”

  “It makes sense to us. The local bar is like the town hall,” Mace replies with a coy smile. I pull out Twinkies from the center console. He passes on my offered treat. I go ahead and enjoy the snack in two huge bites. He chuckles. “You hungry? It’s just past one.”

  “Starving. I was so excited to see my cottage this morning that I skipped breakfast. Then I remembered I didn’t have my key and had to wait for Cal. He dropped me off at your garage before I could grab a bite.” I shield my mouth with my hand, afraid I’m being impolite by devouring the tasty cake in front of him. “Twinkies are an exceptional example of junk food. I can’t even pronounce most of the ingredients. Have you tried one before? I found these at a little store that sells gas, oddly enough.”

  “You mean a convenience store?”

  “Is that what they’re called?” I ponder this for a few beats. “That’s a clever name and explains the ridiculous markup of their ‘convenient goods’ available for the time-compressed customer base. I was at the grocery store earlier and purchased a whole box of ten, equating to half the price of each individual wrapped treat.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had Twinkies before, Princess. You can get ’em anywhere.” The corner of his mouth soars upward as he points to the wrappers on the floor. “You decided to rob a convenience store of their stock on the way down?”

  “Twinkies and convenience stores are new to me.”

  Mace pulls over and kills the engine. He leans his body towards mine, resting his hand on the passenger seat near my head. His green eyes search mine, trying to figure me out. “Princess, you pulling my chain? Getting back at me for the fairy tale thing? I gotta say you’re a decent troll or actress. Everyone’s had a damn Twinkie, and everyone shops at convenience stores. Where else do you go to gas up your car?”

  My eyes widen. Fueling the vehicles is another thing the staff does. “Ah, no! I’m being honest here. I had my first Twinkie on the way down. They’re reverse cupcakes in handy little wrappers. Of course, I’m going to overindulge.” My cheeks flare under his inquisitive gaze. “I was never allowed junk food before.”

  “Another high society thing?” He rips open a wrapper, offering me the spongy cake. “I get it. Twinkies are your Belgium chocolates. Go ahead and enjoy. I promise to keep my thieving fingers off your score,” Mace says, almost cracking another smile.

  I don’t really want to talk about Chaz, but I have to ask, “Speaking of Sonny’s bar, what happened to Chaz the other night? He never returned to the resort.”

  Mace revs the engine and speeds down the long country road. “Pretty Boy’s in jail. Thought I had his car and was waiting for him to come back ’round. He’s gotta go in front of Judge Parsons before he can be bonded out. Just so happens, Parsons is on a fishing trip. Pretty Boy’s gotta sit it out. His sorry Yankee ass ain’t a high priority in these parts.”

  “And if he were a local?” I ask, grasping the true scope of the quirky area.

  “You’re quick, aren’t you? He’d probably be drinking beer alongside Parsons on his fishing boat and laughing over the drunken brawl at Sonny’s he caused. Sonny’s bar gets torn up at least once a month.”

  “I notice that you’re not treating me like a Northerner, even though I am. Why?”

  “Yankee.” Mace locks eyes while correcting me. “’Cause your Granddaddy Jonathan was a decent man who helped lots of folks ’round these parts, including the entire peninsula that Haven’s a small part of. Your Wakefield family spent more time here than in the city. That meant your kin were decent folk, not like most Damn Yankees.”

  “Damn Yankees?” My eyebrows shoot upwards. Mace laughs a low rumble at me.

  “Damn Yankees are the ones who relocate here for good. Your grandmomma helped establish the peninsula library in Harbor Bay. Before her, the only library in town was at the elementary school. The Wakefields spent time with the folks down here. They took the time to get to know ’em and give back to the community. Your Uncle Johnny was a local baseball legend back in the day, breaking all sorts of records.”

  “You’re familiar with the Wakefield family?”

  “Yeah, I helped Cal on the Wakefield cottage when Miss Charlotte was here.”

  “Did you seek me out?”

  “Heard the wedding was happening. I talked with a few coworkers, knew you hadn’t arrived, and I was gonna stay till you did.
I had to meet Charlotte’s girl and so did Cal. You look exactly like your momma. Shocked the hell outta me when we crossed paths.”

  “Why didn’t you introduce yourself? I would’ve loved to hear how you worked alongside my mother.”

  “More fun my way. I got to see the real you without any pretenses.”

  “Yet, you call me a princess. How’s that for pretenses?”

  Mace laughs. “I don’t call you a princess. I call you the Princess. You’re the only one. Wear the honor proudly,” he drawls, throwing weight behind each word with the rich timbre of his voice. I sink my fingers into the leather seat, trying to stop the throbbing between my legs. I turn my head away. The lush greens of the passing landscape doesn’t match his eyes and neither do the tall pale grasses.