Chapter 5
Eva
Lionel helped me get the electricity turned on at Pierce Acres this morning, which was nice of him, considering I’m pretty sure he’s approximately one hundred and fifty years old.
He also gave me instructions for turning the water on, but when I trudge into the woods looking for the valve on the pump he mentioned, I find a chunk of metal so rusted I can’t budge it a single millimeter.
I stand in the whispering trees, hands on my hips, staring at the stupid valve like it might magically un-stick itself through sheer force of will.
If I were in Pittsburgh, Esther would have a crowbar handy, and if that didn’t help, she’d call her hunky husband to take care of this. But I’m not in Pittsburgh, and the only hunk I’ve seen around here is the one with the broken ankle.
I had no idea lumberjacks were my type until I spent some time with his hairy attitude yesterday and this morning, and wow.
He revs my engine. I’d love to call him and ask him to use those big muscles to crank my valve.
I take a minute to imagine it: him with his sleeves rolled up, corded forearms flexing as he pulls on that metal like the Brawny paper towel guy.
Yes, please.
But Asher can barely get down his own stairs, much less wander into the woods on his crutches.
I snicker, imagining him crouching in the dirt as he frowns at my rusty pipes. It’s been a hot minute since anyone was near my pipes.
I bet Asher has a sturdy crowbar somewhere—a real one and a euphemism one. What I need is actual assistance, so I tell myself to stop thinking dirty thoughts about the neighbor.
But I did promise to check in, and I’m ready for lunch. I trace a now-familiar path through the trees to his front porch, knocking before letting myself in. I don’t want him to have to get up.
“It’s me!” I call out.
“In here.” His voice comes from the office. I love that he’s accepted I’m just someone who walks into his house. Makes me feel like I’m around my family. Except a lot of my thoughts about Asher are not familial.
I find him exactly where he ought to be, slumped in a fancy ergonomic chair with his booted foot propped on a cardboard box. He’s staring at monitors but doesn’t seem to be doing anything.
“How’s the work going?”
“It’s not.”
“Pain?”
“Among other things.” He rubs his face. “What’s up?”
I lean against the doorframe. “I have a plumbing situation. Well, not plumbing exactly. A valve situation. It’s stuck, and I can’t turn it, and I need to get the water running.”
Asher nods slowly, processing. “You need the Feed n’ Seed. Down near the diner. Diego’ll have a pipe wrench, maybe some WD-40. The folks there can help you figure it out.”
“Remind me how to get to the diner…”
He shifts in his chair, wincing. “Seriously? There’s like one road.”
I ignore that. “Do you need anything while I’m out? Groceries? Medicine? Razor blades?”
He reaches for his beard, then drops his hand to his lap. “I’m fine.”
I cross my arms and give him a look. “Are you sure about that? Because you look like you haven’t had any food since this morning.”
“I said I’m fine.”
It’s been about six hours since I came by with breakfast. “Okay, so you’re coming with me.”
“I don’t need—”
“You need food. I need hardware store advice. We can knock both out in one trip.” I tap the doorframe. “Come on. Fresh air will do you good.”
“Fresh air,” he repeats flatly.
“Yes. That thing that exists outside this cave.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse, to dig in his hermit heels and insist on staying in his increasingly stale-smelling house. But then he sighs and reaches for his crutches. “If I fall and break something else, it’s on you.”
“Deal.”
Getting him to my car takes longer than I expect.
He gets himself outside while I run and grab the car, bouncing over the potholes and then up his driveway that’s smooth as glass.
The crutches are unwieldy, and he has to navigate his porch steps one at a time, hopping and grunting.
I stand nearby, not sure if offering help will offend him or if letting him struggle alone makes me a terrible person.
“Stop hovering,” he mutters.
“I’m just making sure you don’t fall and crack your head open. That would be very inconvenient.”
“For you or for me?”
“Both. The one lawyer in town would probably take your side in the lawsuit.” When we get him settled in the passenger seat with his leg stretched out and his crutches crammed in the back, I’m sweating despite the cool air.
“This is why I don’t leave the house,” Asher says as I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Because of lawsuits?”
“Because everything takes too long.”
“You’ve only been broken for like a day.” I start the engine. “And you don’t have a choice. I’m rescuing you.”
“Pretty sure this is kidnapping.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” I like talking to him this way. If he were a customer at the bar, I’d be flirting. And maybe I am doing that, since I know he will be in my life for the same amount of time. In and out and back to the ‘burgh. I have to remind myself I’m only here to sort out paperwork.
When I called Esther last night, she was sure to remind me how I promised to come back to Pittsburgh as soon as possible to finish what I started with my marketing clients—AKA all my sisters and their small businesses. But there’s no harm in admiring the hunky injured grizzly bear while I’m around.
The drive to town is quiet at first. I focus on the road—it’s curvier than I’m used to, although the hills and sharp turns are certainly Pittsburgh-esque.
But Fork Lick has no signal lights or city buses to navigate around.
Asher stares out the window, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
Whether he’s regretting coming along. Whether he’s in pain.
“So,” I say, because I can’t handle silence. “Climax was a weird place…”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Bunch of hippies moved here after 9-11, and now we’ve got Manhattan transplants who telecommute.”
“You should write travel brochures.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. I’m counting that as a win. “It’s got some good restaurants,” he adds after a moment. “Art galleries. Antique shops. Great parks.”
“And hipsters?”
“You’d be surprised. The town got trendy a few years back. Now you can’t throw a rock without hitting someone from Brooklyn with an ironic mustache.”
I laugh. “Do you hate that?”
“I don’t care enough to hate it. I just don’t go there much.”
“Shocking.” We lapse into silence, but it’s more comfortable now. I sneak glances at him—the way he’s bracing his arm against the door, the pinched skin around his eyes that means he’s in more pain than he’s admitting.
“We can stop at a pharmacy,” I offer. “Get you some pain meds.”
“I have pain meds.”
“That you’re not taking?” I accuse, and he doesn’t deny it. “Why not?”
“Because I need to work. Can’t work if I’m high on oxy.”
“Can’t work if you’re miserable either.”
“I’ll manage.” The way he says it—hot and growly—makes me drop it. For now. But not before I let myself quickly imagine what else he could manage with those dark eyes and long fingers.
The road gets less bumpy as we approach the little Main Street area. I pass a remodeled church that seems to be a restaurant, spot a bar called Tiddy’s, which makes me snort, and then the brightly painted feed store up ahead.
Asher adjusts his posture. “Turn right here.”
I follow his directions and pull into a small parking lot. “Wow. That’s an old building.”
“Wait till you see inside.”
Getting Asher out of the car is another production, but we manage. He crutches ahead of me to the store entrance, and I rush to open the door for him.
Inside, the place smells like sawdust, motor oil, and hay. I immediately snap a few pictures. The wooden floors creak under our feet, and the shelves are stacked floor-to-ceiling with every conceivable tool and part and plant you might need to fix or grow literally anything.
An older man behind the counter looks up. “Asher Thorne. Heard about the tractor accident, but looks like the amputation was a tall tale.” He smiles, the perfect picture of a caring, small-town grandpa. “What brings you by?”
“New neighbor needs to loosen a rusted valve.” He tilts his head at me.
The man’s gaze shifts, curious but friendly. “And who’s this?”
“Eva Storm,” I say, offering a smile. “I inherited the Pierce property.”
“Ah. Trying to get the pump fired up?”
“Hope so. I found it okay, but it wouldn’t budge.”
Diego, according to his name tag, nods. “Happens all the time with old wells. You need a pipe wrench and some penetrating oil. Let me show you.”
He leads us through the maze of shelves, chattering about rust and sediment and things I don’t fully understand but nod along to, anyway. Asher follows, quiet apart from the clack of his crutches.
We emerge ten minutes later with a pipe wrench, a can of oil, and detailed instructions I probably won’t remember.
Diego also threw in some plumber’s tape as a bonus “just in case” and refused to let me pay for it.
Then he invited me to his house sometime to check out the bidet his husband installed.
“Everybody’s been raving about it,” he says. Pointing at Asher, Diego adds, “That one’s sister has one in her cabin. No more toilet paper clogging up the septic system. The mayor of New York City has one now, you know.”
I bite my lip and consider that I’m being invited to a stranger’s home as if I’m going to be a fixture in the community. Diego doesn’t sound like he’s making small talk. He really wants me to experience his life-changing bidet.
“I’ll connect with you about that after I get the valve open.” I smack Asher in the chest with the back of my hand. “I should probably get this one to the grocery store, though. It was so nice to meet you.”
“You, too, Eva. Don’t be a stranger.”