Page 49 of Slow Burn
By the time the sun dipped behind the hills, she was turning into the drive up to her uncle’s house. It wasn’t as far gone as she’d expected, even as the images of what she remembered rolled through her mind. The paint was still peeling, the windows just as grimy, but the structure looked more solid than what was in her memory.
Her arrival kicked up dust, luring Joe Murphy out to the porch. He wore work coveralls and a scowl, both broken in from years of use. He didn’t walk down the porch steps or greet her as she got out of the car, and uncertainty settled over her like a blanket.
Nan hadn’t spoken with her younger brother in several years, cutting him off because of the number of times he’d called or come around asking for money when he’d blown all of what he had on booze and gambling.
Despite the lack of welcome, Jocelyn walked the few feet toward the porch, desperate more than hopeful.
“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” he said, eyeing her. “Bonnie’s little mini finally come to see me. Heard you were in town.”
Jocelyn shoved her hands into her pockets. “Hey, Uncle Joe.”
“Well, come on in.” His movements weren’t sloppy as he led the way, but hard living more than age had slowed him.
She mounted the porch carefully, surprised to find it sturdy—and new. Inside, she stopped cold. Last they’d visited, years ago, the place had been filthy, cluttered, and nearly collapsing. These walls were patched and painted with new light fixtures in place, and fresh trim had been nailed along the edges of floors, ceilings, and around windows and doors.
Joe’s mouth hitched at her stunned expression. “Welcome to my sobriety project.”
She couldn’t believe it. This hundred-year-old house had barely been hanging on when she was a kid. Nan would lament that her childhood home was being destroyed by her lush of a younger brother. Not that her grandmother’s memories of her upbringing were positive with the history of their family. It was honestly no wonder her brother had walked the path of alcoholism and degeneracy.
But Nan had always said how much she loved the house and the history of it—built by her grandfather at the turn of the century.
Jocelyn peeked into the small bathroom—the only one in the house—to find a new vanity, an ornate mirror hanging above, and a checked floor tile design.
When she turned around, Joe was waiting in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, holding two glasses of sweet tea. A strangely sheepish expression cradled his prematurely weathered face—the result of a lifetime of heavy smoking and drinking.
“You did all this yourself?”
He shrugged a boney shoulder. “’Fraid so. Not the best work, but it beats the bottle.”
A laugh escaped her. “It looks amazing, Uncle Joe. Nan should see it.”
“Maybe when it’s finished,” he muttered, handing her a glass. He settled into one of two recliners, gesturing for her to sit. “Now tell me, Jossie, what brings you by?”
“That award they gave to John Hauser,” she said. “I owed it to him to come.”
Joe nodded slowly. “Heard it was a big deal.”
There was something in his expression she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but he said nothing more, his attention drifting to the TV across the room.
“Where you staying?” he asked, taking a sip of his tea.
Jocelyn released all the air in her lungs in a whoosh, sinking deeper into the chair. “I was at the Hollow Inn.”
Her tone pulled his focus from the TV. “Was?”
The light from the lamp caught in the crystal of her glass, and she stared at it a moment to steady herself.
“Well, there was a fire there tonight.”
He lurched forward, nearly spilling his tea. “What?”
“I wasn’t there. Lost my stuff, though.”
He eyed her with some level of suspicion that was all too familiar. “A fire where you’re staying. Don’t sound like coincidence.”
She gave him a grim smile. “I don’t think so either.”
That shrewd look remained on her. “You don’t suppose your mama’s was, either.”
