Page 12 of Love & Rockets

Jake tried to shake the memories off. Ancient history. In some ways, his brief, and secret, engagement to his college sweetheart seemed like a scene from a movie. Most days, he felt a little like a capped tooth—everything shiny and clean on the surface, but underneath, the original was ugly, possibly rotten, and the imprint of acute pain lingered.

Inhaling deeply, he forced the thought from his head. Darla Kennet had asked him to come to her place for dinner. He held onto the oxygen for a moment, letting the salty air brine his lungs as he continued to chug along.

He loved living close to the bay. Having the dark expanse of water right outside his door made it somehow easier to block out the city lights surrounding him. His unit had a rooftop garden area. On the day he moved in, he’d set up his bed, covered the mattress in the sheets he’d been toting from apartment to apartment for years, then went straight up to the roof to set up the new high-powered telescope he’d bought himself as a housewarming present.

Slowing to a walk, he laced his fingers behind his head and tipped his head back to check on the moon again. Yep. Still there. Big, beautiful, and beaming like a spotlight from the velvety darkness. Blinking at the stars, he wondered if Grace Kennet had a telescope and made a mental note to put his old one in his trunk in case she didn’t.

He had no way of knowing what the girl would need. Just as Darla had no way of knowing he’d totally lied when he said he mentored kids vying for an It IS Rocket Science scholarship.

Guilt twisted in his gut. Truth be told, he’d never even read the entry reports. He merely signed off on the disbursement of funds each year. But when Darla said she wanted his help for Grace, he’d seen his shot. He’d figure out the logistics of his involvement later.

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Jake slowed to a stop behind a line of dusty pickup trucks. The first time he showed up on a site, the guys from Cade Construction had razzed him mercilessly about his shiny import SUV. He’d let them have their fun as he strapped on his stiff new tool belt, then unlatched the hood to show off the engine. The guys who volunteered their nights and weekends to Home Again reclamation projects might not have fancy engineering degrees, but there wasn’t a man alive who couldn’t appreciate the beauty of German mechanical genius.

He’d been bitten by the home improvement bug when Brian proved he was better off handling paint rollers than table saws. Under the guise of helping his brother, Jake had learned the ins and outs of laying tile, mitering crown molding, and installing cabinetry. He’d also discovered he loved working with his hands.

Hoisting the loaded leather tool belt from the back seat, he lifted a hand to let the project lead know he was reporting for duty. Christian Lacour had the kind of exotic good looks that made other guys contemplate tragic nail gun accidents. Even Jake would have pegged him as more the office type than a hands-on kind of guy. A hotshot out of Tulane University in New Orleans, the guy had a master’s degree in something called sustainable real estate development.

Harley’d high fived himself for days after Lacour accepted the position, thrilled to have the brunt of Home Again’s project management load taken off his plate. But he still spent a good chunk of time onsite. Ninety percent of Cade Construction employees still volunteered a number of their off hours on various jobs. Harley included.

Though Jake had never had any formal training in building and construction, the smell of sawdust embedded itself in his pores. After Brian’s house was finished, he’d tackled a kitchen update for his mother, but a few weeks being micromanaged by the woman who gave him life taught him a tough lesson. He needed to find someplace more peaceful to ply his skills. Like a full-fledged renovation site.

Lucky for him, his mom had been pleased as punch with her new backsplash. She’d bragged to Connie Cade at some fundraiser or another, Connie mentioned something to Laney Tarrington, who then babbled to Brooke, and the next thing he knew, Jake was following Harley Cade around a neighborhood that had never fully recovered from the last hurricane to bitch-slap the Alabama coast.

Year after year, Mother Nature did her best to drive them out. And every time, men like Harley Cade and the people behind the Home Again project stood up to her by coming right back to the coast. At least, until the triple whammy of hurricanes Ivan, Dennis, and Katrina hit. Modeled after Habitat for Humanity, Home Again required the homeowners to invest a modest down payment and a heap of sweat equity into their new home. This particular project hit a little closer to the heart than most.

The potential homeowner, Jeremiah Rasmussen, had once been Mobile’s most dynamic Cub Scouts leader. Recruiting volunteers for the project had been a breeze. Most every guy around Jake’s age had been in his pack at one time or another. Now, a man in his middle fifties, he’d lived through so many humbling experiences he’d been forced to accept help from the boys he’d once led with grace and dignity.

At one time, he’d been a well-paid middle manager for Tarrington Industries. Then, Katrina did a number on his house and both cars. The killer storm also marked the beginning of the end for his career. Tarrington Industries was closed under a cloud of mismanagement and bankruptcy proceedings, and hundreds of Mobile area residents found themselves suddenly unemployed. Mr. Rasmussen had taken a job managing facilities for a chain of local car dealerships, but his new employer didn’t pay nearly what he was used to making and his savings depleted merely trying to keep his family afloat. Desperate, he’d moved his family up to Memphis to take a more promising job. His new gig lasted long enough for him to think he might recover—then the layoffs came.

A lifelong realist, Mr. Rasmussen said himself there wasn’t a lot of call for guys a few years shy of retirement age in the current job market. Knowing Harley Cade was now the guy with his hand in every pie, and aching to move back to the coast, he’d put in a call to the kid he’d once kicked out of his scout pack and asked for help.

“Pride is a luxury few men can afford,” he said as they watched the concrete slab foundation being poured. “If swallowing what’s left of mine is what it takes to come home, then I’ll gulp it down without so much as a sip of water.” He’d flashed a sad smile as he looked around at the assembled volunteers. “This is home. I never want to leave again.”

Jake smiled and waved to the old leader of the pack as he headed for the young man in charge. “Hey, Chris.”

“You’re late,” Christian muttered without looking up from his ever-present tablet.

“I’m a volunteer. You want to fire me?”

“No, I want you here on time.” The other man finally dragged his attention away from the project plan and looked up. “Just for that, I’ve got you on floors. Hope you brought your kneepads.”

“I hear that’s what he says to all his girls,” Matias Cabrera cracked as he stalked past with a stack of two-by-fours on his shoulder. A former military man, and now vice president of Cade Construction, Mat didn’t take shit from anyone, but he loved to dish out hefty doses.

“And they all do,” Christian called after him.

Though he knew Lacour to be a lot more reserved than he let on around the guys, Jake had seen first-hand how the ladies flocked to him. Christian had curly burnished copper hair he kept cropped close, skin the color of café au lait, and the iciest blue eyes Jake had ever seen. The guy’s genetic cocktail was so potent Jake had been unable to repress his inner scientist upon first meeting him. He’d spent thirty minutes of happy hour subtly probing for information about the younger man’s family background. At last, Chris had set down his beer and stated flatly, “Black, Mexican, and Irish-English mutt. Could you stop staring at me now? People are gonna think we’re a couple and you’re not really my type.”

Smiling at the memory, Jake bobbed his head. “Fine. Floors it is.” He started toward the house. “Let me know when I can come out of the doghouse.”

He let the tool belt slide off his shoulder and started to unbuckle the clasp. Without conscious thought, he whistled the perky tune he’d heard on the car radio. He wandered all the way to what would be the living room before the all-too-familiar refrain clicked and he froze. Too late.

“That’s right, Jakey, shake it off,” one of the crew called out.

“Shake-shake,” another chimed in.

“Funny.” Jake settled the tool belt on his hips and eyed the stack of laminate flooring piled in the corner.

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