Burying Water (17 page)

I check my watch. “I’m only two minutes late, Ginny. Come on.”

She swats the air. “I don’t care about dinner. I’ve been sitting here, waiting for the truck to pull up for forty-five minutes. I thought something had happened to you!”

“Oh.” I sigh with relief. And then I smile. Ginny was
worried
about me.

Someone is
worried
about me.

“What the hell are you so happy about?”

“Nothing, it’s just . . .” I stifle my smile. “The truck broke down. It just
died
.”

“Oh.” She pauses, and then turns to the empty driveway, puzzled. “How’d you get home then? Did Gabe come get you?”

I open my mouth to answer, wondering if it’s better to lie. But lying to Ginny just doesn’t feel right, with all she has done for me. “Actually, Jesse was driving by so he gave me a ride.”

The way Ginny gasps, you’d think someone had just informed her that a loved one had died in a fiery plane crash.

And I start to think I should have lied.

“I knew I heard that car of his!”

“He’s going to fix your truck and bring it back for us, Ginny. He was
really
nice to me.”

I can hear her teeth grind against each other. “I told you to stay away from that damn boy. He’s trouble.”

“Would you rather I still be walking home alone right now, carrying all those bags?”

“You could have called Gabe and Amber.”

“My phone died.”

“Well, what’s the point of having a phone then, huh?” she barks.

“He was really nice, Ginny, and he’s going to fix the truck for us,” I repeat calmly, adding a smile. That’s how I’ve noticed Meredith deals with her. I think it’s the
only
way to deal with Ginny. “I’m guessing it wouldn’t be cheap to fix. And tow to a mechanic.” I know I can’t afford to fix the truck on my nine-dollars-an-hour cash wage. From what Meredith has said, Ginny lives on a modest monthly budget, thanks to an inheritance from her parents and her quilt sales.

“No . . . I suppose not,” she mutters, scooping up some of the pasta. The words carry their usual snip, but there’s no heat in them anymore. She allows me to ladle the sauce onto her plate, though her fingers twitch the entire time. “I don’t want to see him on my property.”

I nod. There are just some things Ginny’s better off not knowing. She didn’t see him on her property anyway, so technically it’s okay.

Wanting to steer her away from the topic, I say, “So I met Chuck Fanshaw today. He said to tell you ‘hi’ from his family.”

“Oh, I’ll bet he did,” she grumbles. “His grandfather showed up here a month after Papa died, trying to scam me out of this place. Chased him away.”

My gaze shifts to the straw broom resting by the door. She was ten seconds away from swatting the cable guy with it that day he arrived to hook up my cable. I know it’s not just a figure of speech for Ginny.

Though I know I’m going to regret this, I bring it up anyway. “He mentioned boarding horses in the barn. Have you ever considered that?”

“And have people traipsing all over my property? Over my dead body.” She shovels a mouthful of pasta into her mouth.

I shrug. “You’d also have horses running in the corrals. Wouldn’t that be nice to see again?”

I get a harrumph in response, but it’s better than a litany of cursing, so I leave it alone.

“What else did the little Fanshaw say?”

Her reference to Chuck being “little” makes me smile. He’s at least six feet tall and two hundred pounds. “Basically that I should swindle you out of your vast fortune by getting on your good side.”

Her hand freezes midway to her mouth for one . . . two . . . three seconds. And then Ginny does something I’ve never seen her do before. She starts to laugh.

We eat the rest of our dinner in comfortable silence, with no more mention of “that damn boy” next door.

TWENTY-ONE

Jesse

then

Heels click against the garage floor, pulling my attention from the engine. I swing around.

And suck in a mouthful of air.

She’s wearing the same short, sparkly blue dress that she wore the night I met her at the lounge. I remember thinking she looked cheap then. I’m still not crazy about the dress, but I’d never call her cheap now.

“Hi, Jesse.”

With her bright red lipstick, the fat lip she had three nights ago isn’t visible. But I know it was there, and I’m still angry about it.

Viktor’s been around the house for the last two nights, so Alex has stayed away. Or maybe she would have anyway. It’s probably best. If I had to look at that lip while working on this engine of his, I probably would have taken a blowtorch to his Shelby. Still, three days without seeing her has only emphasized for me how much I like being around her.

“The door into the mudroom is unlocked if you need to use the bathroom. The gate is set to open automatically from the inside. Just remember to shut this door when you leave, okay?”

“Where are you going?”

“The Cellar.”

I glance at my watch. “It’s only nine thirty.”

She shrugs. “Viktor called. He wants me there earlier, so I have to go earlier.”

“Just like that?”

She smiles sadly. “Just like that.” She hasn’t been sleeping well; I can tell by the makeup caked on around her eyes, which does a poor job of masking the dark circles.

“That getup . . .” I jut my chin toward her dress. “I know that’s not you.” I know it’s all part of her façade for her husband.

She shakes her head, her hands stretching out the hem to show me even more of her long, lean legs. “I hate this dress, but wearing it makes things easier for myself.”

“I wouldn’t make you wear that shit,” I hear myself say. I don’t know where that came from but now that it’s out, I can’t stop. “I’d let you dye your hair whatever color you wanted. I’d let you shave it off; I’d let you wear men’s sweatpants. I’d do anything I could to keep you in school. I’d never leave you alone in the dark.” My eyes settle on that lip again, the truth hidden by a streak of red. “I’d never lay a hand on you. Not like that, anyway.”

Alex’s chest rises and falls with deep, shaky breaths as her eyes turn glassy. I glance down at my hands to confirm the grease. As much as I want to, I can’t touch her right now. But she can touch me. And she does, lifting her hand to graze the back of my cheek with her knuckles. “I know you wouldn’t, Jesse,” she whispers. “If I don’t see you when we get home, then have a good night.”

I watch her walk toward her car, her calf muscles straining against the height of those heels.

I’d kill to be back in that pricey hotel room again.

Time escapes me.

Really, it’s the thrill of turning the key in the ignition for the first time, the satisfaction that I’ve put all these pieces of metal and rubber together in just the right way, that has kept me here so late. That’s why I’m sitting in the driver’s side of the Aston Martin in Viktor’s garage when I hear Alex’s engine revving. Her headlights hit me as she races up the driveway.

I hold off, wanting to see her face when I start this car, curious about what she’ll say. Unfortunately, the engine cuts off and Viktor climbs out of the driver’s seat. My disappointment swells. It’s stupid, really. This is his car. He’s the one who needs to be excited.

“Jesse! What are you still doing here?”

Though it’s not obvious with his accent, I’m pretty sure he’s slurring. I answer him by turning the key. The engine fires instantly.

Viktor’s mouth drops open and a stupid grin stretches across his face. Behind him, Alex steps out of the passenger seat, her face pale, her eyes lined with smeared makeup. Stumbling forward, Viktor slaps the roof of the car and nods slowly. “You are a hard worker.”

Not sure what to say to that, I simply shut the engine off.

“So, is it done?”

“Just about. It’ll be ready to go to your body shop by tomorrow tonight.”

“Perfect. I can send it away just before I leave for St. Petersburg. Did you hear that, Alexandria? My car is almost finished.”

Viktor is going to Russia.
That’s news to me. Is Alex going with him?

“That’s wonderful, Viktor.” She gives him a weak smile.

He looks back at me and rolls his eyes. “Tomorrow, then.” Without waiting for my answer, he walks back out, grabbing the back of Alex’s neck on the way. There’s nothing about it that looks gentle or loving.

I take a step forward but her hand lifts, palm out, quietly telling me to stay put. “Come, my wife. Your husband works so hard for you. Time to make him happy.”

I grit my teeth as I watch them disappear around the corner. The front door slams a few seconds later. I can’t pack up my shit fast enough. Slapping my fist against the garage door button, I’m gone in under two minutes. I have a good idea of what’s happening upstairs right now.

And I hate it.

TWENTY-TWO

Water

now

I wake with the loud bang outside my open kitchen window. A sinking dread takes over as I lie frozen, not breathing.

And then the yelling starts.

“That’s what an agreement is, Jesse!”

“This changes everything!”

“No, it hasn’t. Not for her.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“You . . . you can’t just change your mind!” Though Sheriff Gabe’s voice is naturally commanding, he has always kept the volume of it in check. Until now. “This was your idea.”

“And it was a fucking stupid one, Dad.” A car door slams. “I can’t do it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“You’re right! I don’t. I’ve already quit my job and moved out of my apartment. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

Jesse’s
moving back
? A small thrill spikes in my chest with the prospect of seeing him every day, even as I wonder what caused it. Maybe it has something to do with that girl in Portland that Amber mentioned.

My curiosity pulls me out of bed. I run on tiptoes across my apartment to the kitchen window that offers a perfect view of the front of the garage. Jesse and Sheriff Gabe are facing off behind Ginny’s truck, the tail end peeking out from inside the garage. That means he got it working again. I don’t care as much about that right now, though.

“After all I have done . . .” Sheriff Gabe is saying. “Your sister’s in the dark! I’ve lied to my
wife
and when she finds out . . . I could lose
everythin
g with the things I’ve done for you. Things I
still
can’t believe I ever did. Have you forgotten?”

“How could I ever forget
any
of this?” Jesse launches the tool in his hand at the wall. Even from here, I can see the split in the plaster from the impact. He turns to rest his hands on the truck’s tailgate, his head bowed.

Sheriff Gabe finally reaches out to place a hand on his son’s shoulder. Jesse brushes his face against his own shoulder.

He’s crying. The cool, quiet guy who’s been in all kinds of trouble is crying.

Jesse steps away from his father and, grabbing a tool from the counter, moves inside the garage, out of view. Gabe follows him in.

I’m wide awake now. But if there’s any more conversation, it’s too quiet to catch. Sheriff Gabe walks back to his house, a flashlight guiding his way, leaving Jesse to toil on Ginny’s truck and me perched on the counter, watching. For hours.

At about three a.m. I catch myself nodding off in my sitting position and have to give my spot up, afraid I’ll fall asleep and tumble. I crawl back into bed, the image of Jesse wiping his tears away lingering as I drift off.

I drag my feet to the landing outside my front door just before eight, wishing I could sleep longer. It’s the first time I’ve actually lazed around in bed upon waking since coming to Ginny’s. Normally, reality hits me like a splash of cold water seconds after my eyes open and I have to get out of bed before I dwell too long on the bad stuff.

Maybe I’m finally settling in.

The horses are already kicking at their stable doors, eager to be free of their confines. I have exactly four minutes before Ginny heads down to the barn and sees that I don’t have them out and fed. I don’t want her to think I’m slacking.

Peering over at the Welleses’ house, I see that Sheriff Gabe’s cruiser is gone, which is normal by this time of day. Even on a Saturday. Amber’s and Meredith’s cars are parked. Amber would have already left for work, and Meredith is no doubt still sleeping. The sleek black car sits next to the closed garage, and the small window hidden within its steeply peaked roof is pushed open just enough to let the fresh air in. Will he be angry if I wake him up in an hour, to get my truck out?

I’ll admit that I’m more excited by the prospect than worried. Taking the steps down—much faster, now that I’m barely limping—I round the corner and discover that I won’t be knocking on Jesse’s door.

Ginny’s truck is already sitting beside our garage.

Jesse must have driven it here early this morning. Or maybe Sheriff Gabe did. That would be better for all involved, given Ginny’s issues. I don’t know how I didn’t hear it, though.

Inside, the keys dangle from the ignition and a small plastic container of blueberries sits on the seat, a piece of paper tucked beneath it. “Blueberries?” I frown as I unfold the paper.

In case you’re ever stuck again

Below it is a phone number. I run my fingers over the digits, my focus jumping back and forth between the words and the numbers, that constant weight in my chest lifting higher with each breath as a shiver simultaneously runs down my spine.

Because something tells me Jesse is the kind of guy that I can always count on. My gut must be telling me that I had someone just like him in my previous life. Someone I trusted.

I tuck the paper into the back pocket of my jeans, promising myself to program it into my phone as soon as I can. Then I turn the key. The truck comes to life instantly, the engine a low, smooth rumble, sounding better than it ever did before. Other things are different, too. The signal indicator has an actual plastic cover over the metal lever again. The missing heat vent has been replaced. And the radio . . . it’s completely new.

I sink back against the stiff, tan-colored bench. Jesse stayed up most of the night working on this truck, when he didn’t have to. And then he drove it up Ginny’s driveway in the wee hours of the morning. I shake my head. Sounds like he enjoys poking a wasp’s nest.

I’ll have to thank him later.

I get to the barn to take care of morning chores, receiving amorous nuzzles against my cheek in greeting from the Felixes. Though technically I could have both stalls cleaned and horses groomed faster, I take my time with the horses each morning and I think they appreciate the attention.

I know I do.

I’m just finishing up with their water buckets when Ginny’s rubber boots scrape against the barn’s dirt floor. Felix hobbles in, the old dog’s limbs stiff with arthritis. “So, the truck is working again?”

“Yup. Better than before, too.” She’s half an hour late. She’s never late. Even though I’ve taken over all of the work, she’s always still here. Out of habit, I’ve assumed. But something feels different today.

She wanders along one side of the barn, gazing over each stall and each name that hangs above it. She would have known each one of those horses—fed them, cared for them, bonded with them. While Ginny’s connections with other human beings are limited and awkward, I’ve watched the way she is around the animals, and how they are with her in turn. She has the dog at her heels all day long; I’ve seen the cat perched on the porch railing on more than one occasion and, though she verbally condemned the kittens to death-by-coyote, the colorful balls of yarn that she tosses them to play with tells me she doesn’t really want that. Even the horses will leave their patch of grass and trot over to greet her when she takes short quilting breaks and steps into the corral.

“I thought about what you said. You know . . . boarding horses.” She clears her throat heavily, as if getting these words out is difficult. “And having more horses in the pasture. It might be nice.”

I stand stock still, a mixture of surprise and excitement flooding through me.

She adds, “I still have to think about it some more.” Then she walks out quietly, her ever faithful canine companion at her heels.

Leaving me whistling a tune to myself as I finish up.

I’m freshly showered and heading down my stairs when I notice that the Welleses’ garage door is open again. A man’s voice over the radio is announcing concert dates.

A glance at my watch tells me I have maybe five minutes to spare.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the property fence. The garage is set back about 150 feet from the house and surrounded by trees. By the time I reach it, I have full-on, ready-to-pee-my-pants jitters.

A guitar plays softly on the stereo as I step in. The garage itself is extremely tidy, all the tools lined up on a rustic wood table that stretches the length of the room. The concrete floors—painted a silvery blue—are swept clean. Posters of fancy old cars plaster the walls and a calendar with a curvy woman in a white string bikini hangs in the corner. Peering closer at it, I see that it’s from 2007. I guess Jesse either really likes those particular women or he doesn’t have much use for calendars.

My nose catches a sickly sweet smell as I pass by a giant jug of transmission fluid. Behind it is a shelf of various jars and containers, all neatly labeled with fractional numbers, filled with little nuts and bolts and metal rings.

There’s something oddly comfortable about the space. I could see myself sitting here, watching Jesse work. If he was here.

The ceiling creaks. He must be upstairs. I stop in front of the brown door at the back of the garage, deciding whether I should just leave a thank-you note or wait and talk to him in person. Footfalls sounding on the other side of the door, coming fast and hard, make my decision for me. The door flies open and Jesse barrels out, tugging a shirt down over his chest, giving me a quick glimpse of a sculpted body beneath.

He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes—lined with dark circles—widening with surprise. A drip of water runs down his cheek. I inhale the smell of soap, so masculine and clean. He just had a shower. “Ah . . . Water, what are you doing here?”

My cheeks are on fire. “Sorry, I was just here . . . I mean, I wanted to say thank you for the truck . . . for fixing it, I mean.” I’m suddenly stammering and I don’t know why. “It runs great now.”

He steps out of the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him. Though I know I should, I don’t step back. I hold my breath as he passes me, the smell of him stirring something deep in my belly.

There’s no point denying the fact that I’m attracted to Jesse. The heat that’s crawling up my thighs has confirmed that. But, what would it be like, being with a guy again after being raped? Would I enjoy it? Would it feel at all familiar? Would it trigger memories of what I don’t want to remember? How can something that intimate not?

And then I think of the unsightly thin line running down my face and I almost laugh. Besides, Jesse obviously has problems right now. Some of those problems may involve that girl he broke up with, but there must be more. The fight between him and his father last night was about something more serious than a bad breakup.

“How much do I owe you for the parts?” I ask, trailing him out of the garage.

“Nothing.”

“Seriously, Jesse.”

He stops with a hand on the handle of his driver’s-side door, his back to me, his head dipped forward. “Seriously, Water. It was nothing. A few cheap parts from the wreckers. I’ve gotta head out now, though.” He adds a soft, “Okay?”

“Sure, of course.” I hesitate and then ask, “Why blueberries?”

A long pause hangs between us and then he shrugs. “Because they’re my favorite.”

I watch until the back of the car disappears around the house and then I head back to the yellow truck. Ginny’s standing beside it, narrow eyes on me. “Did I just see you over next door with that boy?”

“I went to thank him for fixing the truck. I’ve gotta go, Ginny. I’ll be late for work.” I’m in no mood to appease Ginny’s foul temper.

The little container of blueberries still sits in the middle of the seat. With a shrug, I open it and pop one into my mouth, puckering against the pleasant tangy flavor. Pulling out my word association journal, I scribble down the word and say out loud, “Blueberry,” as if I’m quizzing myself. My pen curls around the letters of his name as I write down my one-word response. And then I shake my head and strike it out. I toss the book back into my purse.

On my way in to work, I devour the entire container. And I decide that blueberries are my favorite fruit, too.