Page 27

brix a scale measuring sugar content in a liquid

THE SUNDAY tour had been smaller than usual—just six people, a quiet group from Tennessee who asked thoughtful questions and took careful notes.

As we pulled back into the lot, the late afternoon shadows stretched long across the pavement, and I could hear the distant sound of church bells chiming the hour from somewhere in town.

My passengers filed off with their usual thank-yous and promises to recommend the tour to friends, leaving me alone with Jett in the sudden quiet of the empty bus.

He was going through his end-of-day routine, checking gauges and making notes on his clipboard, the mechanical sounds of his work filling the space between us.

I lingered in my seat, my bag clutched in my lap, working up the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at me since yesterday.

The cardboard boxes were still sitting unopened on my picnic table, taunting me with their promises of organized storage and the reality of my complete lack of tools or expertise.

The Oneys had offered up their tool bag, but it was only a few screwdrivers and a saw.

"Jett?" My voice sounded smaller than I intended in the confined space of the bus.

He looked up from his clipboard, his expression open and patient. "Yeah?"

I fidgeted with the strap of my bag, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I was wondering... do you happen to have any tools I could borrow? Just for a day or two?"

His eyebrows rose slightly with interest. "What are you working on?"

"I ordered cabinets for my van, but they need to be assembled, and I don't have..." I gestured vaguely, embarrassed by my own lack of preparation. "Anything, really. Screwdrivers, drill, whatever hex keys are."

A slow smile spread across his face, and I caught a glimpse of something that looked almost like relief in his expression. "You're converting your van? That's ambitious."

"Trying to," I admitted. "Though right now it feels more like wishful thinking."

He was quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "Tell you what," he said finally, "why don't you come by my place tomorrow? I've got a full workshop, and I can help you put them together. Cabinet assembly isn't too complicated once you know what you're doing."

The offer hung in the air between us, and I felt my pulse quicken.

The practical part of me knew it was exactly what I needed—help from someone who actually knew what he was doing.

But the invitation felt like more than just neighborly assistance, and that made me nervous in ways I wasn't ready to examine.

"I don't want to impose," I said, my voice catching slightly.

"It's not an imposition," he said simply. "I like working with my hands, and it's been a while since I've had a good project. Besides," he added with a grin, "I'd like to see what you're planning."

I sat there for a long moment, weighing the offer against my instinct to handle things on my own. "Okay," I said, surprised by my own decision. "That would be... really helpful. Thank you."

"Great." He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and tore a corner off one of his forms. "Here's my address. Come by around ten tomorrow morning? We should be able to get it done in a few hours."

I took the scrap of paper and tucked it carefully into my bag. "I'll bring coffee," I offered.

"I hope something better than that instant dreck you drink."

I laughed, glad to see the old Jett reappear.