Being Neighborly(2)

Mrs. Wilson was our closest neighbor until she passed away. It’s still a five-minute drive from our farm to hers. Mrs. Wilson didn’t have as much acreage as us, but did have a pretty little pasture and stable setup to board horses. Pulling up to her house, I glance around, looking to see if our new neighbor is planning the same thing.

The stables don’t appear to be recently used. It’s rained the last three days, and unless she’s using the back entrance, there would be more signs of traffic. I walk around my truck to retrieve the pie from the passenger side. There’s only one other car parked by the house, a small coupe with no trailer hitch. At this point, I’m guessing no on the horse boarding.

I amble up the front steps and rap my knuckles on the edge of the screen door. A crash, followed quickly by a yelp, has me pulling open the screen door and opening the front door.

“Hello? My name is Beau. I live on the next farm over. Are you all right?”

A muffled groan coming from the back of the house has me dashing toward the kitchen, pie still in my hand. The sight I come upon catches me so off guard I almost drop it.

There’re two bare legs sporting some hot pink flip-flops peeking out from underneath a toppled over two-legged table. How in the world? I skip asking questions and jump into action. Quickly setting the pie on the counter next to me, I reach forward to lift the table off my new neighbor.

Judging from the tools scattered on the floor around her, she was putting the legs on. I’m just not sure how. I twist the table top onto its side and rest it against the wall before reaching my hand out to help her up.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

Curly auburn locks are pushed back to reveal hazel eyes as she reaches her other hand to meet mine. “Uh huh.”

I lift her slowly. “Were you hurt?”

She shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “Just startled.”

It takes a moment before I realize her hand is still in mine. She’s tall for a girl, coming almost up to my nose in her flip-flops. In some sexy heels, I wouldn’t even have to dip my head to kiss those plump lips. It’s hard not to stare at her. Most of the tall girls I grew up around were built like men. Bethany was all woman. Hell, I’d even sign up for a geometry class dedicated to studying her curves.

She slowly pulls her hand from mine and starts to take a step back, but her foot lands on a screwdriver and she loses her balance. I catch her, pulling her tightly to my chest before she pitches backwards. Her hands grip my shoulders as she looks up at me, wide-eyed.

Gulping, she glances behind her before moving to step away from me again. This time, I don’t let her go right away.

“I didn’t get your name.”

She wets her lips, and stills in my arms. “I’m Bethany.”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly; movement I can't ignore given her warm body is pressed to mine.

"I'm such a klutz," she groans.

"Maybe you should sit. If you want, I can finish putting your table together."

She nods, and then gasps as I lift her and set her gently on the counter next to the pie.

"Thought it'd be safer for you up there." I wink.

Turning quickly so my back is to her, I'm not sure what compelled me to wink at her. I don't wink at people. Focusing on things I understand, like furniture assembly, seems safer.

I crouch in front of the table, still leaned against the wall, and start to attach the third leg.

After a few moments of silence, I break it by asking, "How did the table fall on you?"

She chuckles behind me. "I know I should have flipped the table on to its back and put all the legs on that way, but I thought I was being clever by setting it up on a couple chairs so I wouldn't have to flip it back over when I was done. It didn't work out as well as I thought it would."

Turning back to her, I ask, "What would you have done if I hadn't shown up?"

She shrugs, one flip-flop precariously dangling from her foot. "Wiggled out from under it somehow.” Her eyes widen. “I haven’t even thanked you. You must think I am the rudest person ever.”

Holding up my hand in an attempt to stop her, I shake my head. “It’s fine really.”

She continues, “And now you’re putting together my table and I’m just sitting here.”

After leaning the table back up against the wall, I cross the small kitchen and stand in front of her, taking her wringing hands into mine. “Bethany, it’s no big deal. I’m happy to help. It’s what neighbors do.”

Her shoulders sag. “Not where I’m from.”

I tilt my head and smile. “Aren’t you glad you moved here then? So, where’re you from?”