Chapter 11
Eleven
Sam pulled up in front of the Benoit place the next morning, his toolbox rattling in the bed of his truck. Erielle had told him flat out she didn’t want his help. Too bad. He’d been raised not to walk away from someone in trouble—especially not a woman trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t.
Not that Erielle would appreciate being called a damsel in distress. He could practically hear her hiss of anger if he dared. The thought made him grin. She was all contradictions—soft in some ways, hard as nails in others—and the mix was more intriguing than he cared to admit.
Her story from last night still sat heavy in his chest, equal parts anger and protectiveness. If he ever met her ex, face to face, well. His shoulders strained as he imagined punching the other guy—who he’d looked up last night when he’d gotten home—in the mouth.
He headed up the driveway, choosing the gravel over the yard, which had turned into a muddy swamp after last night’s storm.
Cal had mentioned the roof leaked, along with the broken window latch.
With the storm rolling through, those little problems had probably turned into bigger ones.
He just hoped the damage wasn’t too bad.
He was halfway to the porch when movement caught his eye. He stopped short, heart giving a startled kick.
Erielle was curled in the back seat of her car.
What the hell?
He hesitated, then rapped his knuckles against the glass.
She jolted awake, hair tumbling into her face as she braced her hands behind her on the seat.
Blinking against the morning light, she shoved the strands back and muttered something he couldn’t hear—but the annoyance in it came through clear enough.
With a sigh, she scooted across the seat and pushed the door open.
Samson did his best to keep his gaze respectful. Really, he did. But her long bare legs in those little knit shorts weren’t exactly easy to ignore. He was man enough to admit he wasn’t a hundred percent successful.
“What are you doing out here?”
She turned on the seat and moved her feet around on the floorboard, looking for her shoes. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He looked past her into the back seat, at the tangled blanket and mangled pillow. “You been sleeping out here?”
“Just last night.” She wriggled out of the car to stand on the driveway.
“In the storm?”
“It was mostly over by the time I fell asleep.”
She wasn’t meeting his gaze. He wondered why. “You’re not going to tell me why?”
She pushed her hair back again, folded her arms over her chest, then leaned back into the car for her blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, more for modesty than because she was cold, since it had to be nearly eighty degrees out here.
“I felt safer out here.”
“In a storm.” He saw now that her feet were muddy, her legs flecked with it. He looked back over the yard, searching for her footprints, but they’d washed away. What had happened here last night?
“Yeah, I can’t explain it.” She blinked again and looked up at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
She seemed eager to change the subject, and he didn’t want her feeling any more vulnerable than she already did, so he accommodated her. He lifted the toolbox he carried. “I thought I’d come look at those windows in the attic.”
She drew in on herself, would have taken a step back if she had had room. “Oh, I told you you didn’t have to do that.”
“No, I know, but I still thought I’d see what I could do.”
She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it, anyway?”
“I don’t know, after nine.” He stepped back and motioned toward the house. “You want to go in?”
He noticed her hesitation, then she drew in a deep breath and nodded.
He followed her up to the front door. She pushed it open, hesitated, and again he wondered what had spooked her.
She entered, almost on tiptoe, past the painting of the bayou she’d planned to hit him with, hanging on the wall just beyond the door.
He looked around, saw the boxes lined up to the right of the entrance, looked through the door to the living room and saw the furniture had all been pushed back against the walls, the rug unfurled on the now-clean floor.
Nothing that could have scared her enough to spend the night in her car.
She led the way to the kitchen, blanket dragging behind her. “Want some coffee? It’s just a cheap coffee maker, but it serves up the caffeine.”
“Yeah, I’ll have some. Oven working okay?” Maybe once she had her coffee, she’d feel like she could tell him what happened here last night.
“Yes, for now. Thank you.” She started the coffee, then tucked two slices of bread into the toaster.
“That all you eat in the mornings?” It didn’t seem enough to fuel her for all the work she had to do to this house, much less her late nights at the bar.
“Yeah, I don’t really like breakfast foods, so I just have toast, and then I eat a decent lunch. I never used to wake up much before lunchtime, anyway, when I lived in the city. Restaurants are late-night work.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“You want some toast?” she asked.
“No, thank you, I had a good breakfast. You’re not—you’re not telling me you don’t like bacon, are you?”
She gave a dismissive wave, and the blanket slipped off her shoulder before she readjusted it. “I mean, it’s fine, but not worth going to all the trouble for, just for myself, you know?”
“I suppose? But I thought you were a chef.”
“It’s too much hassle to cook for just one person.
That’s why I got those oven meals, remember?
Besides, when I worked at a restaurant, I had dishwashers.
I do not enjoy doing dishes, especially greasy ones.
” She poured the coffee, then turned and offered him one. “The cups are new. I just bought them.”
He nodded and took the mug from her. The coffee was okay, but he’d expected better, even from the cheap little brewer on the counter.. Shouldn’t a chef be able to make good coffee? But he didn’t ask.
“When are you working with Hattie again?”
“I don’t know. I need to go down and talk to her.” She gave a delicate shiver. “I don’t know why I hesitate. I liked doing it, and it feels nice to be part of the community, but she scares me.”
He laughed—he couldn’t help himself. Yes, the woman was a force of nature, but she was barely five feet tall. “Didn’t you face off with that chef who called you a fake?”
She pressed her lips together as she looked at him, like she was trying to figure out how he knew that. “Yes, but I didn’t have to see him every day after that. And mostly that was trash talk, anyway.”
He grinned. “What’s this? A behind-the-scenes look at the true lives of chefs?”
“Well, let’s be clear. None of us were great friends. We were always competing for something, on the show or not.”
She dropped her gaze to the coffee, regret tinging her voice.
“Are you planning to be Hattie’s competition? I mean, do you have something in the works?”
She lifted a hand in the direction of the town. “Does this place look like it could handle another restaurant? Hattie’s place is mostly empty every time I go by. And no. While I miss cooking for people, I don’t think I have it in me to start another restaurant. Not for a long time, anyway.”
She carried her cup to the sink, dumped out the remaining coffee, rinsed it and set it aside. He didn’t think she’d taken more than a few sips.
She turned back to look at him. “I am trying to figure out if I can lure more businesses in, so I can have the income from the rents. You have any ideas?”
“Of businesses that would come here? Or that people could afford to go to?”
“I mean, there were businesses here before. When we were kids.”
“When the factory was open.”
“Hmm.” She acknowledged the difference with a nod. “But people have stayed here. Even without businesses, even with having to drive into Maillard for whatever they need. Lord knows Duval is unlikely to have it.”
“I think unless you have something that employs a lot of people, you’re just going to have to accept the fact that the town is dying.”
“Yet your parents stay, among others. Why do they stay?”
“My dad says because his church is here.”
“Are there a lot of people? Who go to services? I mean, now that he’s injured?”
“He’s been going. I mean, he was down maybe a couple of weeks, but he forces himself to get up and preach on Sundays. He sits in his wheelchair, my mom does all the physical stuff. It’s taxing, but he goes, and he has about a dozen people who come weekly.”
“You?” she asked.
“Ah. It makes things easier if I do go.” No arguments or cold shoulders for a week after.
She nodded.
“I kind of fell off once I moved out on my own. Not when I was in school—I still went then. But I just stopped making the time for it.” And going now gave him a weird feeling, like he was trying to wear a suit from his younger days.
Something that no longer fit. He admired his father for his beliefs and his passion, but it no longer fit who Sam was.
A lot of things no longer fit who Sam was, but he didn’t have a lot of choices. He loved the work, but the freedom of the last few months, of setting his own hours, going fishing if he wanted to, no more tight schedules…it was appealing.
But while he made good money, and had saved quite a bit, he didn’t have enough money to retire at thirty-four. So he was going to have to figure something out.
Erielle pushed herself away from the counter and started toward the doorway. “I’m going to go get dressed, and get started in the study.”
He placed his cup in the sink. “It’s gonna take you a year to get all those books out of there.”
“You have no idea. There are more in the attic.”
“Did he read them all?” The old man had had an unlimited curiosity, but Sam couldn’t imagine anyone reading that much. Worse, really, given the decline of his mind before the decline of his body.
“I don’t see how he could have, but maybe. I know some that I read are still here, and that was a long time ago.”