Page 43 of Hooked on Emerson
She slipped out of the truck, closing the door with a gentle click. He watched as she walked up the path to her front door, books clutched to her chest, hair catching the last light of day. At the door, she turned and raised her hand in a small wave before disappearing inside.
Emerson sat for a moment longer, the engine idling, his hands resting on the steering wheel. Through her front window, he could see her silhouette as she moved through the house, the brown paper package of books still clutched to her chest. Tomorrow was Friday. The deadline for her decision about Seattle. The culmination of her list, of their time together, of whatever had been growing between them since that first day in Nattie’s photo session.
With a sigh, he put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb. The poetry book she’d found—her mother’s unfinished reading—rested on the passenger seat where she’d left it, forgotten in the moment of goodbye. He glanced at it, at the birds in flight on the cover, and wondered which way Ava would fly.
Ava stared at the loan application on her laptop screen, the cursor blinking in the “Amount Requested” field. The bank’s logo stared back at her, blue and official, waiting for her to commit to a number. After three contractors had come early that morning to assess the roof damage, the consensus was clear: six thousand dollars for a proper replacement. No patches. No temporary fixes. The shop needed real work.
She typed in the amount, then added an extra thousand for unexpected costs. Seven thousand dollars. A heavy weight of commitment, of decision. Behind her, a bucket caught the slow drip from the ceiling—a steady plink, plink, plink that seemed to count down the seconds of her indecision.
The shop was quiet this morning, the early light filtering through the windows casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. The scent of yesterday’s flowers lingered in the air,mingling with the faint mustiness of damp ceiling tiles. Her coffee had gone cold beside the laptop, a thin skin forming on its surface.
The shop bell chimed, the sound crisp and bright against the quiet. Emerson walked in, carrying a toolbox and a rolled set of blueprints. His presence filled the space in a way that made her heart thud painfully against her ribs. Since their time at the pond and bookstore yesterday, things felt different between them again. Not bad, just careful. Measured. At least on her part.
“Morning,” he said, setting down the toolbox with a solid thunk that seemed to echo in the empty shop. “Martin’s on his way. Wanted to go over the plans with you again before he starts.”
Martin Reeves was Emerson’s contractor friend from Fairview, the one who’d agreed to fit the roof repair into his schedule on short notice, the one who’d offered a fair price when he heard it was Emerson calling.
“Thanks,” Ava said, closing her laptop on the loan application. “Coffee’s fresh.”
Emerson nodded but didn’t move toward the pot. He stood with one hand resting on the toolbox, eyes taking in the shop. The buckets positioned strategically around the floor, catching drips with varying degrees of success. The water stains spreading across the ceiling like dark continents on a beige map. The inventory she’d moved away from the worst leaks, plastic sheeting draped over shelves as makeshift protection.
“How are you holding up?” he asked quietly.
Such a simple question, yet it cracked something open inside her. She’d been working nonstop since their trip—calling contractors that night from home, managing the shop, shifting stock, filling orders. All while avoiding the real question that loomed over everything: stay or go?
“I’m okay,” she said, the words automatic. Then, more honestly: “Tired. But okay.”
Emerson nodded. He was trying to give her space to think. Coming by to help with heavy lifting or to consult on repairs, but not lingering. Not pushing. She was grateful for the breathing room, even as part of her missed the easy companionship they’d built.
“Martin’s good,” he said, unrolling the blueprints on the counter. The paper crinkled as it flattened, weighted down with a pair of scissors and a small vase. “Best roofer in the county. He’ll fix it right.”
Ava moved to stand beside him, looking down at the blue lines that represented her shop—her mother’s shop—from above. The roof was a simple rectangle with a slight pitch, nothing complicated. Just worn out from years of weather and neglect. She could smell the faint trace of cedar and coffee that always seemed to cling to Emerson, familiar and comforting despite the unknown between them.
“It’s a lot of money,” she said quietly, not really meaning to speak the thought aloud.
Emerson’s eyes met hers, warm brown in the morning light. “It’s an investment. In the building.”
What he didn’t say hung between them: Not necessarily in staying. The repair would make the shop more valuable, more sellable. He understood that possibility without her having to explain.
“I applied for a loan this morning,” she said, nodding toward her closed laptop. “Just waiting to hear back.”
“I could help,” he offered, voice careful. “With the cost.”
“No,” Ava said quickly, perhaps too sharply. She softened her tone. “Thank you, but no. I need to handle this myself.”
He nodded, accepting her decision without argument. His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer, and she wonderedwhat he saw there. Determination? Exhaustion? The confusion that had been her constant companion since that night in the storm?
The bell chimed again, saving her from whatever he might have said next. Martin entered, a tall man with weathered skin but capable, work-worn hands. His boots left small clumps of dirt on the floor as he crossed to the counter, the scent of tobacco and sawdust following in his wake.
Introductions were made, plans discussed, timelines established. Work would begin tomorrow, weather permitting. Three days to completion if all went well. Martin’s voice was gruff but confident as he pointed out problem areas on the blueprints, his calloused finger tracing lines with surprising delicacy.
As Martin and Emerson talked shop, Ava found herself watching Emerson’s hands as they traced lines on the blueprints, pointed out features of the building, sketched alternative approaches in the margins. Those hands that had fixed so much in her shop. That had held hers on the dock at Miller’s Pond. That had moved over her skin with such care during the storm.
She looked away, heat rising in her cheeks at the memory.
When Martin left to prepare his crew and materials, Emerson stayed behind, rolling up the blueprints with careful precision. The paper made a soft swishing sound as it curled, like the whisper of a secret. “I’ll be around,” he said, securing the roll with a rubber band that snapped into place with quiet finality. “Not as much as before, I’ve got other jobs lined up. But I’ll check in, make sure everything’s going smoothly.”
Ava nodded, hearing what he wasn’t saying. He was stepping back. Giving her room to breathe, to think, to decide. The gesture was both a relief and a small hurt.
