Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
VIRGIL
ONE WEEK LATER
I frown at the breaker box, flipping the switches.
“For God’s sake,” I curse under my breath, looking up quickly to make sure Helen and Luke aren’t in hearing range.
I spy them a little way off, watching their hens free range and playing tag.
“Can’t one thing… just one thing be simple?”
Clara clears her throat behind me.
I turn, finding her wrapped in his flannel again, arms hugging herself despite the mid-morning heat already building outside.
“I’m sorry if we’re causing you more trouble,” she says quietly.
I grunt, shaking my head. “No trouble. But the breaker box? That’s another thing.”
She chews her bottom lip. “You think something blew—maybe—when the power went out?”
I shrug. “Never been much of an electrician.” In other words, this is kicking my ass. “May have to call in the cavalry for help,” I say, flipping the switches again. “Still nothing.”
“And who would you call for help with this?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Abe,” I say. “For sure. And if he can’t help, he has connections through the local hardware store.” My eyes meet hers. “You and the kids know about him, right?”
She nods.
I don’t like saying it that way. And I’d never talk behind my buddy’s back.
But he’s a wounded warrior with severe facial disfigurement.
It can throw people off when they first meet him.
And kids? They’re another thing. But now that I think of it, I remember community gatherings where Luke and Helen would’ve seen him.
“Before we do that…” My voice drops at the end. “Let me try one more thing.” I tinker some more. Play with the fuses. Then try again. Finally, the switches flip, and light fills the kitchen.
Clara presses her lips tightly together. I don’t know if she’s trying not to say something or trying not to smile.
My chest warms at the last thought. I push it away ruthlessly.
Can’t go there, Virgil. No way.
“Luke’ll be delighted to use his nightlight again,” she says.
I cut in without thinking. “Doesn’t need it anymore. He told me himself this morning over breakfast. Dark isn’t bothering him so much.”
Her face darkens, her expression going icy. I’ve overstepped. The room goes awkwardly quiet, though the sounds of clucking hens and playing kids still bleeds through the window.
“We’ll see about that,” she says quietly.
“I’m sorry if I said too much,” I offer, putting my hands on my hips. My brows furrow. “Just hard knowing where to step in and where not to… sometimes… under the circumstances.”
Our eyes meet. For one fraction of a second, I register warmth or relief, something soft. But then she hugs herself tighter, and her shields go up some more.
“With the roof fixed. The electricity. The road about to re-open… You’re basically done around here.” Her voice has a sudden hardness to it that I struggle to read. I can’t tell if it’s impenetrability or maybe putting on a brave face.
Truth be told, I was never good at reading people.
I shove my hands in my pockets, staring at the ground. “Figure I’ll keep an eye on you all… it’s what Bryson would want.”
I kick myself immediately for saying my friend’s name. Watching how it tears through her all over again, eyes going watery and red. Her hand comes up, brushing quickly over her cheek.
I wish it were my thumb.
The thought hits so hard I almost step back.
Dangerous territory.
I clench my fists at my sides, disgusted with myself.
“You’ve already done more than enough for us, Virgil. I don’t want to disrupt your life any further than we already have.”
I chuckle, but it comes out humorless. Looking up at the ceiling, I grumble, “Let’s see, disrupting my life. You mean the fishing or the hunting? Or maybe the sitting alone getting older and grumpier by the day?”
She smiles despite herself, small and thin. “Pretty sure you’re grumpier over here, actually.”
“You may have a point.”
Our eyes meet, and I study the indigo in her gaze, the flecks of yellow and green. Never looked that close at her eyes before. The air goes thick, the space shrinking between us.
Odd.
Not sure I like it.
“Don’t want to disrupt your life, either,” I say, watching in shock as she bee-lines for the coffee table, grabbing the almost empty mug and heading for the kitchen. Her hand hesitates at the sink, her body freezing for one second that feels interminable. Then she drops it, turning and gulping air.
Her face says it all.
“Why’d you do that now?” I ask.
She frowns. “Because I had the nerve. For the first time in nearly a month, I knew I could do it.” But then her eyes dart back to the empty spot on the table, and her face fills with regret.
“Too soon?” I ask.
She licks her lips slow, gaze dropping to the wood floor. “It will always be too soon.”
She looks up.
“Always.”
That’s it. That’s grief. Not something that can be outrun. Not with time or distance. Nothing like that.
Instead, you get used to bearing it. Like a weighted jacket. Always there. You don’t take it off. Not ever. But slowly, you get strong enough to wear it.
“That’s it for today,” she says, leaning back against the kitchen counter and hanging onto the sink for dear life. “Maybe for the next week… or two.”
“That’s enough,” I say gruffly, nodding.
“You staying for dinner?” she asks.
“You want me to?” I answer, thoroughly confused about the last ten minutes of our conversation.
She takes a slow, deep breath, grinding her teeth together and looking away. “Kids want you to.”