Page 68 of Buried Roots

“Well, I’m off,” she says. “I’m hosting a luncheon today for the city council members.” And with a wave, she’s gone. I can’t help myself from exhaling.

After I tile the floor, this bathroom will be done, and it’s going to be an exquisite white and gray bathroom. Or at least, that’s the vision. I’m mixing grout when I hear, “Willow.”

I swallow hard before looking up to see Owen standing there in his work clothes. I sigh before asking a question I already know the answer to. “What are you doing up here?”

“Workers said you needed me in here.”

I don’t want him this close, but at the same time, I really,reallyneed the extra set of hands, and we have exactly one week left to finish everything for the appraisal and party. That means this bathroom needs to be done today, minus the glass for the shower that’ll be put in tomorrow. And I’m really feeling the pinch—I have to make it back to New York in time before the next critical stage on the apartments for Klein Homes. After an internal battle with myself, I finally manage to say, “Thank you. Do you know how to tile?”

“Not the first thing.” He saunters over and squats next to me. “So, you’ll have to give me a lesson.”

“All right.” I launch into the steps: how to use the clips to position the tiles so they’re perfectly lined up. How to measure twice and cut once. How to grout properly. Then, I walk him to the tile cutter and show how to use it. The saw is loud, so I give Owen a set of earplugs.

It isn’t long before the two of us are doing what we do—making a great team—as we cut and place the tiles across the expansive bathroom floor. It’s not easy work, and worse, it’s July, and we have to turn off the AC. When you’re cutting tile, the floating dust can destroy an entire air conditioning system.

So, yeah. It’s extraordinarily hot in here.

And it’s just like the day on the stable roof—Owen looks incredible with his clothes clinging to his ridiculous body. But unlike the day on the roof, the conversation between him and me is stilted. It’s always flowed so easily, but right now, I don’t know what to say, and I’m grateful that we have to use the saw. It gives us a reason to work without conversation.

Until my finger gets pinched. “Ouch!” I flip my hand as I sit on the floor.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. The tile got me, but I’m not bleeding.” I look to see a blood blister forming. It’s truly nothing, but for some reason, I’m crying.

“Willow.” Owen is kneeling beside me.

“It’s fine. These tears are automatic, like from an onion or pulling a nose hair.”

His hand is on my shoulder. “Okay. But then why is your voice unsteady?”

I meet his gaze, my lips quivering. “I found my own obituary, Owen.” The words come out before I can stop them.

“Jesus.” He sits next to me, and that’s all it takes.

I tell him everything. The pictures I found of my own grave. My newborn bracelet that said my birthday is September 7th, not September 21st. That Bo and Lily weren’t the people he thought they were. “They faked my death and adopted me out.”

His face pales. “I’m so sorry.”

Then, I finally tell Owen about the note, the face in the barn, Oreo escaping the stable, the cut water line, and the other odd occurrences, like me finding my keys in the refrigerator.

“Whoa, Willow. I’ll give you Mike Baxter’s direct number. He’s the sheriff. Call if you even feel someone watching you—tell him you know me. And you need to pack a bag and stay at the inn.”

“Thanks. I’ll take the sheriff’s number, but I’m not letting anyone scare me away. I have to be here—I’ve got a job to finish and six days to do it.”

“All right.” Owen hesitates, seemingly taking time to find his words. He finally says, “I don’t know what else to say except that I’m very sorry.” As usual, his voice is calm, gentle, but there’s something different about it. A coldness. A degree of distance that wasn’t ever there before.

And because of that, I don’t feel as comforted by him as I usually do. In fact, I might feel worse. “Anyway, thanks for listening.”

“No problem.” He pats my back. “Seriously, call Mike if you suspect anything. He won’t hesitate to help.”

His suggestion feels patronizing, even though I know it shouldn’t. I guess it’s because before, he would’ve asked more questions. He would’ve been more curious about my bombshell discovery, anxious to hear what I was going to do. But those days are behind us, and I made it that way. I can’t be angry at him formychoices, so I swallow back the simmer in my gut and say, “Thanks. We better get back to work—we have to get this done.”

“Sure.”

We return to work, eating Mary Louise’s sandwiches as we go. The hours crawl by with long drags of uncomfortable silence, and it’s dinnertime when we finish the job. After cleaning up, we stop to survey our handiwork.

“This looks incredible.” Owen’s eyes pan the room which only yesterday morning, was covered in pink tile, houndstooth wallpaper, and a cloudy, flimsy shower wall. Now, it’s looking like something out of a real estate magazine.

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