Page 2

Chapter 2

Fleur

B y the time I check out and load my jeep, the sun is already starting to set. I take off down Main Street, passing by the local bank and coffee shop.

The roar of a motorcycle alarms me, and I squint in my rearview mirror to see a sleek bike on my tail revving its engine like I’m the slowest person in town.

Jerk.

It’s only thirty-five—I’m not speeding up. I hover at thirty-four to prove a point, and the motorcycle darts around me over the double-yellow line. As they pass, the pitch-black helmet turns to study me through my driver’s side window before speeding past and cutting me off.

I slam on my brakes and throw my hands up. I thought small towns were supposed to be the epitome of charm and kindness.

Huffing out a sigh, I come to a four-way stop where a modest thrift store sits on the corner. Its awning droops to one side and the signage is rusty, but a gorgeous oak dresser with potential sits out front. It’s a tall, six-drawer piece in desperate need of love. Nothing a good sanding and fresh stain couldn’t fix.

I pull over, hoping to catch the employee before they close up for the evening. That’s one thing I had to learn quickly upon moving to this sparse Southern town—they close their shops before 5:00 p.m. around here.

I push open the door, and the bell attached above jingles while the smell of antiques wafts up my nose. Shelves are filled to the brim with household items, and the nostalgia of hitting the once-a-month flea market with my mom invades my thoughts. The first Saturday of each month, in the three bearable seasons of the year, my mom would take me with her. At first, when I was younger, I’d tag along with her and her friends. But as I got older, it became something we did—just the two of us.

I pull out my phone and snap a photo to send to her. She’ll be impressed. I’ve already found the jackpot in this town.

“Be right there!” A sweet, feminine voice with a thick accent rings out from the back. Although boxes are piled high near the rear of the store, so I can’t exactly tell where the voice is coming from.

I head over to a section with multiple lamps, hoping to find a small one for my kitchen counter, and bring up my digital inspiration board for the house while perusing the few they have on the shelves.

“Hi, what can I do for you?”

A woman, perhaps late twenties, with brunette hair piled on top of her head, approaches. Beads of sweat collect above her upper lip and her breathing is heavy. I stare at her for a minute too long, my awkwardness compounded by her distractingly bright blue dress.

“Sorry, I was moving a bunch of donations in the back,” she adds.

I shake my head. “It’s not a problem. I wanted to ask about the dresser sitting out front. Is it still available? I didn’t see a price.”

“Oh my,” she says, her Southern drawl growing deeper. “I meant to put a price on it this morning. I think it’s fifty dollars. Let me grab my books and I’ll tell you for sure. I’m River, by the way.”

“Fleur.” I follow her up to the hoarded counter. Three different types of Ruin, MS stickers are stacked high next to postcards that don’t have a dent in them. She grabs two books from underneath the checkout and flips them open. Huh. No computer.

“I know,” she says, probably reading the confusion in my expression. “This shop was my grandmother’s before she died. She never upgraded things around here, and I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Oh, here it is. Fifty dollars.” She slams the books shut, dust kicking up into her brown eyes, and she rapidly blinks. “Did you want it?”

“Yes, please.” I pause, wondering how I’m going to get this home. “Could I pay for it now and pick it up some other time? I only have my jeep, and I’m not sure it’s going to fit in the back.”

“Of course! Actually, I can deliver it to you for free. Anything to make room for all the other items I have yet to put out.” She chucks a thumb over her shoulder, pointing toward where she was rustling around when I walked in.

“That would be great. Thank you.” I pull out cash and hand it over.

River takes my number and address, commenting how excited she is that someone’s finally going to “make that farmhouse shine,” and she details plans to deliver the dresser sometime next week.

I dart out of the thrift store, trying to make up for lost time. The drive out of the small downtown is peaceful and quiet. The summer days are hot, but the evenings are blissful, and I roll down the windows, letting the fresh air flick my braid in the wind.

The sky has transformed into a breathtaking view of oranges and yellows. The soft hues of pale yellow remind me of freshly bloomed daffodils. Even the wisps of clouds gradually stretch into a seamless blend of tangerine and apricot as the sun’s dwindling rays glow behind them.

The drive to the farmhouse is mesmerizing. The landscape of cornfields and hay bales appears like a golden mirage with highlights that brush the entire canvas of this town. More people should take advantage of living in small towns like these—even if only for a brief time.

I turn onto the dirt road leading to my property, passing an old crumbling chimney on the corner of the street. Vines and ivy have found purchase in all the crevices and gaps of mortar. And the ground around it supports heaps of broken bricks. Each time I pass by, I wonder what happened to the house it once belonged to.

A long wooden and barbwire fence lines the road, and large cedar trees shadow sections of the red dirt as I drive. It’s the first time in the week I’ve been here that I don’t freeze with anxiety over uprooting my life. I’m looking forward to the renovations, and happiness actually feels within reach. A happiness I never thought I’d get to see again after my nine-year relationship shattered.

I never thought twenty-six was too old, but apparently, he did.

I was going to marry him. To say “I do” and have the life.

But that idea was flushed away in favor of a twenty-one-year-old college student.

To say I left Michigan to start over and find myself is a lie—one I have no problem telling when the alternative is reality. And, well, reality sucks. I ran—hightailed it out of our shared life, crushed and embarrassed.

He’s called a few times since I left. Logically, I should block him. Unfortunately, though, a sliver of teasing hope dangles in my mind. Maybe he’ll tell me to come home, or perhaps he’ll call to confess he misses me.

But so far, every voicemail he leaves asks where I am or if I’m coming home—it’s humiliating.

Nausea curdles in my stomach, and the fried chicken sandwich I ate for lunch before my endless home improvement shopping threatens to make an appearance. I roll my shoulders and allow the crunch of the gravel dirt road to keep me from screaming. Then, reaching for the rubber bands on my wrist, I pull back twice, letting the sting of each snap bring me out of the shame-induced ache.

I’m not good enough. I was never good enough.

Rolling up my windows, I reach the long driveway leading to my new home.

The old farmhouse sits on a vast, sprawling property with a delicate charm that drew me in, despite my ignorance of remodeling. And even with all the land it sits on, the house still exudes a cozy, quaint feel.

It’s traditional architecture—according to the realtor—with a steep-pitched gable roof. Time has faded any shingles that aren’t missing, and the whitewashed wooden siding is worn but simple and beautiful.

A wide, wraparound porch hugs the front and sides of the house. Aged wooden columns and weathered railings run parallel to the space, but many of the boards are warped and in need of replacement. It’s my first priority after the inside of the house is done.

The farmhouse is full of windows, framed by rustic wooden shutters, letting in picturesque natural light, but many are cloudy and need to be replaced. Thankfully, there’s one stained glass transom window above the front door in good shape, and I plan to keep it original to the home.

Adam’s red truck is parked in front of the fallen detached garage, and I linger, watching him walk around inspecting the house surrounded by untamed bushes. What does he see? Potential? More work than it’s worth?

After turning the car off, the rustling of the oak tree leaves filters in through the cracked window, and I take a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

“Rough, huh?” I say, shutting my car door and folding my arms in front of my chest. I’m trying to see the home through a contractor’s eyes and not my own overzealous and unrealistic perspective.

Adam smiles at me, giving a quick kick to the few rows of blocks. “Foundation is solid. Definitely needs a hefty renovation, but she’s beautiful.” He rubs both of his hands in front of him while his gaze travels from the first to the second story.

Good. He gets it. He’s drawn to this house the same way I am, and if his expression is any indication, he understands my vision.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” I move toward him, digging my keys out of my purse, and unlock the front door.

I hold it open for him, studying his face to gauge his reaction. As he steps in, the creaking floor sings and the dust motes dance in the air. Faded floral wallpaper lines the entryway hall—most of it peeling. And when he doesn’t balk at the splintered floorboards, I smile.

“Through here is the living room.” I follow him as he moves into the living space with a brick fireplace and several hanging lights that have lost their luster. The ceilings are high, but the paint and plaster are chipped.

We continue through the country-style kitchen, master bed and bath, and a downstairs bathroom before making our way up to the two other wallpapered guestrooms.

Every step on the stairs creaks to a tune that sounds like “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” but Adam gazes around the space with awe and determination.

With the tour over, we head back to the kitchen, and I pour us each a glass of lemonade.

Adam raises his glass to me. “To breathing new life into this place.”

I meet his glass with a quiet clink and smile over my glass at him. “I was worried you might give me the sad news that this was too much of a project.”

He grins at me, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. “Nah, this old thing. She has great potential. Maybe a bit much for a first-time DIYer, though.”

I huff out a laugh. “How do you know it’s my first time?”

“I could tell by the way you were looking at the plumbing section at the store like it wronged you.”

I nod and set my glass on the counter next to the sink. Adam moves over to open the cabinets below and I catch a whiff of his earthy masculine scent, letting my eyes close for a second too long in appreciation.

“Is it just leaking?”

I jolt, blinking at him. “Yeah. I think the P trap needs to be replaced.”

He smirks at me and gestures below the sink. “I’d say most of this drainage system needs to be replaced. Are you planning to replace the sink during the renovation?”

The vintage porcelain glimmers under the golden hour sun creeping through the window above it. I had every intention of restoring it and using it in my final kitchen.

“No. I’d like to keep it. But I plan to replace the countertops, so it’ll have to come out, right?”

“Yeah. How about this?” He withdraws his head out from under the sink and bangs it against the underside of the counter. I grimace, but he doesn’t seem fazed. “Why don’t I get the sink working for you to use? I’ll save swapping out everything until the new counters are down and the sink is ready to be permanently in place.”

It sounds like a plan. It sounds like he knows what he’s doing and needs a project. But …

“I, uh, I don’t have the money for a contractor right now. I start my new job on Monday and would be happy to pay you to fix the sink, but I’m not sure I can commit to the large-scale project.” I dip my face, trying to avoid his eyes.

Bulky work boots enter where I stare at the floor and his foot taps mine until my gaze lifts to meet his. Dark blue circles I hadn’t noticed before line underneath his eyes. His dark hair is tussled after running a hand through it, and a spark of defeat flickers in his expression.

“I’m trying to make some extra money right now. Some … things have come up, and I’m having trouble getting work. I can work out a payment plan with you, and I’ll be willing to help anytime you need. Call if you get stuck on a particular part.” He chuckles, then drags both of his hands over his thigh before he shoves them into his pockets and backpedals away.

“Oh, uh, okay,” I say, trying to gauge my minor discomfort at his assertiveness. Flashes of a contractor burying his victims in drywall flicker in my mind, and I mentally slap myself for going back to the horror movie delusion.

He probably is in desperate need of a job and seeing how there aren’t too many renovations in this dusty small town, he’s probably trying to snag the job before I search for anyone else.

My parents always told me I was the opposite of assertive. A doormat through and through, apparently—thank you, Chris. Jerk .

Salespeople fluster me, and I’m always the “yes” person. Never quite figured out how to say no. But leaving Michigan … that was putting my foot down.

Anxiety squeezes my stomach and I fiddle with the rubber bands at my wrist.

“How does next Saturday sound?” Adam prompts me with a wide grin as we walk toward the door.

“Uh, sure.”

Only I’m not sure. I’m unsure what I’m agreeing to. But I know I need my sink fixed, and this man seems competent and nice enough to handle it for me. I can always use my credit card for a while.

“Great. I’ll get everything and be by around nine next weekend.” He offers me a wink and heads to the door. I lean against the patched-up doorframe as he strides to his truck and pulls away.

“Looks like we might get you fixed up yet,” I say, rubbing a hand on the rough exterior of the threshold. I hope I’m talking about more than just the house.