Page 19 of Buried Roots

I continue prying up the old shingle nails, and when I’m done, I stand to get replacements. My foot slides, taking my body with it. My heart leaps, but in a flash, Owen’s got his arms around me.

We’re both dreadfully sweaty, but I don’t care. All it does is make me want to peel off our wet clothes. With my pulse still thudding in my ears, I turn and meet his gaze. “Thanks. We should be wearing spiked shoes, but I don’t have any.”

“I’ll remind you I’m a vet. If you fall and break a leg, I’ll have to shoot you.”

I bust into a laugh. “Aw, we’re not that high up. I know how to slide and hang before dropping. I’d just sprain an ankle or something.”

He shakes his head, sighing. “You’re something else.”

Once we put in the new shingles and add a dab of roofing cement over each surface nail, we’re done. Amen.

Then, we move into the stables where we caulk the cracks. While that dries, we put sealant around the windows to keep out the draft. Owen has a genuine interest in learning how to do these things, and I certainly don’t mind being his teacher.

I find the trim and door paints stacked neatly in the closet, and I decide we should put a coat over the caulking so everything’s matched and sealed. While we work, I learn that Owen hates beer, something frowned on in Violet Moon, had a pet hedgehog named Onion growing up, and enjoys fixing up old cars.

As Owen starts to paint, I get back to my list of to-dos: talk to a real estate agent. Get photos of the estate so I can get it listed. Find any other repairs that I can do easily that could increase the resale value of the place. Make sure the Kleins get daily progress reports.

When I’m done with that, I notice Owen’s touching up the white barn doors with the wrong color. “Hey, Owen, you’re painting those gray.”

“Dammit.” He stands and grabs the can. Looking at it, he says, “It says white.”

I glance at the can to see that he’s right. “It’s mislabeled.” My face puzzles. “Can’t you see that it’s gray?”

“No, I actually can’t. I’m colorblind.”

“Ohhh.” I nod, thinking back.

“Yup. That’s why I was wearing neon socks yesterday. I thought they were white. My sisters love to screw with me.”

“Got it.” I purse my lips to keep a smile away. I was wrong—he wasn’t making an ironic fashion statement yesterday… and it makes me like him even more.

By the time we finish, the sun is low in the sky, and we’re dirty, sweaty, and covered in splotches of paint.

“It’s suppertime,” Owen says. “You want to come over? Ma makes a great lamb stew.”

I never interfere with people’s family time, and since my folks died, I’m out of practice with close-knit gatherings and small talk.

But I like the idea of what could happen between Owen and me afterward. Maybe a walk. Maybe a star-filled visit to the lake. I think about what Natanya said, and I envision him slipping all my clothes off as we stand on the balcony with the stunning view of the water and mountains. My body pressed up against his, the moonlight reflecting off the curves of his muscles.

But I can’t go there with him, can I? Our fling would last twelve days, just enough time for me to hurt and get hurt when I leave. It pains me, but I say, “Thank you for the offer, but I should go get some groceries and my stuff from The Violet Moonlight Inn. I want to stay at this house, which will save me a bunch of money. Plus, I love it here.” That’s not a lie. Idolove it here, except alone, at night. But I have to get over that.

He swipes a hand over his mouth. “Right. You haven’t had a second to settle in.”

“It’s been quite the twenty-four hours. I’d really like to brush my teeth with an actual toothbrush.”

He gives me a salute before leaving. As I watch that body walk away—with a confident swagger—I wonder if I’ll really make it eleven more days without touching him. Or if I should bother trying.

Natanya has a point—I haven’t been with anyone since Seth and I broke up six months ago, and maybe this would be good for me. I’m on a search for the truth about my past for hell’s sake—that merits a nice stress-relieving distraction.

I’m headed to the castle when I notice that the setting sun is casting shades of pinks and salmons over the horizon, so I make a detour to the lake.

Which is all mine. I mean, how does one person own a whole lake?

It’s small, but still. It’s alake.

I spot the most perfect lookout point, just up the hill, so I hike it, thrilled when I turn around. The water shimmers as the setting sun reflects on the waves, and the cattails in the marsh are swaying in the breeze. The evening air has turned crisper, perfect, and it all reminds me of the summers my Pops and I spent restoring houses along the Maine countryside. I knew from the time I was little that I wanted to help him out, and I wish we’d had more years to do that.

I take in the moment, nostalgia making me feel Pops’ presence around me. He’s pointing at the marsh and telling me that if I look closely, I’ll probably spot some frogs. Sure enough, I’d usually find one or two, which I loved.

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