Page 8

Chapter 8

Fleur

A dam has moved on to the master bathroom, having demolished it completely last week. He’s since added new drywall and shower backer. Took me all of three minutes to pick out the traditional white subway tile for the shower and the black hexagon for the floor.

Last week, I went to the thrift store again after River messaged me a picture of an antique dresser that needed some love. She told me her vision of making it into a bathroom vanity, and I immediately had to look at it.

“You could add a vessel sink on top, a round bowl, and you would only need to remove part of the drawers for plumbing,” she said.

River, I’ve come to find out, has an eye for design. Her mind thinks of some of the cleverest uses for the donations brought into Double Lucky’s.

Grateful isn’t a strong enough word to describe her late-night answers to my questions or her willingness to look over my photos of the deconstructed house to get her opinion.

Today is no exception. River walks into the bed-and-breakfast in a whirlwind to pick up a load of donations Mrs. Northgate has for her. Guests have left a wide variety of items behind: coats, hats, books—after a certain time unclaimed, they get donated to Double Lucky’s.

After I help her pack the bed of her truck, I take my break for lunch, and we sit on the back porch overlooking the property.

The ducks paddle across the well-manicured pond. And Mr. Northgate rides around on his side-by-side, digging up bushes that haven’t quite made it in the heat of the summer.

“So the motorcycle club that’s in town …” I let the words hang between us. I know from my brief interaction with Pam they are not a motorcycle club. But they dress like it. Act and intimidate like one, so it’s the easiest way to segue into getting some information.

River eyes me. She waits for the rest, but I don’t continue. Crossing her legs, she looks over the hedges of the back porch and toward the wooden deck extending into the water. Adirondack chairs sit nestled on the end. It seems like she picks one and stares at it.

“They aren’t a club. And they aren’t all bad. I know this town, especially Adam”—she rolls her eyes—“will say otherwise, but many of them got caught up with Darrin or hooked on his product.”

Her gaze flits up to the cloudy blue sky and her eyelids close briefly. With a trembling chin, she turns to me and swallows.

“My brother,” she says, her head hanging down. “They call it Jackpot around here, but the world knows it as Fentanyl. He’s been addicted for four years now. Worked with Darrin for two.”

“And Darrin’s a dealer?”

She snorts at my question. This feels personal, too personal. But gosh if I don’t want to know what kind of town I’m living in. Call it self-preservation.

“Darrin’s the kingpin. Drug lord. Narcotrafficker. Heart breaker. Bastard incarnate. Whatever you want to call him. According to my brother, he’s one of many in a large distribution network spanning from D.C. to California.”

She sniffs, and a tear drips down her cheek. Possibly pain for her brother and brokenness outline her quivering chin.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”

“It’s fine. I’m used to people around town knowing. What’s one more?” She wipes at her face with the back of her hand and offers me a sad smile.

“Why don’t they just arrest him?”

She shakes her head. “It’s complicated. He’s surrounded and well insulated. Darrin never moves drugs himself. He focuses on the underground casinos and gambling circuit within this town, which is how he has so much control. People need more money for drugs, he loans it out, and then they’re in debt with him. Even the mayor enjoys gambling at his underground establishments. So they aren’t exactly pressed to kick him to the curb. If they ever could.”

“And local law enforcement?”

“Also on Darrin’s payroll. My brother has mentioned seeing our sheriff at several of Darrin’s establishments.” She sighs.

“Someone, somewhere has to have these people on their radar. Don’t they?”

“You’d think so. But honestly, Darrin has roots in this town.” River’s eyes flutter as if she’s trying to bat away memories. “He grew up here but never went to our public school. Never had any friends. He’s wicked smart, though, and it’s serving him.”

I study River and can’t help but guess there’s more she isn’t telling me. She’s already offered more information than anyone else, and I don’t want to push my luck by asking for more.

Her hair flickers in the breeze, and the pained expression on her face makes me want to change the subject I so casually brought up.

“Is Double Lucky’s yours then?” I ask.

Her down curled lips turn up into genuine joy. “Yes. My grandmother willed it to me when she passed. I used to help her in the shop growing up. It was my first real job. It’s how I met Darrin actually …”

And I failed to change the subject …

“He used to come into the shop with his mom once or twice a year. She was a single mother raising two little kids alone. My grandmother gave her a significant discount on any clothes and toys for the boys. She always told me there was no profit worth watching other people struggle. I’ve carried that with me.”

I smile. “Sounds like she was an amazing woman.” Both sets of my grandparents passed before I was seven so unfortunately, I didn’t get to connect with them much. Listening to River recount her grandmother’s vision for the store and her philosophies about giving when you can—it’s refreshing. Is anyone truly selfless anymore these days?

Future pictures of my parents offering sound wisdom and advice to my kids shuffle through my mind. I only hope that someday, despite my brokenness, I can offer the same to my children.

It’s raining as soon as I walk out of the grocery store. I slump, letting the bags hang low as I watch the sheets pour down. When I finished my shift at the bed-and-breakfast, my errand for the day was grocery shopping. Finally, I’m able to fill my fridge with groceries for cooking meals in my farmhouse.

Thunder cracks and the awning I’m huddled under snaps in the storm’s wind. An engine revs and several motorcycles drive by, causing a shiver to distribute between my shoulder blades and down my spine as my thoughts move from my conversation with River to the unfortunate need to get these groceries home.

Dodging the rain is impossible as it pelts down my back, and I pop open my trunk to load everything. That’s the easy part.

The drive home not so much.

Navigating through the rain and the cover of night in a town I barely know is challenging. Slick wet roads pull at my tires. I clutch the steering wheel, knuckles clenched tightly around it.

Bright lights pull close behind me. Too close. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I’m blinded by white spots that speckle my view of the road. My heart races as I slow, pulling over to the side of the road. A large red truck slows down behind me before swerving around my jeep and speeding past.

My shoulders relax, and I pull back on the road to find my way home. My recent conversation with River has made me paranoid.

I turn into my long, curved driveway. Normally a mix of gravel and red dirt, I can almost feel my tires sink an inch or two. The drive is now a mud pit. The jeep sloshes through and fights for traction to the house. Streams of rainwater barrel down the sloped pathway to my farmhouse, making for the road’s culverts.

Warm lights shine from the porch, and I smile, thinking Adam must’ve tackled the outdoor lighting today. I had texted him after being spooked by my lunch break conversation with River and asked him to make outdoor lighting a priority.

Letting out a breath, I park as close to the house as I can, and Adam runs out with a jacket over his head. As if I can’t get out of the car fast enough, I fumble with the handle, but he beats me to it. He yanks the door open, and I’m greeted with a smile that slices through the chill of the rain.

“Hi. Bit wet out, huh?”

“It decided to rain as soon as I left the grocery store.” I smile up at him.

He moves the jacket to hover over me when I step out. “I’ll get the bags. You can go inside.”

“And let you have all the fun in the rain?” I wink.

Wait—am I flirting?

His grin widens as he tosses the jacket to the ground. “Ah, she loves the rain. Good.”

Is he flirting?

He holds my stare, but I divert mine to the side like I expect someone to be watching us. We make our way to the trunk, where we each grab as many bags as we can load onto our arms, then hobble to the kitchen and dump the bags on the counter.

Laughing, I wring out my hair. Drops of water bead down my back, the crisp coolness doing nothing to counteract the heat pooling low in my core as Adam smiles at me.

I’ll admit there were times during my relationship with Chris I appreciated another attractive male, but I never let it go any further. It didn’t fester in my mind. But these new feelings of attraction—after I thought I’d never think of another male that way for the rest of my life—feel foreign.

He reaches up to strip his shirt off and my breath hitches as his creamy bare chest stands out in front of my stainless-steel fridge. Instead of continuing to ogle him, I busy myself by digging through the groceries for the cold items while Adam tosses on another shirt he has stashed in his tool bag. Snagging the oat milk, I push past him to the fridge. Seconds later, there’s warmth behind me.

“Here.” He hands me the sticks of butter I purchased and all of a sudden, I’m having trouble remembering why. I slide them into their spot in the drawer and turn to find Adam stepping into me. “Fleur.”

I close my eyes, wishing the sound of my name on his lips washed over me, beckoned me … but it doesn’t. My eyelids open as he tilts his chin inches from my face. I try backing up, avoiding this, but it would put me inside the open fridge.

Lips descend toward me, and as they graze mine, I lower my head, looking at my soaked sneakers. I wiggle my toes. Embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step back.

His apology draws my attention. I like him. Sincerely. He’s been a good friend for the month we’ve been working together. Why am I turning away from him? This would be a good thing for me. Right?

“No. No, Adam. I’m just … I’m fragile right now. I was in something long-term.” It never felt right telling him details about Chris, and I’m not sure I have the energy to explain right now.

“Totally understand. I’m being unprofessional.”

Somewhere, in some remote I-haven’t-been-touched dark alley of my mind, I scream at myself. Give him a chance.

I hold his gaze and press up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “I like you, Adam, our friendship. I’d like to go slow.”

The look of disappointment lifts from his frown and his eyes sparkle with hope. “Yeah? Because I’m crazy about you.”

I bite my lip, the corner of my mouth lifting.

Then I wait. Wait for the fluttering to come at his words. It doesn’t. At least not before the next words are out of his mouth.

“Let me take you to dinner. Please.”

I nod, wondering if my heart is just as lost as I am when I drive in the rain. And unfortunately, my rubber bands snap more than usual tonight.

“Chris came by the house yesterday.”

I pause, letting the sheet I’m tucking into a perfect hospital corner fall. Pink floral wallpaper garners my attention as I adjust my earbud. I’m sure I’ve heard my mother wrong.

“Came by?”

“Asked where you were and if you were okay,” she says flatly, and I catch myself almost sitting on the freshly pressed sheets. Cotton laundry softener tickles my nose as I press my palms into my eyes.

He should’ve asked if I was going to be okay before he cheated.

Snarling, I grab the sheet corner yanking it taut before tucking it into place, then move on to the next.

“I’m sorry, Mom. He’s been calling me, and I haven’t had the heart to answer.”

“Do not apologize for that weasel. I told him exactly how I feel about what he did.”

I cringe at her words. Not because I don’t appreciate her standing up for me, but because I know how close they were. Our families too. High school weekends were spent with him over at my house, both our parents taking turns driving us to dates before we could ourselves. When we graduated and purchased our own place, they’d come over for Sunday dinners and barbecues. He was like a second child to her. A son she never had.

“D-did you tell him where?—”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m going to tell him. Talk to him, I mean. But I need to find my footing first.” It’s true. Reliving the moment I found out my almost-decade-long relationship was a farce has kept me underwater. Drowning. The only clarity I had at that moment was enough to leave. And here, the only clarity seems to be when I’m focused on renovations.

“You don’t owe him anything, Fleur Jacobs. Remember that. But he looks worn down—older. I think he wants to make sure you’re safe.”

I clamp my mouth shut, not wanting to say something spiteful. Because bitterness has been my friend; a constant companion for the past couple of months.

Replacing the fluffed pillows on the bed, I chop them before taking out my turnover checklist and double-checking everything is ready for the next guests. Mrs. Northgate mentioned they’re a newlywed couple. Go figure.

“The house is getting there. You and Dad would love it. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s finished so y’all can come down for a visit.”

She chuckles in my ear. “Y’all? Oh boy, Fleur. We would love that though.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t wait for them to visit. Pretty sure they’ve been fighting the urge to hop on a plane and come down themselves to help me. But I’ve told them I need to do this on my own. Not counting the numerous phone calls to my dad, of course.

Adam has helped in that area. With the master bathroom almost complete and the new drywall going up in the living room this afternoon, the house is closer than I’d ever thought it’d be.

Costs more than I have, though.

I tried to cut down on labor by helping, but when the bills for tile, drywall, appliances, and lumber started rolling in, I knew picking up more hours here at the B&B was necessary. The credit card debt I’ve incurred is … shameful. For some reason, I couldn’t tell Adam no.

“Listen, Mom. I have to finish up a couple of rooms before I head out for the day.”

“Okay. Love you, sweetheart. We miss you.”

I catch a sniffle on the other end of the line and my heart sinks. They weren’t prepared for my leaving either. When I approached them with my choice to run to Ruin, they thought I might have lost all my marbles. Which may have been the case. Though I was dead serious, and I believe it pained them to know they weren’t everything I needed in that moment. But, as the amazing parents they are, they put my wants before their own and asked what they could do to make it happen.

After cleaning a room with particular wrappers and toys scattered all around—the couple obviously unashamed about their activities—I empty the fresh towel bin. Folding them is therapeutic and often my mind wanders while I stand there. My thoughts escape to my upcoming dinner date with Adam and the almost kiss in my kitchen.

Is it too soon?

I’m not na?ve. My heart is a mess. What I told him is the truth. I’m fragile.

After patting the newly stacked tower of towels, I lock up the supply closet and head downstairs, appreciating the sweeping curve of rich polished wood beneath my fingertips.

Clanging from the kitchen gives me pause before I ease the swinging door open, its effortlessness due to Mr. Northgate keeping it well oiled.

Mrs. Northgate fumbles with a kitchen cabinet hanging by a damaged hinge.

“Can I help?” I ask.

She jumps, the white cabinet face dropping to the counter. The color clashes with the black granite. The monochromatic colors in this kitchen surprised me the first time I entered, considering the rest of the bed-and-breakfast is more traditional. However, it’s grown on me.

“Darn it,” she mutters, then wipes her hands on her apron, moving to stir a pot on the stove. I glance at it as I walk over to the cabinet mishap, the steaming blueberries and sugar making me salivate.

Mrs. Northgate bakes desserts for all her guests as they check in. She leaves cookies, cakes, or pies out on the wet bar with a stocked mini fridge. Guests help themselves, and it’s always devoured by morning.

“Looks like you might need new hinges. These look broken.”

She nods, a smile poking over the wrinkled lines around her mouth. Her hands flutter to her hair, smoothing her chaotic strands back into her bun.

“I’ll have to get a handyman to come take care of it. Mr. Northgate is too busy with the property.”

“Oh, want me to ask Adam to stop by? I’m sure he could fix this quickly,” I ask as I move to the time sheet I have to submit for the end of the week. There’s only a slight discomfort when I volunteer Adam to fix the hinges. We aren’t an item. But he is a handyman. I shrug, mostly to myself, but I meet Mrs. Northgate’s eyes.

They’re preening with neutral disinterest.

She stiffens, rolling her shoulders back. Her normally soft, inviting demeanor has been plucked away, right off the hinges like the cabinet.

“No need. I’ll get someone to tend to it.”

I stare at her. Flour is tossed on the counter as she dusts an area and plops homemade pie crust down. What feels like the violent beat of a drum is actually her wooden rolling pin attacking the dough. Guess it’s a blueberry pie for the check-ins this afternoon.

This is the second time she’s gone weird on me about Adam. I’m missing something. Unfortunately, I hate confrontation, and I like my job too much to push back. Maybe he had a job here and they didn’t like his work. Or had a disagreement about something.

Either way, my shift is over, and I rise, smiling at Mrs. Northgate as she shoves flattened pie crust into a dish.

“Have a good night, Mrs. Northgate.”

“You too, sweetheart. Thank you.” She grins at me, shooing me out of the kitchen as I linger, flummoxed by her whiplash expressions. Homesickness settles in the pit of my stomach at her “sweetheart”. The name my mom always calls me, no matter my age.

Practically jogging to my car, I jump into the front seat. Reaching for the radio, I turn on the local station and back out of the side parking lot reserved for the Northgates and any staff. I was looking forward to my date tonight and seeing Adam. Part of me wants to be proud I’m going and working to put Chris behind me.

But the way Mrs. Northgate seems to freeze up when I mention his name …

I’m sure that in a small town gossip runs wild, and perhaps grudges linger when you interact with the same handful of people every day. She’d warn me about anything unsavory, right?