Page 13 of Under Locke & Key

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I walk back to the parking garage, reminding me that I’ve ignored my mother’s text message. One I hope Rachel didn’t see.

Scratch that. Messages . I thumb through them as Dulaney passes me by, my mind on so much more than just downtown and all its memories.

Mom

How did it go?

What is she like?

Is she nice?

I hope you weren’t too nervous.

We love you.

Please pick up a gallon of milk and some toilet paper at the grocery store on the way home. Your father got sidetracked and forgot when he went out yesterday.

My mother’s little barrage of messages swirl in my mind and I don’t know what to say. Circling the block, driving aimlessly through downtown, I can’t quite go home yet. Not while I’m so keyed up and unsure of myself.

That was weird, right? That interview that was barely one at all was the last thing I expected when she walked through the door in her business garb with her tidy braid and her heels clicking against the floor.

The first thing I saw and thought was that she was like Stephanie. Polished. Professional. Ambitious. Should I really be surprised that I found myself drawn to another person that is more like who I want to be than who I actually am?

But then she struggled to hop up onto the chair in her heels and she gave me such a raw once-over that I realized she might have a veneer but it isn’t guile.

She bit her bottom lip in thought before she launched into another question and even though it was hard for me to force myself to meet her gaze the whole time—my own discomfort aside—I couldn’t help comparing her rich dark brown eyes to the city roast Arabica beans Gerard keeps behind the counter to make the shop smell inviting.

What is she like?

Pretty. Rachel Mackey is far more attractive than I was ready for.

She is quick and engaging and has the tiniest hint of a dimple in her right cheek that never quite fully made its way out in her half-smiles.

The way she looked up at me, dark eyes and dark hair, and closer than I’ve been to anyone in months, practically sent me running as soon as I was sure that she’d be a good fit for the job.

She’s stunning and that’s not something I can focus on right now—and definitely not something I plan on divulging to my mother.

The last thing I can afford is to crush on my employee. I might as well throw my money out the car window while I drive through Dulaney if I’m going to let that stand.

I’m on my second drive up Main when I actually take stock of some location options.

The stately Old National Bank-turned-Borders is empty and has been since they went bankrupt.

Two blocks down, Dulaney’s allegedly haunted old movie theater has shuttered and the marquee is yellowed and broken with only an “F” and “U” remaining.

And a few blocks away, on the edges of the downtown area—further from the foot traffic than I’d like—is the old plant my grandfather worked at, sanding and sawing furniture he never got to bring home, working his hands into a rough surface I loved and hated to shake hands with on Sundays.

It’s a strange juxtaposition, the old and the new trying to coexist in a place that hasn’t quite found its footing in the current era.

They’re trying. The flags and the festivals, and the locals revitalizing this part of town but those empty locations—forgotten for a while—say that we aren’t quite there.

Taking pictures of every location with a “To Lease” sign out front, I finish my meandering.

Eventually I gather my wits enough to head over to the grocery store closest to our development and when I get home with my mom’s requested goods she’s in the kitchen finishing up on a pan of lasagna that’s way too much food for just the three of us.

“Thanks for picking those up.” She hugs me with her oven mitts still on and doesn’t even wait for me to respond before she launches into something else.

“So . . . tell me about this girl.”

“She’s not a girl, that’s demeaning to her and the work she’s put into her career.

” It’s blunter than I intended but something about the way my mom phrases it—the same way she would’ve asked if I’d just gotten back from a date—rubs me the wrong way.

Maybe not because of how she’ll perceive Rachel but instead how she’ll perceive me and my reaction to her.

It takes such a long time to untangle my mind. I’d rather not have to do it in the moment in front of my mom.

“Well . . . yes. Still, how was it?”

She’s not going to drop it and I hate the way I understand it.

Once she’s started on something, no matter how small and benign, it sticks in her mind like a burr—same way it does for me.

Breathing through the choice between keeping my thoughts close so I have the chance to tuck them in their proper boxes or getting my mom off my back and out of her loop . . . I give in.

“I offered her the position. She seems very nice and took genuine interest in the idea. I’ll need your help with some of the contract stuff because she raised a lot of good points and I’d appreciate feedback from both you and dad before I put it all in writing.

We’re meeting up again on the weekend so she can sign and to take a look at some options for spaces. ”

If she can sense my slight agitation, she makes no show of it. Then again, my mother and I are so alike when it comes to emotions—hard to express, intense but private unless we state otherwise.

“That’s good. You know we’d be happy to help however we can. Whatever makes you happy is what matters to us.” She gives me a small smile before she turns her head toward the living room where my dad’s likely watching some How It's Made show. “Frank! Dinner’s ready.”

We settle around the kitchen table, pasta slightly too hot for comfortable consumption steaming on our forks and red sauce dripping when we’re too slow to catch the bites in our mouths.

“Bryce says he needs help with some business stuff.” My mom introduces the topic and I’m grateful.

“I offered the position but she had some asks—namely insurance, set maximum work hours, and a stake.”

My father sucks a whistle into his mouth, “Smart. Definitely the right stuff to ask for. You gonna do it?”

“I told her I’d think about it and draw up a contract for her to sign this weekend.

I’d like to say yes. I agree. Those are good things to ask for.

I’m just a little upset that I didn't think about them first. In fact, I felt pretty unprepared for the interview on the whole. Being on the other side of this is stranger than I expected.”

“You can’t plan for everything, bud. No matter how much you want to.

Sometimes there might just be something you missed, and that’s okay.

” Frank Dawson is the kind of man that lives open and loud.

Not a single emotion can hide on that face, including the kind smile he gives me now as he pats the top of my hand in commiseration.

“I want this to work.”

“And it will. Your dad and I are here to help. Now, I’ll draft up the contract and you and your dad can go over some potential locations. He might know someone in town that can help.”

“Thank you, both.” I’ve missed this—missed them. So much of what I had with Steph was private, and I liked it that way, but it made for lonely times when things became strained between us. Having the people who know me best to support me isn’t something to scoff at.

I need unbiased outsiders to steady me when I get distracted.

I need people who didn’t feel how soft yet strong Rachel’s grip was or the way she smelled like something understated and herbal, soothing instead of overly sweet.

It may have only been an hour or so with Rachel Mackey, but she’s done enough unbalancing to make me fixate on the wrong things.

I need my parents to get me back on track.

It shouldn’t matter how she smells, or looks, or how her voice is warm and even.

Her merits and resume should speak for themselves, but I can’t lie and say I’m not intrigued.

She doesn’t fit into the premade boxes I have, and only a few others in my life—people I’ve had years to become accustomed to—defy the parameters I have in place to understand people.

Stephanie fit comfortably in her box that came with its checklist of ways I had to please her, and still it wasn’t enough. Just how the hell am I supposed to cope with someone I have no precedence for?

* * *

Saturday arrives in a blaze of spring sunshine cutting through the garage apartment window and the sound of my father mowing. Despite the nerves eating up my stomach, I managed a couple of hours sleep, and I step into a hot shower to perk me up enough to get through dressing.

Henley and jeans this time. The second meeting we’ll be having where I’m not in my usual scratchy button ups and slacks.

I don’t know what it says about me as a business owner but the fabric is soft, long sleeves to stave off the still-chilly breeze, but thin enough for when the sun bakes the indoors.

Despite the futility of it, I give myself a once-over in the bathroom mirror before I leave.

A little too shaggy for the office. My hair is longer than I usually keep it and the scruff I’ve kept at varying lengths over the last nine months has slowly become familiar.

Paired with my outfit, I look—relaxed. Even though that word doesn’t really feel like it suits me.

Quiet, yes. Careful, usually. Relaxed, not within my mind.

Fastening my boots, I do my regular double knot.

I should have told her to forgo the heels this time, in case we have any uneven flooring or way too many steps, but even if I’d thought about it sooner—we’ve less than an hour until we meet up at the old bank—I doubt I’d have gone through with it.

Who am I to tell her how to dress? Why should it matter to me at all?