Chapter 2
The generator sat on its high-density plastic pad fifteen feet from the tank. I listened to the steady hum. It wasn't as loud as I expected, but it wasn't quiet either. I would certainly know when it was running.
I walked the connections one more time, the way Abner had shown me.
The heavy copper lines ran from the generator's output to a manual transfer switch he'd helped me mount on the cabin's exterior wall, isolating the generator from the grid panel so nothing could backfeed if the county ever restored service.
"Low-quality wire is false economy," Abner had said. "Resistance creates heat. Heat creates fire. Fire creates regret."
The well tank was full. I'd watched the pressure gauge climb that morning while Abner stood beside me with his arms crossed, nodding once when it reached the cutoff point and the pump cycled off.
That meant a long, hot shower tonight. The first in three days. I was looking forward to it with an intensity that would have seemed absurd a month ago.
I checked the propane tank gauge. It was connected properly, the feed line running clean from the main tank to the generator's regulator.
That connection had been the part I couldn't have managed alone. Abner had told me the right fittings, the right sealant tape, the right knowledge of which valves to open in which order.
He'd worked with the quiet efficiency of a man who had built and maintained power systems in places much less forgiving than the Olympic Peninsula. My backyard propane hookup was not a challenge that troubled him.
I stood there in the warm afternoon light, listening to the generator run, and I thought about the revolver Abner had given me, still in its buckskin holster in my nightstand drawer. Part of me wanted to return it, to tell him that his help today was payment enough for the dentist bill.
But I knew how that conversation would go. Abner would take it as condescension, as charity flowing in the wrong direction, as a suggestion that his pistol was somehow inadequate or unwanted.
Abner Flint lived by a code. Debts were paid. Obligations were honored. Trying to give back the revolver would be a rejection of Abner's way of life.
I admired that about him. The clarity of his principles, the consistency of his actions. He had built a life outside the systems that had failed him, and he had done it without compromise or apology.
There was something in that I wanted to cultivate in myself. Not the isolation, necessarily, but the integrity. The willingness to live by my own code rather than bending to whatever pressure came along.
I stood there another minute, then went inside and poured myself a glass of water from the sink. The water was cold and clear and utterly refreshing. It still amazed me that this was water drawn directly from the land beneath my feet. It seemed almost miraculous.
I was drinking a second glass when I heard tires on gravel.
I went outside onto the porch. It was a Subaru entering the clearing, but not Claire's Subaru. The vehicle that came around the bend was an older model. It pulled to a stop beside my truck and the driver's door opened.
Aimee stepped out. It had been weeks since I last saw her. She wore a white blouse and jeans that fit her well. Her brown hair was down. She spotted me coming around the side of the cabin and her face opened into that wide, unguarded smile that had first drawn me to her.
"Thomas Harmon. Living off the grid like a real mountain man."
She crossed the distance between us and kissed me on the mouth, brief and warm, then wrapped her arms around me in a hug that pressed the full length of her against my chest. I remembered this, the way Aimee's body settled against mine, how her curves were soft and warm and inviting.
She stepped back and looked at me, hands on my shoulders.
"You look good. Thinner."
"Working outside will do that."
"It suits you." She released me and peered around the corner of the cabin toward the sound. "Is that the generator?"
"Just got it running today. Come look."
I walked her around back. She studied the setup with genuine curiosity, arms folded, head tilted.
"And this runs everything?"
"The well pump and the cabin circuits. That cord charges the trailer batteries."
"What about heat?"
"Woodstove. I've got the wood, just need to replace some stove piping. The generator's only for water and electricity. Once I get my solar installed, the generator will be my backup during the winter."
She nudged the heavy-gauge cord with the toe of her boot. "Fancy."
"Abner Flint told me what to get. The man doesn't believe in cutting corners on anything involving electricity."
"Smart man." She straightened and looked at the cabin, then at me. "How are you, Thomas? Really."
"Better than I was three days ago. Coffee?"
"I was hoping you'd ask."
I brewed it on the propane stove and brought two mugs out to the porch. Aimee had already settled into a chair, one leg tucked under her, completely at ease. She accepted her mug and blew across the surface.
"So." She took a sip. "The county actually cut your power."
"Three days ago."
"Unbelievable. Except it isn't, because this is Port Chasten and I've lived here my whole life." She shook her head. "Harlan Foster's fingerprints are all over this."
"I think so, but I can't prove that. Not yet."
"You don't have to prove it to know it." She looked out at the clearing. "I heard about it from two different people before lunch the day it happened. Small town telegraph. Everyone knows and nobody's surprised."
"Glad to know I'm the talk of the town."
"You have been since you arrived, stranger. Like I said, small town."
"Small town," I agreed. "So, how's the store?"
"Good. Summer people are back since Memorial Day. Lots of customers. I ordered too much goat cheese again and not enough frozen yogurt." She grinned. "But you're deflecting. I came to check on you, not talk inventory."
"I appreciate that."
"I know you do." She drank her coffee. "How's everything else? Tell me something that isn't about generators and county inspectors."
"Actually, let's talk about you, Aimee. How's your old flame doing?"
Her face changed. Not dramatically, but I'd learned to read Aimee. The smile stayed but softened at its edges, a note of uncertainty there. Aimee was rarely uncertain about anything.
"Danny's good. Danny's really good, actually."
"That's great."
"Yeah, it happened so fast." She turned the mug in her hands. "He came back to town. We had coffee. Then dinner. Then he stayed the night and hasn't really left since."
"Aimee, that's wonderful."
"It is." She said it again, the same words with a different weight. "He's kind. He pays attention. He remembers what I like and does it without being asked. The sex is..." She paused and laughed. "Well, let's just say he's improved considerably since we were last together."
"Good for both of you."
"Here's the thing." She set her mug on the porch rail. "It's going so well that I keep waiting for the part where it stops going well. Like there's a timer I can't see. I don't know if I trust it. I've been burned before."
"Danny is not your ex-husband. Fearing to repeat the past just poisons your present. You can't put that expectation on him. It's not fair to either of you."
Aimee looked at me for a long moment.
"That's annoyingly wise for a man who's been living without running water."
"I had running water since this morning, thank you."
She laughed aloud, a belly laugh that made her whole body shake. I'd always liked that about Aimee. She experienced joy without filtering it.
"I'm happy for you," I said. "Genuinely. You deserve someone good."
"Thank you, Thomas." Her voice was quieter now. "That means something, coming from you."
We sat in comfortable silence. The afternoon light slanted over the porch, catching the steam rising from our mugs.
"I'm proud of you, you know," she said. "Not everyone would do what you're doing. Facing problems like this, most people sell and go back to wherever they came from. But you didn't."
"Not me."
"No, you set up a generator instead. That's a different kind of answer." She picked up her mug again. "My uncle Isaac worked for the county commissioner's office for forty years. Just retired this past January. When I told him what happened to you, he just shook his head."
She mimicked a slow, disgusted headshake.
"Didn't say much. That's how you know it's bad. When a career county man won't defend his own office."
"Did he say anything?"
"He said, 'That's not how it's supposed to work.' And then he changed the subject." She shrugged. "Uncle Isaac doesn't talk much. But the fact that he didn't push back, didn't say you must have done something wrong or there must be a reason? That tells you plenty."
I was about to respond when another engine sounded on the gravel road. Claire's Subaru came around the bend and parked next to Aimee's car.
Claire got out. She was wearing a tank top and jeans, simple clothes that still showed off her curvy figure. She was carrying a grocery bag.
"Aimee."
"Hey, Claire."
A quiet pause. Claire's green eyes moved from Aimee to me and back.
"I didn't know you had company, Thomas. I just brought some bread I baked. And honey from Ellen Maguire. She keeps bees over on Crescent Road."
"Ellen's a great gal," Aimee confirmed to me. "Her honey is liquid happiness."
"Let me get you a chair from inside, Claire," I said.
"Claire can have this chair, I should get going anyway," Aimee said. She stood and stretched, casual as a cat. "I just stopped by to make sure our boy here hadn't reverted to the Stone Age."
"Not quite, it looks like," Claire said.
She climbed the steps and set the grocery sack on the small table between the chairs.
"How's the store?"
"Overstocked on goat cheese, understaffed on Tuesdays, same as always." Aimee smiled. "How's DJ?"
"Growing out of his shoes faster than I can buy them."
"Bring him by. I just got a shipment of those fruit leather things he likes. I'll set some aside."
"That's sweet. Thank you."