Page 32 of Edge of Ruin
I howled in triumph when I felt those wheels turning, bumping over the ruts. I got out and strode over to the tractor with a huge smile of relief. “Thank you so much, Dwayne. How much do I owe you?”
“Ah, nah,” Dwayne said bashfully. “It’s all right. I’m just being neighborly.”
He pushed away the bills I held out, so I folded them back into my wallet, peeking at his hand to make sure he had a wedding ring. “Well, then bring your wife over one of these days to pick out a necklace or a pair of earrings,” I offered. “I’d love to meet her.”
Dwayne agreed to that plan, and Jack and I watched the tractor chug up the road and disappear around the bend.
I got into the driver’s seat. Jack climbed into the passenger’s seat. We sat in silence.
“So?” I said finally. “Where do we stand? I’m mobile again, so what does that mean for you? Do I need to get lost? I could be out of here in twenty minutes. Say the word.”
“Please don’t be defensive,” Jack said.
I made a derisive sound and put the van in gear. It lurched forward, bumping over deep ruts, but it crawled gamely up the hill. “That’s hard, under the circumstances,” I told him.
“I have an understanding with Duncan. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you have this security problem,” he said. “If you can stand it, that is. I doubt you’ll be staying that long anyway.”
“And why is that?”
“Your kind never do,” he said.
The van crested the hill. I stared out the windshield with hot eyes. “My kind,” I repeated.
“I don’t mean that the way you’re evidently taking it,” he said. “You’ve decided that I’m insulting you when I’m simply stating an objective fact without a value judgment. But I see from the kind of person you are that you won’t settle for long.”
The van lurched violently over another washed-out rut, making my teeth jar and rattle painfully in my head. “Is that a fact,” I said. “You look at me, and you see that.”
“It’s a valid lifestyle choice.”
“Not when you’re talking about it,” I said, as we crawled slowly up another steep hill. “I am not trying to prove anything to you, so don’t take it that way, please. But I am sick of moving around all the time. Sick of living small, eating road food. I’m going into Pebble River after lunch. I’m going to a furniture store. I’m buying a bed. A table. A bookcase. And I’m going start looking for a place to open my shop.”
“Shop?” He turned to her, frowning. “What’s this about a shop?”
“Exactly what I said. Pebble River is a perfect place for the kind of business I have in mind?—”
“Hold on. Wait a fucking minute. I thought you were in hiding. I thought these bastards were trying to kill you. I thought that was the whole point of being here. Now you’re talking about opening a shop? Public records, databases, a Facebook page, some Instagram reels? What the fuck are you thinking? You’re out of your mind!”
I exhaled carefully. I’d been going back and forth about this issue into the wee hours every night. “How long can I huddle in a hole and shiver? I can’t afford this any longer! I have to support myself somehow, and this is the best?—”
“Are you trying to prove something to me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about you! I’m just going about my business!”
We had arrived at the house. I pulled the van in next to Jack’s truck, got out, and slapped the door shut. I glanced over the painting on the side and my eyes skittered away. Jack was looking at it … and judging me.
I had always been ambivalent about that painting, but Rafael would have been so hurt if I had painted over his masterpiece. And Rafael had been so sweet and supportive after the Brian debacle, sharing his booth, showing me the crafts fair ropes. The writhing serpent and muscle-bound warrior on my van was an homage to true friendship.
Jack was following me up the stairs. I glared back at him over my shoulder. “Excuse me? Where do you think you’re going?”
“I just want to see what you’ve done with the place,” he said blandly.
“I haven’t done much of anything, being as how I didn’t have a vehicle. It looks about the same. Please excuse me. I want to make myself lunch.”
Jack raised an eyebrow and waited. I sighed, fitting the key into the lock. “What the hell. Come on in. I imagine you want lunch, too?”
“Lunch would be nice,” he said.
The first thing he did was check the seedlings. I had been watering them, afraid to kill them by planting them incorrectly, but even more afraid of asking for help. But he just stroked the little plants with his fingertip. “We should set these out today,” he said.
