Page 10
I look at the amount of stuff, then at her, short and curvy but doesn't seem too strong, then at the darkening sky outside. A storm is moving in. I can smell it in the air, that distinctive pre-rain heaviness.
“I told you I’d help. We can load up both cars. Get it done in one trip."
Her eyes widen in surprise. "Both cars?"
"My truck's out back." I nod toward the rear exit. "We can fit the bigger stuff in there."
"Oh, I thought you were just saying it to be nice. I don’t want to interrupt your eveni-“
"It's fine," I interrupt, already reaching for a box. "I said I’d help. Besides, you'll need help unloading anyway."
She hesitates, then smiles—that genuine, warm smile that seems to light up her whole face. "Thank you. Again. I feel like I'm constantly thanking you."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "Just being neighborly."
We work in silence, loading the smaller boxes and bags into the Subaru, the bulkier items into my truck. Lucy is more efficient than I expected, moving with purpose and showing no hesitation about lifting heavier items. But I notice she winces slightly when reaching for a box on a higher shelf.
"I got it," I say, easily retrieving the box marked 'Kitchen'.
"Thanks," she says, rubbing her shoulder. "Old injury. Acts up sometimes."
I nod, not asking for details she hasn't offered. Everyone has scars—some just hide them better than others.
Within thirty minutes, we've emptied her car and filled both vehicles. Lucy stands in the garage doorway, keys to the Subaru in hand, looking uncertain.
"You know the way back to the cottage?" I ask.
"I think so. Left at the light, right on Maple, then straight?"
"Close. It's right on Oak, not Maple." I close up the garage, securing the bay doors. "Just follow my truck. It'll be easier."
She nods, looking relieved. "Okay. And... thank you. For doing this."
I grunt in acknowledgment, "Let's go before it rains."
We get into our respective vehicles, and I lead the way through town, keeping an eye on her blue Subaru in my rearview mirror. She follows at a careful distance, signaling properly at every turn, driving exactly at the speed limit. A rule-follower. I'm not surprised.
The cottage appears just as the first heavy raindrops begin to fall. I pull into the gravel driveway, and Lucy parks beside me. By the time we both exit our vehicles, the rain is coming down steadily.
"Perfect timing," Lucy says, hurrying to unlock the cottage door. "Let's get everything inside before it really starts pouring."
We work quickly, shuttling boxes and bags from the vehicles to the cottage's living room. The rain intensifies, turning from a steady fall to a proper downpour. By our third trip, we're both getting soaked despite the short distance.
On my final trip, carrying a box of books that weighs a ton, the skies truly open up. I'm drenched by the time I make it to the door, where Lucy stands with a towel.
"Here," she says, handing it to me as I set down the box. "You're soaked through."
I take the towel, aware suddenly of how I must look—t-shirt plastered to my chest, hair dripping onto her floor. "Thanks."
Lucy's not much drier, her ponytail hanging in a wet rope down her back, her t-shirt clinging to her curves in a way that makes me avert my eyes. She doesn't seem to notice, busy sorting through boxes.
"That's everything," I say, running the towel over my hair. "You sure have a lot of books."
She looks up with a self-conscious smile. "Occupational hazard. I'm a writer. Or trying to be, anyway."
"What do you write?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Historical fiction, mostly." She gestures to a box labeled 'Research'. "Hence all the history books."
“I told you I’d help. We can load up both cars. Get it done in one trip."
Her eyes widen in surprise. "Both cars?"
"My truck's out back." I nod toward the rear exit. "We can fit the bigger stuff in there."
"Oh, I thought you were just saying it to be nice. I don’t want to interrupt your eveni-“
"It's fine," I interrupt, already reaching for a box. "I said I’d help. Besides, you'll need help unloading anyway."
She hesitates, then smiles—that genuine, warm smile that seems to light up her whole face. "Thank you. Again. I feel like I'm constantly thanking you."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "Just being neighborly."
We work in silence, loading the smaller boxes and bags into the Subaru, the bulkier items into my truck. Lucy is more efficient than I expected, moving with purpose and showing no hesitation about lifting heavier items. But I notice she winces slightly when reaching for a box on a higher shelf.
"I got it," I say, easily retrieving the box marked 'Kitchen'.
"Thanks," she says, rubbing her shoulder. "Old injury. Acts up sometimes."
I nod, not asking for details she hasn't offered. Everyone has scars—some just hide them better than others.
Within thirty minutes, we've emptied her car and filled both vehicles. Lucy stands in the garage doorway, keys to the Subaru in hand, looking uncertain.
"You know the way back to the cottage?" I ask.
"I think so. Left at the light, right on Maple, then straight?"
"Close. It's right on Oak, not Maple." I close up the garage, securing the bay doors. "Just follow my truck. It'll be easier."
She nods, looking relieved. "Okay. And... thank you. For doing this."
I grunt in acknowledgment, "Let's go before it rains."
We get into our respective vehicles, and I lead the way through town, keeping an eye on her blue Subaru in my rearview mirror. She follows at a careful distance, signaling properly at every turn, driving exactly at the speed limit. A rule-follower. I'm not surprised.
The cottage appears just as the first heavy raindrops begin to fall. I pull into the gravel driveway, and Lucy parks beside me. By the time we both exit our vehicles, the rain is coming down steadily.
"Perfect timing," Lucy says, hurrying to unlock the cottage door. "Let's get everything inside before it really starts pouring."
We work quickly, shuttling boxes and bags from the vehicles to the cottage's living room. The rain intensifies, turning from a steady fall to a proper downpour. By our third trip, we're both getting soaked despite the short distance.
On my final trip, carrying a box of books that weighs a ton, the skies truly open up. I'm drenched by the time I make it to the door, where Lucy stands with a towel.
"Here," she says, handing it to me as I set down the box. "You're soaked through."
I take the towel, aware suddenly of how I must look—t-shirt plastered to my chest, hair dripping onto her floor. "Thanks."
Lucy's not much drier, her ponytail hanging in a wet rope down her back, her t-shirt clinging to her curves in a way that makes me avert my eyes. She doesn't seem to notice, busy sorting through boxes.
"That's everything," I say, running the towel over my hair. "You sure have a lot of books."
She looks up with a self-conscious smile. "Occupational hazard. I'm a writer. Or trying to be, anyway."
"What do you write?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Historical fiction, mostly." She gestures to a box labeled 'Research'. "Hence all the history books."