8. Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
J esse
“How was the May Day Festival? That was always my wife’s favorite. We talked about going this year, but, you know, extenuating circumstances.” Harbor Stryke’s voice doesn’t even have the courtesy to sound tinny over my cell phone. Despite the other terrible features of my cabin, it gets excellent cell reception.
“I didn’t go.” I brush leaves from the gutters onto the ground below. Maybe if they make enough of a pile, it will make up for the cracks in the foundation. I might not be a builder, but even I know that isn’t how concrete should look.
“What do you mean, you didn’t go? Have you been to bingo? Everyone loves bingo.”
“I’m not everyone.” The ladder shakes below me as I shift my weight. I curse and readjust.
“What about your neighbors? Have any of them invited you over to dinner?”
I glance for the thousandth time that hour toward the farm where I suspect Laura lives. It’s a neat yellow farmhouse with white shutters and the entire back wall is painted with a riotously-colored mural. All different kinds of flowers. I don’t know how I missed it during the winter. Then again, I’ve been up on the ladder a lot more over the last two days, and the view just happens to be there. I am not trying to see Laura Marshall. I’m not some kind of creepy spy.
“Why are you so worried about my social life? Don’t you have other borderline convicts to check on?” I leave the phone on speaker as I climb down the ladder. Nothing in Laura’s yard except three very large potbellied pigs, the world’s laziest golden retriever, and a donkey who stares at everything with suspicion. I know more than enough about donkeys to know they’re always suspicious of something, so I don’t take it personally.
Harbor sighs loudly. “You need to live some sort of life, Jesse. I’m glad you got a job at least.”
“You’re not my counselor and you’re not my parole officer. I don’t need a life.” There’s a flash of movement in the woods separating my backyard from Laura’s, and my heart flips. Nope. It’s just the Golden Retriever following the sun to a different patch of land.
“I don’t know when the trial is going to be. What are you going to do? Hole up there and lament? That’s not healthy, Jesse. I’m acting as a friend here.”
“You’re a US Marshal, not my friend.” This comes out far harsher than I intended. I groan and lean against the wall, setting loose several dried splinters onto the muddy ground. “I’m sorry. You’re trying to help and I’m being an ass.”
Harbor’s voice softens, which is an impressive feat for someone whose very tone could probably command seas to part. “It’s a lot of change. I know you loved your job and you lost your house and…everything else too. But this can be good for you. Sometimes we all need a different perspective in life. Embrace it.”
If only that different perspective could have come with a mission trip in Paraguay instead of forced relocation for my own safety. Not that Esme—
Nope. Definitely not thinking about her.
“I will.”
Harbor grumbles in response, but it’s far deeper than I expected. I look up to see a local sheriff’s truck rumbling down the pitted, muddy driveway. I stand straighter, apprehension stiffening my posture. “I’ve got to go, Harbor. I’ll talk to you next month.”
“Or sooner. If you need anything, you have my number. Have fun and stay off the radar.” He signs off with a whistle. That man is way too happily married.
The truck stops a few feet away. I cross toward it, pulling off my work gloves. What in the world could the sheriff want to say to me? I haven’t done anything, have I? Not being neighborly isn’t enough to get people in trouble in most parts of the country.
A tallish man, about my height and maybe a few years younger, with dark brown hair and white skin steps out of the truck in a sheriff’s uniform and cap with the LA Slingshots hockey logo on it. There’s something familiar about him, but not in a way that feels threatening.
“Hello, Sheriff,” I say, holding my hand out. “What can I do for you?”
He tilts his head and squints at me before taking my hand and pumping it twice. “Jesse Vanek? You’re new in town.”
“I am.” I swallow, the apprehension growing. My last encounter with the police did not exactly endear me to the profession. I spent over ten hours in an interrogation room. Maybe I’ve broken some law I’m not even aware of. Maybe renting this rundown piece of shit cabin really is a crime. “Is something wrong?”
He crosses his arms over his chest even as a smile plays over his face. “We can start with not introducing yourself to the neighborhood. I’m Rory Marshall. Laura told me you rented this place. Don’t worry. I’ve already been to see your landlord and read them the riot act. It’s irresponsible, saying you could live here. I swear she was hiding it from the rest of town just to get your money. Not that your landlord socializes.”
“Oh.” Relief floods through me. “It’s not a problem. I don’t even know her name, my landlord. I worried I was squatting, or something.”
“Nope, just got snookered.” Rory whistles through his teeth. “Sorry about that. If you want, we can try to find you a place closer to town. One with walls that won’t cave in when you breathe funny.”
It’s such an apt description, I laugh. “No, thank you. I kind of like trying to fix it up. I need a bit of a project.”
“There are easier ones. You could take up metallurgy or astrophysics.” He glances up at the roof. “At least the roof is holding. Somewhat.”
“Yeah.”
“I can help out a bit, after work. My son’s in baseball right now, so I’ve got an extra hour or so before I need to make dinner. There’s still some daylight after that.”
I almost say yes. It’s so tempting. There’s something easy and pleasant about Rory, an honesty that I crave down to my very soul.
But I can’t let anyone, especially not the town sheriff, into my sad excuse for a life. There will be questions. Quiet conversations over cold beers, all designed to make me lower my walls and inhibitions. I don’t need Harbor Stryke to tell me that’s the shittiest of all shitty ideas.
“I really appreciate it, but I’m doing all right.”
Rory doesn’t reply. He merely raises an eyebrow and casts his gaze over the cabin. I know what he sees. The railing falling off the three steps, the foundation on the right side cracked so badly the entire cabin lilts to its side like a drunken chimpanzee. Mud crusted to the windows from the storm last week that blew it straight into the side of the cabin.
“I fixed it up on the inside,” I reply, shifting from foot to foot. “The water’s no longer brown from the kitchen sink.” More of a dingy yellow, but the sheriff doesn’t need to know that.
Rory gives me a look that tells me he knows exactly how much shit I’m spinning. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Laura’s got a spare room over her garage. It’s not big, but at least it’s not going to end up in Oz with the next tornado.”
I shake my head several times, not fully hearing anything he’s saying. “Wait, you get tornadoes here?” No, that’s not what I’m protesting. “Sorry, but no. I can’t move into your sister’s place.”
He gives me a very stern look, better suited for an older father letting his beloved youngest child go on their first date with a handsy quarterback. “You’re not moving in with my sister. Trust me. The apartment’s over her garage. She never goes up there.”
None of this makes any sense at all to me, but it also feels like it might swallow me whole.
“I really—”
He holds up a hand, effectively silencing me. “Look. You’re from the South, right? I’ve heard about Southern hospitality. But I don’t have time to deal with all the polite refusals, since I’ve got to pick up my son. So say yes, and I’ll let Laura know to expect you. Probably tomorrow.” He shifts his gaze to the cabin and his brow furrows. “Or tonight, if things aren’t going well.”
“That’s not it.” I stick my work gloves in my back pocket, because otherwise I’m going to wring them into rope. “Really. It’s not a polite refusal. I’m fine here. Just fine. Honestly.”
“Mhm.” Rory’s lips draw into a thin line. “Think about it anyway. Offer’s always open.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. It’s been a long time since anyone went out of their way to help me, the US Marshal Service notwithstanding. “It was nice to meet you, Sheriff.”
“You too.” He nods toward me and opens the door to his truck. “I’ll be out later this week to help you fix up some of this stuff. You’re city, right?” There’s no judgment in his tone, but I’m judging myself. “City” was a curse word in Grandma’s town, but it was also her goal for me. I graduated at the top of my class from college and vet school. Once I was out in practice, though, I spent nearly every day driving the country in my truck, going from call to call.
“No worries,” Rory continues. “I’ve gotten your landlady to hold the next two months’ rent, since you’re sinking your own money into fixing up the place.”
He moves to step into the car but his phone chirps in his hand, stalling him. He glances down at it and smiles. “You’re expected at dinner this Sunday.”
“I’m busy Sunday.” Busy staring at the walls and trying not to look over the tree line toward Laura Marshall’s farm. Her pigs look healthy, but I wouldn’t mind checking out her retriever. Surreptitiously, of course.
“Indeed you are.” He slides into the driver seat. “Busy at Casa Marshall. We’re having either hot dish or Mexican. Five p.m. Don’t be late.”
With that, he shuts the door and reverses down the muddy pathway.
I stand there, staring after him, for way too long. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?