5. The Unauthorized Porch Project
Chapter five
The Unauthorized Porch Project
Claire
Iclose the door a little harder than necessary.
Not a slam.
I'm not a dramatic person.
Most days, at least.
I just believe in making a point with wood and hinges when men refuse to listen.
I lean back against the door and stare at the entryway like it might explain what just happened.
It doesn't.
Which leaves me alone to figure out why I just caught Jack Wilder trespassing on my porch with a bag of hardware and what appears to be a rapidly developing hero complex.
I can still hear him outside.
The faint whir of a drill.
The occasional creak of the landing as he moves around like he owns the place.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
What is his deal?
Seriously.
Because if I'm his public enemy number one, he's doing a terrible job of sticking to the villain narrative.
Villains don't stabilize porch landings.
Villains don't show up uninvited, point out safety hazards, and then start fixing them like they're doing their enemy a favor.
Unless this is some bizarre Tidehaven intimidation tactic I never received the memo about.
Step one: Glare.
Step two: Ask invasive questions about my plans to sell the house. Twice.
Step three: Show up with power tools and save me from my own porch.
I run a hand over my face and force myself to move.
Standing in the entryway isn't going to accomplish anything, and with the storm apparently deciding to make an actual appearance, I have things to do.
I make it as far as the living room.
Then stop.
Then double back to the front window.
Just one look.
I pull the curtain aside enough to see Jack still crouched near the corner of the landing.
He's completely focused on whatever he's doing, like he's decided this repair is happening and everyone else's opinions can be submitted in writing for later review.
I narrow my eyes at the back of his head.
Yes.
I will definitely be filing a complaint.
Where?
With whom?
Details.
I'll figure those out later.
I let the curtain fall back into place and turn away.
A sudden gust rattles the porch swing.
I freeze.
Right.
The swing.
My number one repair before storm season.
The same swing I made a mental note about yesterday, right after don't sit on this unless you want to die.
If Jack really wants to fix something that could launch itself into his yard during a storm, he should be working on that.
But no.
He's obsessed with the landing like it's the most important structural crisis in Tidehaven.
"I love that swing," I tell the living room. "But if it launches itself onto the roof of the Wilder house, I'm not complaining."
The drill starts again.
I force myself away from the window.
Standing here monitoring Jack's unauthorized porch project isn't storm prep.
It's bordering on obsessive.
Which, frankly, is his thing.
Not mine.
Right.
Storm prep.
I can do that.
My parents always treated storms like a routine. Close the shutters. Move anything light off the porch. Check the flashlights. Stock up on food.
Easy peasy.
Ben would've loved it.
Not the storm, obviously.
The preparation.
Ben loved a plan. He loved the feeling of doing something useful, especially if that something could be organized into a checklist.
If Tidehaven had ever handed him a prepare for the worst situation, he would've taken it as a personal challenge.
There would've been categories.
Subcategories.
Probably color coding.
I can almost hear him now, cheerful and confident, like we're tackling a fun weekend project instead of preparing for a storm.
Okay, first question. Do we have water? Actual water, Claire. Not that one sad bottle rolling around in the back seat of your car.
My throat tightens.
And candles. Do we have candles? A lighter? A backup lighter? Because I don't trust that little clicky one.
I close my eyes.
For one second, his voice is so clear that I could almost believe he's standing beside me.
Almost.
I swallow hard.
Keep moving.
I start with the porch because it's the most obvious place to begin.
Also because it keeps me near the front of the house.
Where Jack is still working.
Not that those two things are related.
I open the door and step outside.
My gaze immediately drops to the corner of the landing he'd been so concerned about.
The bracket he's installed is annoyingly solid.
Even worse, the corner looks more secure than it did yesterday.
I pretend not to notice.
Then I silently will one of the porch swing chains to break just to prove he chose the wrong project.
Jack doesn't look up as I pass. He keeps working with such intense concentration that it's like he's having a personal disagreement with the laws of physics.
I clear my throat.
Mostly so I can pretend I'm still in control of this situation.
Keyword: pretend.
"I'm moving the porch furniture."
He makes a noncommittal sound that could mean anything from good to don’t care.
That's it.
I choose to interpret it as I acknowledge your existence and will resume glaring at you when I'm finished.
I grab the small side table and drag it toward the wall beside the front door, where it'll at least have some protection from the wind.
Then I move the two chairs, scraping them across the porch until they're tucked into a more sheltered spot.
I step back and look at them.
Then at the crooked porch swing.
Then back at the furniture.
Were these sitting outside last storm season?
How did a table and two chairs survive perfectly intact while part of my roof ripped off and landed in Jack's yard?
I glance toward him, almost tempted to ask.
Almost.
"I'll assume magic," I mutter.
Much easier than initiating another conversation with the neighbor who refuses to go away.
I carry one of the chairs inside and make a mental note to secure the rest once Jack leaves.
If Jack leaves.
At this point, he may be planning to claim squatter's rights on my porch.
I close the door behind me.
The house immediately feels heavier.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Too empty for a place built for people and noise and footsteps moving from one room to another.
I shake off the feeling and head for the kitchen.
The refrigerator is humming now, thanks to June and her determination to prove that you don't need to be strong, you just need leverage.
And, for the record, the refrigerator was not glued to the floor.
I open the door and laugh under my breath.
"So I've successfully created a cold box for… nothing."
Inside is the jar of peanut butter that needs to be refrigerated after opening.
A half-used bottle of ketchup that's turned a suspicious shade of brown.
And one lonely can of soda left over from a previous visit.
I can practically hear Ben's horrified voice.
Claire. This is not a refrigerator. This is a crime scene.
I close the door.
Storm supplies.
There have to be storm supplies somewhere.
I start opening drawers and cabinets.
The cabinet where I'm fairly certain the candles should be contains exactly two tea lights.
Not useful candles.
Decorative candles.
The kind you light when you want ambiance, not when you want to avoid walking face-first into a wall during a power outage.
I pick one up.
"I think we were robbed."
The tea light offers no defense.
"Someone stole all the useful storm supplies and left the porch furniture as payment."
I continue through the kitchen, conducting an inventory for what is shaping up to be a deeply disappointing apocalypse.
Two tea lights.
Questionable ketchup.
One soda.
Enough peanut butter to survive until retirement.
"Well, at least we have peanut butter."
And of course I didn't panic-buy supplies like everyone else in town.
Because I'm rational.
I am not going to be the woman who stocks up like Tidehaven is about to break free from the coast and float out to sea.
My phone buzzes with a weather notification.
I ignore it out of spite.
I stop in the middle of the kitchen and press my fingers against my temples.
Logically, there should be storm supplies somewhere in this house.
My dad was a champion storm panic-buyer.
There are probably enough flashlights hidden somewhere on this property to illuminate the entire Eastern Seaboard.
I just have to find them.
I just…
Wasn't supposed to be doing this alone.
The thought comes so quickly that I don't have time to stop it.
Ben would've been unstoppable right now.
He would've made three trips into town already and come back with half the general store packed into his truck, grinning like he'd personally solved a problem no one else saw coming.
He would've unloaded everything.
Lined it up.
Made a list.
Then kissed my forehead and said the words that somehow always made me believe him.
We're good. I've got it.
I swallow hard.
The kitchen blurs for half a second.
I blink until it comes back into focus.
Then I open the refrigerator again.
Maybe if I stare at the empty shelves long enough, they'll fill themselves out of pity.
They don't.
Rude.
"Okay."
I nod decisively.
"We need actual food."
I glance toward the front window.
The light outside has dimmed even more.
Something rattles in the wind.
Jack's drill stops.
Then starts again.
I exhale and grab my jacket.
If I stay in this house much longer, I'm going to start hearing Ben in every room.
Then I'll start replaying everything.
Every conversation.
Every goodbye.
Every ordinary moment I didn't know would become important later.
I'll rewind them over and over, looking for the exact moment when everything went wrong.
As if finding it could somehow change what happened next.
It's a pointless game.
And I refuse to play it.
Besides, I have things to do.
Actual things.
Like buying food that isn't peanut butter.
And candles designed for something other than creating a romantic atmosphere for one.
I pull out my phone and finally read the notification I've been ignoring.
STORM ADVISORY: STRONG WIND AND RAIN EXPECTED EARLIER THAN FORECASTED.
I scoff.
"Lies. The storm was supposed to be here yesterday."
A loud clank comes from outside.
Probably the porch swing making another attempt at freedom.
I shove my phone into my pocket.
I'm not going to let the quiet of this house win.