Chapter Four #2
“Ladies, you’d best stand back,” a deep voice echoed from inside the eighteen-wheeler’s cargo hold as his steps thundered along the metal truck bed.
Another man called to us from the forklift as he leaped down. “Stay right there while we calm those fellas down.”
The first guy emerged from the cargo hold and the two men converged, advancing toward the fight like the lead cops in The Mod Squad , except without Peggy Lipton. While I wasn’t at all interested in auditioning for that Peggy role, I couldn’t help but admire the view.
Both were around my age and wore paper mill uniform shirts with reflective vests. Forklift Guy had a head full of loose blond curls and looked like something straight out of a college fraternity. Truck Fellow, with his short Afro, had a long-legged stride that broadcast calm and confidence.
How long had it been since I’d allowed myself to look at a man other than Phillip? The Eloise part of me shouted a warning not to notice anyone who wasn’t my husband. In spite of the whole “free love movement,” married women weren’t supposed to gawk at other men.
The Winnie part of me, however, insisted there was no harm in looking. Only looking. The last thing I needed or wanted was a man in my life. Experience told me the outcome would be worse than mixing bleach and ammonia.
Distance would protect me from the fumes.
Libby and I skirted the eighteen-wheeler, continuing our trek toward the exit gate leading to Main Street, me half dragging her as she cowered at every shout. With my peripheral vision, I kept track of the altercation being broken up by the Mod Squad duo talking everyone down.
Forklift Guy’s voice rode the muggy breeze. “If you two intend to start this up again, you need to wait until you’re off my father’s property.”
The owner of the paper mill had his son working on the loading dock? Surprising. And intriguing. Making me curious to know more about these two guys.
But now Libby was dragging me . Eager to leave work? Or the argument? Either way, she wanted no part of taking in how the two men calmed and dispersed the crowd with just their words. That kind of energy was mesmerizing after so long living a life full of tension and walking on eggshells.
As I reached the gate, a lean brown hand pushed it open for us. Libby clutched my elbow tighter.
I turned to say thanks and found the truck guy working the latch.
“It sticks sometimes,” he said, his deep voice even warmer up close. “You may want to clear out of here quickly in case they resume their disagreement over a lady friend.”
“Thank you.” I read the last name stitched on his shirt. Mr. Davis. Related to Annette? Although Davis was a common surname around here. “That was an impressive job of crowd control, Mr. Davis.”
His smile creased dimples into his cheeks. “Mr. Davis was my daddy and grandpa. Just call me Russell.”
2025
Bailey Rae lined jars of fresh spices along the counter, separating the unopened ones from the others. The sealed containers she could sell. The others would go with her to Myrtle Beach for cooking in the food truck.
The dark walls of the farmhouse-cabin were closing in on her, and she looked forward to the open skies of a seaside home.
Sorting and pricing went slower today without help.
According to Keith, Libby had been even more disoriented than usual since the episode with Gia and her daughter at the market.
He was keeping his mother close to home for a while, with Thea and June’s assistance.
Reaching into a cabinet, she pulled down jars of canned green beans, checking the dates on each. Maybe she should donate some to the local food bank, let it feed those who needed it more, like with the wild pig—
Skeeter bolted to his feet seconds before a knock sounded outside the mudroom, and she scratched the hound behind the ears. He made a fine security system.
His nails clicked along the hardwood floors as he walked beside her through the kitchen and into the living room. Already the space looked sparser without all the clutter, each sale at the market and trip to the dump ridding her of another tie to the town.
Opening the cabin door, Bailey Rae found ...
“Good morning, Officer Perez. Are you here to give me another ticket for harming Mother Nature?”
He didn’t smile. “Not unless you’ve started a personal compost pile in the woods for all the clutter on this porch.”
The implied criticism stung. She’d been up until two in the morning boxing linens to donate and placing them outside to load in the truck later.
“That would be so noticeable, even a satellite could register the pile. But no worries, Officer, they’re all going to charity, not illegal dumping in the forest.” She waved Skeeter outside to stretch his legs, joining Martin on the planked porch.
An old ceiling fan wobbled overhead, barely stirring the muggy morning air. “So what does bring you out this way?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He tugged the brim of his uniform ball-cap. “It’s about Mrs. Abernathy.”
The air rushed from her lungs, from worry and guilt. She hadn’t thought of the woman and her child much at all once Martin texted that they were settled at the shelter.
“Come sit and tell me, please.” She motioned to the two rockers, quickly moving aside a crate of old towels. “What happened?”
Sitting, he swiped off his hat and rested it on his knee. “The police notified me this morning. I’m afraid Ian Abernathy located the shelter and waited outside for his wife. He attacked her”—he lifted a hand quickly—“but she’s alive.”
“And Cricket?” She sank into the rocker, thinking of the way the child had clutched the rag doll. The rush of the river in the distance echoed the roaring in her ears.
“The little girl was inside the shelter with the other children, so thankfully he wasn’t able to get to her,” he said, fidgeting with the cap on his knee. “It appears Abernathy had been staking out the place, and when Gia stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, he made his move.”
More of that guilt twisted her gut, along with a hefty dose of fear. “How bad is it? I know you said she’s alive, but you wouldn’t be here unless it was really bad.”
“Gia’s in the hospital. Broken ribs. Fractured eye socket. Extensive bruising,” he detailed, his voice low and professional. Only the tic in the corner of one eye hinted at a deeper frustration. “There were two witnesses, but Abernathy got away before the police arrived.”
Bile burned her throat. She understood all too well what the kid must be feeling, the confusion of being displaced from everything familiar, even if the familiar had been dangerous.
“Where’s Cricket?”
“For now, Cricket is with the shelter’s childcare. A social worker will be taking over soon, though.”
The relief lasted for only one long exhale. She couldn’t shake the sense this was her fault. Her problem to fix. “I have to do something. She came to me for help, and I just ...”
“And you offered her more than her own family managed.”
At any other time she might have appreciated the praise from someone who’d judged her rule breaking with his ticket book. Not today, though.
“Except what I did wasn’t enough.” She gripped the arms of the rocker. Clearly, Gia had expected Winnie to help. “I know Aunt Winnie would have found a way to do more.”
“It’s in the hands of the authorities now.” He slid his hat from his knee back onto his head.
“That doesn’t mean I can just look away. Wait here.” She bolted to her feet and into the house.
“What are you doing?” He trailed, hovering in the doorway.
“Putting together some things for her to have at the hospital.” She grabbed an oversize canvas tote from a hook by the door, one of Winnie’s bags, then continued on to the kitchen, opening cabinets for snacks.
Granola bars. A jar of nuts. “She needs to know someone cares, even a stranger. Maybe there’s something more I can do after all. I’ll never know if I don’t try.”
Next, she dug through a box marked donate on the sofa, sifting and sorting. Socks. Slippers. A gently used jogging suit. A zipper pouch with hotel toiletries.
“Bailey Rae, hold on.” Martin rested a gentle but firm hand on her arm. “I’m sure the hospital’s counseling staff will connect Gia with services for her and her daughter once she’s released—”
“Yet look where she is now.” Standing, she hitched the stuffed bag onto her shoulder and met him nose to nose.
The woman’s words about the pain of loving the wrong man haunted her.
“I know they did their best and this isn’t the shelter’s fault.
But something different has to be done or who knows what will happen next? ”
Would Winnie be disappointed in her for not doing more at the outset?
“Inserting yourself into a domestic-violence situation can be dangerous.” He planted his feet as if blocking the doorway would make a difference.
“I’m well aware.” She wasn’t backing down. This was too personal.
Their standoff lasted for at least a half dozen heartbeats. Long enough for her to catch a whiff of his earthy scent. She tightened her grip on the bag. Skeeter nosed open the screened door, which closed after him with a slam that broke the spell.
“Fine. But I’m driving you,” Martin said, sighing in exasperation. “While you finish with whatever you’re packing, I’ll get the air conditioner running in the truck.”