Page 6 of Fortune’s Control (Fortune’s Creek #1)

What happened to all my chairs? Benches and chairs covered the Live Oak Gallery’s veranda a week ago. I didn’t expect them to sell quite that fast.

The little bell above the door clinked as I opened it. “Hey, Pete. How’s business?”

Pete stood behind the glass counter, pencil in one hand and a well-used notebook in the other.

Most small businesses switched to computers and software long ago, while Pete eschewed modern conveniences whenever necessary.

“Better than ever. When are you sending in more?” Pete pulled his glasses down the bridge of his nose and marked a few lines in his notebook before shoving them both underneath the counter.

“Putting those benches in that grass space was one of your better ideas.”

Lilah sat on one the day we met. They were a valuable addition to the small town park and advertised the Live Oak Gallery. “Happy to donate them.”

I strolled through the store, curious to see if there were any new finds. The gallery catered to tourists and their desire to spend. They came for the antique stores and wandered over, eager to spend more money on art prints, jewelry, and home decor made by local artisans.

“When can you get more?” Pete’s long ponytail came over his shoulder before he swung it back with a quick shake. “The parlor asked me to pass on their thanks as well.”

“The ice cream parlor next door?” I asked, confused .

The two businesses shared the same building, a former residential home on one of the main streets, now split in half for retail use. Its original white paint changed to teal, while the wrap-around veranda and live oaks remained.

“The additional outside seating added foot traffic, and the scoop of ice cream gave shoppers an excuse to sit on the front porch and people watch.”

My brows lifted. “Good for them.”

“Your father taught you well. I see his talent in you.” Pete tapped my shoulder on his way to a display case. “He sold a few pieces, but gave most away. I expect you’ll find something of his in half the houses in town.”

“We worked together in the woodshop.” I never expected success.

My father created most of the wood furniture in my house and passed the hobby on to me.

I dabbled as a teen, but sports and girls interested me more, and if it weren’t for the accident, his tools would lie unused now, still waiting for someone else to take up the hobby. “Not always by choice.”

The accident ended my Marine career, and for the first time since graduating from high school, my life felt purposeless. Jack took me to the VA in Gainesville and to other medical appointments, and in between, I rediscovered woodworking.

I couldn’t drive or run and had no family or idea what to do next. On a lark, I created two cedar chairs, placed them under a magnolia tree, and kept going until they filled my garage, and Jack suggested I reach out to Pete. One could say those first few cedar chairs saved me.

“Well, it paid off now, Shane. When can you bring more?”

“Tomorrow? Jack will help load up my truck.”

“I open at nine.”

I tilted my head. According to the shop sign, the Live Oak Gallery opened at nine, six days a week, but that schedule required Pete to be there to unlock the shop’s front door. “I’ll be by closer to ten.”

Pete returned to his sales counter as the front doorbell chimed. Tourists entered, and their eager conversation about old dining tables carried to us.

He waved a greeting toward them and looked back at me, deliberating between money and gossip.

I had expected him to pelt me with questions from the moment I entered; only years of knowing Pete and a lifetime of friendship with my father restrained him.

With tourists ready to shop, it’d keep his questions to a minimum, giving me a chance to sate his curiosity and make a quick escape.

I nodded. Answering his questions and preempting one of Fortune’s Creek’s biggest gossips was better. “Her name is Lilah. It’s good to hear the rumor mill is doing its job.”

No hint of shame appeared in his expression.

“I ran into Diane at the grocery, and she told me about her.” He whistled.

“I didn’t want to believe it, but she said you two made googly eyes at each other all night before you asked her.

When do you plan to bring her around? You can’t keep her hidden at your house forever, Shane.

This may be your honeymoon, but a lady still enjoys her evenings out.

Keeping them happy, that’s the secret to wedded bliss.

” Pete, a lifelong bachelor, crossed his arms with satisfaction

“That’s excellent advice, Pete. I’ll think about it.

” Thought and dismissed. There was no value in taking advice, no matter how well-intentioned, from a man content to admire Diane from afar.

He was fifteen years older and had latched on to the idea that their age difference could not be overcome, and it wasn’t my place to convince him otherwise.

“You do that. Dinner, and maybe one of the baseball games. Give yourself someone in the stands rooting for you.”

My mood soured. “I’ll consider it.” There was no point in going public with Lilah, considering an annulment lay in our future.

Five days in, and we had rarely spoken since picking up her car.

She used the pool and thanked me with a batch of chocolate chip cookies, which I gave to my friends.

She rode a bike one afternoon and spent another reading under an oak tree.

“Pleased to hear it, and now it’s time for me to help decorate their dining tables.” Pete wagged his brow, rehearsing his well-used sales pitch. “Shane, one last thing. Smaller items. Come up with more products, and let’s talk.”

“I’ll work on that.”

Pete didn’t hear me. I chuckled and left the store.

*****

“Why are we doing this again?” Jack asked.

“Because my success is your greatest dream.” Aiden walked past me, carrying more debris to the rented dumpster out back. “Admit it. You find my ambition aspirational.”

“Fixing up sixty-year-old cars for obnoxious rich guys? Yes, that’s my greatest dream.”

Aiden’s well-known knack for taking apart broken jalopies and putting them back together led to restoring antique cars for a retired professor, who later referred Aiden to other collectors.

So far, he used his father’s garage or rented space in Willard’s auto shop, but further growth required a larger, more permanent space.

“The dumpster is full. Who’s doing a run?” I asked. Mostly to break up an argument before it started, and also because it was one damaged tile away from overflowing.

“Dean volunteered his services. I have a date tonight. Also, you’re doing it again.” Aiden double-punched my arm. “I’m irresponsible, not oblivious.”

“I made an observation. That’s not the same as giving orders.”

Jack frowned, waving his hand from side to side. “With you, it kind of is.”

“It’s really not,” I persisted and changed the topic. “That reminds me. I need you over tomorrow at ten. We’re loading up more chairs to drop off at Pete’s in the morning.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“It’s an order this time.”

“Sure, if you watch the game with me tonight.”

“What game?”

“The one that involves a six-pack of beer,” Jack said as Aiden returned from the dumpster. “What took you so long?”

Aiden’s eyes gleamed. “Spoke to a potential customer in Miami. Two corvettes, a 1958 and a 1962, but it’s not a done deal yet. I asked him to text me some pictures, and we’d talk again in the morning. Two of them.” He pumped his fist. “I might need to drive and get them if it comes through.”

“Congrats,” I said, unsure what else to say, and then it hit me. “We should keep moving. You’ll need this space sooner than you realize.”

Aiden sighed. “I want to argue on general principles, but you’re right.” He gazed up the narrow staircase. “Jack, when you said we should do the upstairs first, you meant the opposite, right?”

Jack rubbed his chin with his thumb and flashed a sardonic grin. “Sure. The roof is in top-notch condition, so we can assume there are no structural issues upstairs. We can work in the dark, too, if you want, and see how that goes.”

Aiden huffed. “Well, who died and made you chief asshole? ”

“I was born this way.”

Aiden climbed the stairs without a backward glance. “I want to start first thing. Dean is off tomorrow, and with luck, no houses will catch fire, so let’s get moving on a plan.”

Stairs. I considered moving my bedroom to the first floor more than once, but continued to resist the idea.

Living on the first floor meant giving up, and I refused to do that.

Besides, the stairs leading to Lilah’s garage apartment were worse as the uneven distance between steps made it difficult to maintain momentum.

I gripped the handrail, stepped, and pulled myself up.

Jack and Aiden pretended not to notice my delayed arrival.

“The windows open fine.” Aiden opened and closed one to prove it.

“That’s not the problem. They’re half-rotten. You need to replace them, too,” Jack said.

“I don’t care about rotting wood.”

“Your tenant will.” Jack avoided responsibility but was a stickler for proper construction practices. I wondered, not for the first time, if all he needed was the right project.

Aiden shrugged. “Everyone enjoys a cross breeze at night.”

“I can’t. I am out of words.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shane, please help me.”

“What’s the plan for out front?” I asked to change the subject and rescue my friend.

The building was once a car dealership. White paint, now almost invisible from time and the elements, spelled out its former name on the side of the building.

The red brick and metal roof were distinctive enough, but the front entry gave the place its charm.

A weathered overhang, with hints of rust and faded blue paint, caught one’s eye, while a faded orange sign advertising a business that had closed decades ago stood out front.

He didn’t hesitate. “That’s all staying. Oh, I meant to ask, did you ever tell your new wife that you don’t like chocolate?”

Aiden’s casual delivery almost got me. “I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

Lilah wrapped the plate of chocolate chip cookies with a pretty blue bow and a handmade card. I couldn’t stand chocolate, but it wasn’t like the topic would ever come up.

He wasn’t done. “Have you two carried out a single conversation? I mean the kind where you interact like humans rather than you telling her what to do.”

“We interact.”

The two of them asked this question, in varying forms, every day, and I was no closer to a direct answer than I had been the first time.

Jack chimed in as he watched me with curious eyes. “Do you intend to stay married to her? Does she expect you to stay married?”

“Let’s keep moving. I have work to do before tomorrow morning.” I’d answer his questions once I knew.