7. The Man Who Has His Own Toolbox
Chapter Seven
THE MAN WHO HAS HIS OWN TOOLBOX
Fire Marshal William Sawyer reenters my life in January because of a broken smoke detector at my office.
Maple Oaks Insurance occupies the first floor of an old brick building downtown, with apartments above us.
When our landlord replaces part of the alarm system after an electrical problem, the county needs to inspect it.
William walks through the front door of the office wearing dark pants, work boots, and a navy jacket with the county emblem on the chest.
Amy looks at me, then at him, then back at me. She silently mouths: Hot one.
I ignore her.
“Brooke.” William smiles.
“Hi.”
He holds up a clipboard. “I promise I’m here for something that’s actually connected to your job.”
“That’ll be refreshing.”
His smile widens. He remembers, and for some reason, that pleases me.
The inspection takes twenty minutes. William speaks mostly with the landlord, tests the panel, checks two devices, makes notes, and never once makes a display out of his competence. He simply does what he came to do.
When he’s finished, he stops beside my office. “How are you?”
The question is quiet, but not pitying. He doesn’t sound curious in the way half the town has been curious.
“I’m okay.”
“I heard things got difficult.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Maple Oaks has very efficient information distribution.”
I lift my brows. “That’s an interesting way to describe gossip.”
“I’m trying to be diplomatic.”
I smile.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he says.
“Thank you.”
And that’s it. No questions about Julia. No story about why he never liked Justin. No attempt to use my humiliation as a shortcut to intimacy.
Two weeks later, I run into him at the hardware store. I’m standing in front of far too many types of cabinet hinges.
William stops beside me holding a box of screws. “You look concerned,” he says.
“I hate this aisle.”
“That seems personal.”
I gesture at the shelves. “There are nine thousand hinges.”
“What are you fixing?”
“A kitchen cabinet.”
“Overlay?”
I stare at him. “Don’t speak wizard.”
He laughs, and I show him the photograph on my phone.
After studying it, he says, “Half-inch overlay. Probably these.” He picks up a package.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I own cabinets.”
I smile. “Justin always acted like this kind of thing required secret male knowledge.”
“Some projects are complicated.” He taps the package. “This isn’t.”
I put two in my basket. “Do you fix everything yourself?”
“Absolutely not.”
That surprises me. “No?”
“I know just enough to recognize when I’m about to turn a hundred-dollar repair into a thousand-dollar repair.”
I laugh. “That may be the most attractive thing anyone has said to me lately.”
It’s a Freudian slip, and he doesn’t miss it. His eyebrows lift, and heat rushes into my face.
“I meant practical,” I say quickly.
“Of course.” His mouth twitches.
“This is where you walk away politely,” I tell him.
“I can do that.” He takes a few steps, then looks back. “For what it’s worth, I thought it was attractive too.”
He leaves me standing among the hinges. Smiling.
Over the coming month, we become friends with the help of Maple Oaks. We see each other at the coffee shop, the diner, and the post office. We run into each other in the grocery store, where I tease him for buying frozen lasagna despite telling me he knows how to cook.
“I do know how.”
“Then explain this.”
“I also know how to be tired.”
It’s unsettling how reasonable he is.
In February, Amy’s furnace dies during a cold snap. William recommends an HVAC company he trusts, which Amy somehow interprets as a reason to host a thank-you dinner for every person even loosely associated with the crisis. That includes me, William, Kara, the HVAC technician, and his sister.
After we eat, William takes his plate to the sink.
Then he washes it.
And he washes the others.
I stand in the doorway watching him. “You know she owns a dishwasher.”
“It’s full. These don’t fit.”
As I stare at him, he glances over his shoulder. “What?”
“You’re a functional adult.”
He laughs. “That sounds less complimentary than you think.”
“It’s extremely complimentary.”
He hands me a towel, and I dry while he washes. Nobody asks me to clean, and nobody congratulates William for helping. He saw dirty dishes and dealt with them, and I nearly have an emotional reaction about it.
Marriage has done strange things to my standards.
When we leave, William walks me to my car. The night is bitterly cold.
He puts his hands into his coat pockets. “I want to ask you something,” he says. After a pause, he adds, “But I’m not going to.”
“That’s unnecessarily mysterious.”
“It isn’t meant to be.” His eyes hold mine. “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
My heart beats faster. “But.”
“You’re still married, so I’m not asking yet.”
“What if I said I’d go?”
His expression warms. “I’d still wait.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I like you, Brooke. I don’t want whatever this might become to get tangled up in something you’re still trying to finish.”
The restraint doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels respectful.
“Thank you.”
He nods, then opens my car door.
I drive home smiling, then I find Justin waiting in my driveway, and the smile disappears.
He gets out of his truck. “I need to talk.”
“You could’ve called.”
“You don’t answer.”
I unlock the front door, and he follows me inside without being invited.
“I’m not at Julia’s anymore,” he says abruptly.
I put down my purse. “Okay.”
“She told me to leave.”
“That sounds like it’s between you and Julia.”
“I’m staying at the motel in town.”
“What happened?” The question escapes before I remember I don’t care.
He hears the opening. “Everything changed when I moved in. She says I’m miserable.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
I fold my arms. “What do you want?”
His gaze travels around the room. I’ve changed things. There’s a new rug and a different lamp. Photographs have been removed. His absence is becoming incorporated into the house.
“I want to come home.”
“No.”
“Brooke.”
“No.”
He reaches for my hand, but I step back.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
Hope sparks, but I extinguish it.
“That doesn’t mean I’m taking you back.”
“I’ll go to counseling. I’ll do anything.”
“There isn’t anything I need you to do.”
“I love you.” He’s on the verge of tears.
“Justin.”
“She meant nothing compared to our marriage.”
My jaw tightens. “You spent more care on Julia and her house in six months than you spent on us and our home in years.”
“I know.”
“You fixed things for her while telling me you were too busy.”
“I know.”
“You took her away while I did your errands.”
“I know.”
He looks broken, and it hurts. I wish it didn’t, but it does.
“I want my life back,” he says.
I shake my head. “You want the life I maintained.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No? It’s accurate.”
His eyes fill, and for a moment, I can see the man I married so clearly it almost wrecks me. Then I picture another version of him walking around Waverly Lake with Julia while I sat at home fixing his problems.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I know.”
I open the door, and he leaves, and this time, I don’t cry when he’s gone.