Chapter 5 – Rhett
My morning started out like every other Wednesday in Whitewood Creek, the small town where I was born, raised, and have spent all twenty-nine years of my life.
It’s the kind of place where everyone knows your name and your business.
Not much happens here, good or bad. It’s quiet, steady, and built on generations of families tied to agriculture and the crown jewel of the year: the North Carolina State Fair that we host.
I awoke, brewed a pot of strong coffee, and headed into my office in the town square, ready to tackle another day of running my own business and handling the city’s seemingly endless plumbing issues.
My office, a cozy one-story building sandwiched between the hardware store and the old barber shop, feels like a second home by now.
Florence, my administrative assistant and the backbone of this operation, was already at her desk near the front window, her usual cup of sweet tea in hand as she sorted through paperwork.
She’d greeted me with a cheerful “Good morning, boss,” and I returned it with a smile before diving into the day’s work.
One by one, the rest of my small team of employees filtered into the shop—five guys, all reliable as hell, who’ve stuck with me through the highs and lows of acquiring and rebuilding this company from scratch.
They grabbed their assignments from Florence, checked the equipment in the row of white utility vans parked out front, and headed out to tackle the day’s jobs across the city.
Meanwhile, I hung back in my office, wading through the mountain of tasks that come with running a business.
There were invoices to file, paychecks to process, and most importantly, a new contract that would bring in significant revenue and provide an opportunity to expand, to review.
Meadowbrook, the city directly adjacent to Whitewood Creek, reached out last week, expressing interest in having me take over the plumbing work for their government buildings too.
This is a big deal. My first real chance to expand since buying Whitewood Creek Plumbing, and I’m not about to let it slip through my fingers. Still, I feel a little green, which is why I want my half-brother, Lawson Marshall, to look over the contract before I sign.
It’s been a few years since I bought the company, and while it hasn’t always been smooth, I’ve managed to turn a steady profit—especially these last two years after the State Fair got a full revamp thanks to my friend Cash’s wife, Rae, who also happens to be the mayor of Whitewood Creek and the woman who chose me to manage all sanitary needs for the big event.
I’ve got plans for this business. Big ones. And landing the Meadowbrook contract feels like the next step in making those dreams a reality.
By the time I finish sifting through the paperwork and double-checking paystubs, the morning has completely disappeared, and my stomach is loudly reminding me that I haven’t eaten yet.
I grab my keys, ready to step out for a late lunch, when Florence stops me by her desk.
“Hold up, boss!” she says, waving a piece of paper in the air like it’s on fire. “I just got a call for a clog over on Whispering Pines Lane. Someone’s dog dropped a toy down the toilet and the plumbing claw she purchased couldn’t reach it.”
I take the sheet of paper from her hands and look it over.
Whispering Pines Lane cuts straight through the middle of my mother’s trailer park, splitting it into two uneven halves.
It’s the kind of road you don’t forget, even if you’d like to.
I know it better than most—every crack in the asphalt, every sagging power line, the smell of the lake that bumps up against the back of it, and I also remember every plumbing issue that’s plagued the place for as long as I can remember.
This corner of town has a reputation, and not a good one.
Illegal gambling, drug deals that no one’s subtle about, and setting off fireworks at all hours until the cops show up.
Whispering Pines is the kind of place where you can hear a dirt bike revving at midnight or someone shouting so loudly you can hear every word, yet no one steps in to do anything about it.
It’s practically a rite of passage for the residents here to celebrate every holiday noisily, even the made-up ones that they create to find an excuse to drink and get high. Not like they need one.
The trailers themselves are older than I am, their best days long gone. And the plumbing is a constant nightmare, a ticking time bomb of rusty pipes and clogs that would make a grown man cry. And I’m that grown man that has to deal with them.
I’ve been called out there more times than I can count over the years. Clogged drains, leaky faucets, overflowing toilets—take your pick, it’s happened. It’s a miracle the whole system hasn’t completely collapsed under the strain and washed straight into the lake.
Sure, I’ve made it a priority to fix things where I can and often for free.
My crew and I have been replacing the old, worn pipes there, piece by piece, whenever something gives out and we’re close to having half the community on the newer materials.
But it’s been a slow process, five years of patchwork progress, but we’re getting there.
In the meantime, accidents like this keep happening and slowing us down. A toy down the toilet might not be a big deal in a well-built house, but here it can mean tearing up the line and rebuilding plumbing for two surrounding trailers too.
“Got any of my guys available?” I ask as Florence types away on her computer to see where each of my fleet are currently working. “Lark could take it, but it’d be an hour until he's free. The girl sounded desperate; She said she needed it fixed before her mom got off work or she’ll get a lecture.”
I sigh because this is just part of the job. Lunch will have to wait. “What’s the address? I can swing by there on my way out.”
“315 Whispering Pines Lane.”
“315?” I ask, thinking it isn’t possible that I could have heard her correctly.
She bobs her short grey head of hair back and forth. “Yes, that’s what the caller said.”
My heart races and heat creeps up the back of my neck. “And what was the caller’s name?"
“Ah, let's see,” she flips through her notes, still taken on paper instead of the nice, automated system that I set up on her computer when I first hired her. “Jael.”
Jael.
Now I know I’ve heard her right. Twenty-nine years on God’s green earth and I’ve never met another Jael.
It’s the kind of name that sticks with you—the same way that the woman who owns it always has.
Jael isn’t the type of person you forget.
Not then, and certainly not now though I might have liked to at one time years ago.
I grab my tool bag from the floor of my office and sling it over my shoulder as I head for the door. “I’ll take care of it, Florence. Don’t file anything on this one. We’ll cover it.”
She tilts her head, curious, but thankfully doesn’t push.
Florence knows I’m close to paying off the loan I took out when I bought this business five years ago, so covering the cost of a job isn’t something I do lightly.
What she doesn’t know, because she hasn’t been in Whitewood Creek long enough, is who Jael is or why I don’t want that name showing up anywhere on the books.
This town, though? It remembers everything. And if you’ve ever met Jael, you remember her too. Worse, I remember more than just her name, I remember the day she left town and took my fucking heart with her.
And I haven’t seen it since.
The summer heat is unforgiving as I drive the short stretch to 315 Whispering Pines Lane. Even with the AC cranked and the windows down in my truck, sweat trickles under my shirt, soaking the back of my work jeans.
To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s the heat causing my heart to race, or the memories creeping in from the last time I spoke to Jael that are running through my mind as I pull up to the familiar court.
Her parent’s old trailer sits just a stone’s throw from my mom’s place—the one I grew up in and still visit often when I can for Sunday night dinner. The driveway looks mostly the same, except now there’s a beat-up black SUV with chipping paint parked out front that I know is not Meredith’s.
I kill the engine, grab my tools, and lace up my work boots before stepping onto the gravel driveway.
The crunch of rocks underfoot sounds exactly like it did when we were kids, sneaking between trailers and dodging whatever trouble Whispering Pines Lane had brewing that day.
Occasionally, our other park rat friends, Molly and Maverick Patrick, would join Jael and I on our escapades down to the lake or the creek that our town is named after, but usually, it was just Jael and I, hidden under the cover of the night like a blanket.
At the screen door I knock once and wait, but there’s no response.
The humidity hangs heavy in the air, the faint buzz of cicadas and the loud air conditioner unit in the kitchen window is the only sound out here.
I knock again but when there’s still no response, I push the door open, poking my head inside.
The kitchen is empty, save for a stack of unopened soup cans on the countertop and a few boxes of half-eaten cereal next to the sink. The whole place smells just like an old memory. One that’s filled with the girl I’m not ready to face.
“Meredith?” I call out but don’t get a response. I draw in a deep breath, preparing myself before saying her name. “Jael? You in here?”
Still nothing, but that’s when I hear it—the soft hum of music coming from the back of the trailer home.
It’s faint, but familiar. A little too familiar.
The type of pop music that Jael used to listen to when we’d be down by the water shooting the shit on a hot summer day.
She’d be telling me some crazy story about how she was going to meet the guys in this boy band and marry them, and I’d be rolling my eyes, working on my truck and pretending like I wasn’t listening.
But I was. I always listened when Jael spoke.
I make my way down the narrow hallway, the sound growing clearer with each step. By the time I reach the door at the end, I can practically recite the lyrics. The Backstreet Boys, of course.
The door is slightly ajar, so I ease it open just enough to see her sitting at her old pink-and-white, cheap, wooden desk, flipping through one of our old yearbooks.
There’s a purple CD player—one I’d bet she’s had since high school—sitting beside her, sending out soft music that’s filling the room.
She’s humming along, completely lost in the moment and entirely unaware of me standing there watching her.
She’s wearing a white tank top that dips low enough to reveal more than it hides. Her sun-kissed skin glistens with sweat, a sheen that catches the light just enough to have me remembering how soft she feels in my arms.
Her brown hair is pulled into one of those messy half-up, half-down things, with loose strands framing her face and falling onto her shoulders. Her hand rests lightly on her neck, her fingers brushing the delicate line of her collarbone, while the other traces a photo in the yearbook.
I lean in, trying to catch a glimpse of who she’s staring at, but my boot catches on the carpet and makes a sound. The thud isn’t loud, but it’s enough to alert her to the fact that she’s no longer alone.
“What the hell, Rhett!” Jael bolts upright, clutching the yearbook to her chest like it’s some kind of shield.
Her wide eyes meet mine and when they do, it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the tiny, hot room.
It’s been years since I’ve seen Jael last, but the look on her face takes me straight back to the eighteen-year-old girl who broke my heart and left it for ruin before leaving our small town and me behind like we never meant anything to her.