Page 4
"I'll need to look at it more thoroughly tomorrow," I tell her, locking up the shop. "But if it is the alternator, I might not have the part for your model. Might need to order it."
Her face falls again, and I notice how expressive she is—every thought and emotion playing across her features like a movie. "How long would that take?"
"Two, three days if I expedite it."
She bites her lower lip, clearly calculating costs in her head. "Okay," she says finally. "I'll figure it out."
There's determination in her voice that wasn't there before. Resilience. It reminds me of the younger mechanics I trained in the Army—the ones who came in soft but developed calluses fast.
"Come on," I say, heading back to my truck. "I'll take you to your cottage."
She follows without hesitation, which strikes me as either very trusting or very naive. Doesn't she know better than to get in vehicles with strange men in strange towns? Especially men who look like me?
I'm aware of how I appear to others. The military cut my hair still adheres to. The scar that bisects my left eyebrow. The perpetual scowl that someone once said makes me look like I'm plotting murder. People in town give me a wide berth, and I prefer it that way.
But Lucy slides back into the passenger seat without apparent concern, buckling her seatbelt and offering me another small smile.
"I really appreciate this," she says as I start the engine. "I was starting to think this whole move was a cosmic mistake."
I pull back onto Main Street, heading toward the residential area. "What brought you to Cedar Falls anyway?" I ask, then immediately wonder why I care.
She's quiet for a moment, staring out at the passing storefronts. "My father grew up here," she finally says. "He never talked about it much, but after he died last year, I found some of his old journals. He wrote about unfinished business in Cedar Falls."
I glance at her, curious despite myself. "What kind of business?"
"That's the thing—I don't know. It was just that one cryptic line." She shrugs, looking embarrassed. "Honestly, I probably read too much into it. But I needed a change, and it felt like... I don't know, a sign or something."
Her voice trails off, and I don't push. I understand having unfinished business with this town better than most.
We turn onto another road, leaving the glow of downtown behind. The houses here are older, set back from the street on larger lots. Many have been in the same families for generations.
"That's the Hendersons'," I say, nodding toward a large Victorian as we pass. "Their son Dave runs the hardware store now. And that's the old Wilson place. Mrs. Wilson teaches piano lessons."
I'm not sure why I'm giving her this impromptu tour. Maybe because she's looking at everything with such undisguised interest. Or maybe because, for once, I'm talking to someone who doesn't already know all the stories, all the history.
"There," I say, slowing as we approach a small cottage set back from the road. "That's Mrs. Abernathy's rental."
The cottage is just as I remember it—blue clapboard with white trim, a sagging front porch with a porch swing, wildflowers growing along the front walk. It's been vacant since the last tenant got together with a firefighter and moved to his place.
I park in the gravel driveway and kill the engine. Lucy is leaning forward, peering through the windshield at her new home.
"It's perfect," she breathes, and I can hear genuine pleasure in her voice. "It looks just like the pictures."
I don't comment that the pictures probably didn't show the peeling paint on the porch railings or the missing shutter on the upstairs window. If she wants to see it as perfect, who am I to argue?
We get out, and I lead her to the back of the house, where I know Edith keeps a spare key hidden on a fake rock beside the back steps. Sure enough, it's still there.
"Mrs. Abernathy isn't big on security," I explain, handing her the key. "Most people around here aren't."
"Thank you," she says again, clutching the key like it's precious. "For everything. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't answered the phone."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "Just doing my job."
She smiles like she doesn't quite believe me, and for some reason, that makes me even more uncomfortable.
"I'll unlock it for you," I say gruffly, taking the key back and heading up the steps. "Make sure everything's working before I go."
The back door opens into a small kitchen that smells faintly of lemon cleaning products. I flip on the light switch, relieved when the overhead fixture illuminates. At least the electricity's on.
Her face falls again, and I notice how expressive she is—every thought and emotion playing across her features like a movie. "How long would that take?"
"Two, three days if I expedite it."
She bites her lower lip, clearly calculating costs in her head. "Okay," she says finally. "I'll figure it out."
There's determination in her voice that wasn't there before. Resilience. It reminds me of the younger mechanics I trained in the Army—the ones who came in soft but developed calluses fast.
"Come on," I say, heading back to my truck. "I'll take you to your cottage."
She follows without hesitation, which strikes me as either very trusting or very naive. Doesn't she know better than to get in vehicles with strange men in strange towns? Especially men who look like me?
I'm aware of how I appear to others. The military cut my hair still adheres to. The scar that bisects my left eyebrow. The perpetual scowl that someone once said makes me look like I'm plotting murder. People in town give me a wide berth, and I prefer it that way.
But Lucy slides back into the passenger seat without apparent concern, buckling her seatbelt and offering me another small smile.
"I really appreciate this," she says as I start the engine. "I was starting to think this whole move was a cosmic mistake."
I pull back onto Main Street, heading toward the residential area. "What brought you to Cedar Falls anyway?" I ask, then immediately wonder why I care.
She's quiet for a moment, staring out at the passing storefronts. "My father grew up here," she finally says. "He never talked about it much, but after he died last year, I found some of his old journals. He wrote about unfinished business in Cedar Falls."
I glance at her, curious despite myself. "What kind of business?"
"That's the thing—I don't know. It was just that one cryptic line." She shrugs, looking embarrassed. "Honestly, I probably read too much into it. But I needed a change, and it felt like... I don't know, a sign or something."
Her voice trails off, and I don't push. I understand having unfinished business with this town better than most.
We turn onto another road, leaving the glow of downtown behind. The houses here are older, set back from the street on larger lots. Many have been in the same families for generations.
"That's the Hendersons'," I say, nodding toward a large Victorian as we pass. "Their son Dave runs the hardware store now. And that's the old Wilson place. Mrs. Wilson teaches piano lessons."
I'm not sure why I'm giving her this impromptu tour. Maybe because she's looking at everything with such undisguised interest. Or maybe because, for once, I'm talking to someone who doesn't already know all the stories, all the history.
"There," I say, slowing as we approach a small cottage set back from the road. "That's Mrs. Abernathy's rental."
The cottage is just as I remember it—blue clapboard with white trim, a sagging front porch with a porch swing, wildflowers growing along the front walk. It's been vacant since the last tenant got together with a firefighter and moved to his place.
I park in the gravel driveway and kill the engine. Lucy is leaning forward, peering through the windshield at her new home.
"It's perfect," she breathes, and I can hear genuine pleasure in her voice. "It looks just like the pictures."
I don't comment that the pictures probably didn't show the peeling paint on the porch railings or the missing shutter on the upstairs window. If she wants to see it as perfect, who am I to argue?
We get out, and I lead her to the back of the house, where I know Edith keeps a spare key hidden on a fake rock beside the back steps. Sure enough, it's still there.
"Mrs. Abernathy isn't big on security," I explain, handing her the key. "Most people around here aren't."
"Thank you," she says again, clutching the key like it's precious. "For everything. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't answered the phone."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "Just doing my job."
She smiles like she doesn't quite believe me, and for some reason, that makes me even more uncomfortable.
"I'll unlock it for you," I say gruffly, taking the key back and heading up the steps. "Make sure everything's working before I go."
The back door opens into a small kitchen that smells faintly of lemon cleaning products. I flip on the light switch, relieved when the overhead fixture illuminates. At least the electricity's on.