Page 12 of Barbed Wire Fences
My office, a cozy one-story building sandwiched between the hardware store and the old barber shop, feels like a second home by now. Florence, my administrative assistant and the backbone of this operation, was already at her desk near the front window, her usual cup of sweet tea in hand as she sorted through paperwork. She’d greeted me with a cheerful “Good morning,boss,”and I returned it with a smile before diving into the day’s work.
One by one, the rest of my small team of employees filtered into the shop—five guys, all reliable as hell, who’ve stuck with me through the highs and lows of acquiring and rebuilding this company from scratch. They grabbed their assignments from Florence, checked the equipment in the row of white utility vans parked out front, and headed out to tackle the day’s jobs across the city.
Meanwhile, I hung back in my office, wading through the mountain of tasks that come with running a business. There were invoices to file, paychecks to process, and most importantly, a new contract that would bring in significant revenue and provide an opportunity to expand, to review. Meadowbrook, the city directly adjacent to Whitewood Creek, reached out last week, expressing interest in having me take over the plumbing work for their government buildings too.
This is a big deal. My first real chance to expand since buying Whitewood Creek Plumbing, and I’m not about to let it slip through my fingers. Still, I feel a little green, which is why I want my half-brother, Lawson Marshall, to look over the contract before I sign.
It’s been a few years since I bought the company, and while it hasn’t always been smooth, I’ve managed to turn a steady profit—especially these last two years after the State Fair got a full revamp thanks to my friend Cash’s wife, Rae, who also happens to be the mayor of Whitewood Creek and the woman who chose me to manage all sanitary needs for the big event.
I’ve got plans for this business. Big ones. And landing the Meadowbrook contract feels like the next step in making those dreams a reality.
By the time I finish sifting through the paperwork and double-checking paystubs, the morning has completely disappeared, and my stomach is loudly reminding me that I haven’t eaten yet.
I grab my keys, ready to step out for a late lunch, when Florence stops me by her desk.
“Hold up, boss!” she says, waving a piece of paper in the air like it’s on fire. “I just got a call for a clog over on Whispering Pines Lane. Someone’s dog dropped a toy down the toilet and the plumbing claw she purchased couldn’t reach it.”
I take the sheet of paper from her hands and look it over. Whispering Pines Lane cuts straight through the middle of my mother’s trailer park, splitting it into two uneven halves. It’s the kind of road you don’t forget, even if you’d like to. I know it better than most—every crack in the asphalt, every sagging power line, the smell of the lake that bumps up against the back of it, and I also remember every plumbing issue that’s plagued the place for as long as I can remember.
This corner of town has a reputation, and not a good one. Illegal gambling, drug deals that no one’s subtle about, and setting off fireworks at all hours until the cops show up. Whispering Pines is the kind of place where you can hear a dirt bike revving at midnight or someone shouting so loudly you can hear every word, yet no one steps in to do anything about it.
It’s practically a rite of passage for the residents here to celebrate every holiday noisily, even the made-up ones that they create to find an excuse to drink and get high. Not like they need one.
The trailers themselves are older than I am, their best days long gone. And the plumbing is a constant nightmare, a ticking time bomb of rusty pipes and clogs that would make a grown man cry. And I’m that grown man that has to deal with them.
I’ve been called out there more times than I can count over the years. Clogged drains, leaky faucets, overflowing toilets—take your pick, it’s happened. It’s a miracle the whole system hasn’t completely collapsed under the strain and washed straight into the lake.
Sure, I’ve made it a priority to fix things where I can and often for free. My crew and I have been replacing the old, worn pipes there, piece by piece, whenever something gives out and we’re close to having half the community on the newer materials. But it’s been a slow process, five years of patchwork progress, but we’re getting there.
In the meantime, accidents like this keep happening and slowing us down. A toy down the toilet might not be a big deal in a well-built house, but here it can mean tearing up the line and rebuilding plumbing for two surrounding trailers too.
“Got any of my guys available?” I ask as Florence types away on her computer to see where each of my fleet are currently working. “Lark could take it, but it’d be an hour until he's free. The girl sounded desperate; She said she needed it fixed before her mom got off work or she’ll get a lecture.”
I sigh because this is just part of the job. Lunch will have to wait. “What’s the address? I can swing by there on my way out.”
“315 Whispering Pines Lane.”
“315?” I ask, thinking it isn’t possible that I could have heard her correctly.
She bobs her short grey head of hair back and forth. “Yes, that’s what the caller said.”
My heart races and heat creeps up the back of my neck. “And what was the caller’s name?"
“Ah, let's see,” she flips through her notes, still taken on paper instead of the nice, automated system that I set up on her computer when I first hired her. “Jael.”
Jael.
Now I know I’ve heard her right. Twenty-nine years on God’s green earth and I’ve never met another Jael. It’s the kind of name that sticks with you—the same way that the woman who owns it always has. Jael isn’t the type of person you forget. Not then, and certainly not now though I might have liked to at one time years ago.
I grab my tool bag from the floor of my office and sling it over my shoulder as I head for the door. “I’ll take care of it, Florence. Don’t file anything on this one. We’ll cover it.”
She tilts her head, curious, but thankfully doesn’t push. Florence knows I’m close to paying off the loan I took out when I bought this business five years ago, so covering the cost of a job isn’t something I do lightly. What she doesn’t know, because she hasn’t been in Whitewood Creek long enough, is who Jael is or why I don’t want that name showing up anywhere on the books.
This town, though? It remembers everything. And if you’ve ever met Jael, you remember her too. Worse, I remember more than just her name, I remember the day she left town and took my fucking heart with her.
And I haven’t seen it since.
The summer heat is unforgiving as I drive the short stretch to 315 Whispering Pines Lane. Even with the AC cranked and the windows down in my truck, sweat trickles under my shirt, soaking the back of my work jeans.
