Page 13 of Fortune's Control
Shane stepped outside. “Is this Emma?” Her muffled voice sounded through the phone. “Shane Wilcott. Yes, I noticed.” He offered me a half-smile, went inside, and shut the door so I couldn’t hear.
My stomach growled again, offering me an excuse to follow him. I hugged myself instead and waited.
It took two eternities and a week for Shane to come back outside. In an odd coincidence, the sun slipped out from behind the clouds, and the day brightened.
He handed the phone to me. “Hello?”
“I like him,” Emma said without preamble. “Call me tomorrow, and every day. No matter what. Like, even if a zombie attacks you, still call.”
“That’s it?”
“Enjoy your vacation, Lilah. I love you.” She ended the call.
“Thank you for letting me borrow your phone.” I handed it over. “Did she speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me what about?”
“No.” My question amused him. “Sit down on the porch so I can bring you something to eat.”
For me, a porch implied a slab of concrete and a couple of lawn chairs. Shane’s porch wrapped around his house and came with rocking chairs. I picked one out and tapped my foot on the floor to hear the soft creak as it moved.
“The diner’s cinnamon rolls are a local secret. I picked some up yesterday.” Shane handed me a small plate with a piece of baked heaven on top. My mouth dropped open. “There’s more inside. Eat up.”
I took a bite. “This is amazing.”
Shane leaned against the porch railing and watched me eat. Yesterday’s trucker hat was gone, and stubble covered his face and neck. He stretched so his faded red shirt exposed a sliver of skin. He faced the yard, shifting to put most of his weight on his right leg.
“Yesterday, I figured you had a thing about refusing charity from strangers, so I let you be, until I decided not to.” Shane’s voice stayed even. Easy, like one might discuss the weather. “I made the correct decision, Lilah, so let’s start your vacation with that promised tour.”
S-Shane
What happened to all my chairs? Benches and chairs covered the Live Oak Gallery’s veranda a week ago. I didn’t expect them to sell quite that fast.
The little bell above the door clinked as I opened it. “Hey, Pete. How’s business?”
Pete stood behind the glass counter, pencil in one hand and a well-used notebook in the other. Most small businesses switched to computers and software long ago, while Pete eschewed modern conveniences whenever necessary. “Better than ever. When are you sending in more?” Pete pulled his glasses down the bridge of his nose and marked a few lines in his notebook before shoving them both underneath the counter. “Putting those benches in that grass space was one of your better ideas.”
Lilah sat on one the day we met. They were a valuable addition to the small town park and advertised the Live Oak Gallery. “Happy to donate them.”
I strolled through the store, curious to see if there were any new finds. The gallery catered to tourists and their desire to spend. They came for the antique stores and wandered over, eager to spend more money on art prints, jewelry, and home decor made by local artisans.
“When can you get more?” Pete’s long ponytail came over his shoulder before he swung it back with a quick shake. “The parlor asked me to pass on their thanks as well.”
“The ice cream parlor next door?” I asked, confused.
The two businesses shared the same building, a former residential home on one of the main streets, now split in half for retail use. Its original white paint changed to teal, while the wrap-around veranda and live oaks remained.
“The additional outside seating added foot traffic, and the scoop of ice cream gave shoppers an excuse to sit on the front porch and people watch.”
My brows lifted. “Good for them.”
“Your father taught you well. I see his talent in you.” Pete tapped my shoulder on his way to a display case. “He sold a few pieces, but gave most away. I expect you’ll find something of his in half the houses in town.”
“We worked together in the woodshop.” I never expected success. My father created most of the wood furniture in my house and passed the hobby on to me. I dabbled as a teen, but sports and girls interested me more, and if it weren’t for the accident, his tools would lie unused now, still waiting for someone else to take up the hobby. “Not always by choice.”
The accident ended my Marine career, and for the first time since graduating from high school, my life felt purposeless. Jack took me to the VA in Gainesville and to other medical appointments, and in between, I rediscovered woodworking.
