15
Sierra
Just like that he was gone. The boat turned past the marina and I couldn’t see him anymore. I stomped up the stairs. I didn’t know if I was more pissed that he would say something like that to me, or the fact that I was on the verge of begging for him to make good on his promise.
I dumped the drenched beach bag in the utility sink and pulled out the soaking wet towels to hang outside. I plucked four clothes pins from the line and clipped them to the colorful edges of towels. I ducked around the billowing towel, shimmied out of my cutoff shorts, and pulled the tank top over my head. Everything I had was coated in wet sand. I shook the clothes to loosen the sand stuck to the fabric. There was no point. I knew it would be tomorrow before I could properly shake these out.
I leaned against the tree on the other side of the clothesline. I closed my eyes as images of his hands and hard chest washed through my mind like those unwanted waves.
I kicked off my sandy flip-flops by the back door, and traipsed into the house in search of some ice tea. I grabbed a tall glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice and a few lemon slices.
I had left my phone on the counter. There was a message from work. I listened to the voicemail.
“Hey Sierra. I know you’re on leave, but we need you back at the station. Turns out Wendy needs to take maternity leave early and there isn’t another anchor we can get on short notice to fill in for her. Give me a call. It’s Brody, by the way.”
I groaned. Work was the last thing on my mind. They would have to wait until this tea was gone. I had too many things going on.
It wasn’t like I was trying to take advantage of the station. If anything I had been terrified to leave. But I hadn’t made it back for the funeral and I didn’t have any other family members. It seemed like a good idea to roll all my sick time and funeral time into one big summer break.
The head of human resources said she understood. As the sole heir, I had a lot of shit to sort through. But time was shrinking. The house was still seventy-five percent full and I hadn’t even tried to list it yet with a realtor.
I slumped onto the couch.
And Blake.
If I thought somehow I could right that wrong, I was hopeless.
The cruises. The drinks. The day at the beach—it was all to get in my pants for some kind of final goodbye vengeance sex.
My skin tingled. My core ached.
Why did it sound like the hottest night of my life?
I picked up the phone and waited for Brody to answer.
“Sierra, hey girl. Glad you called me back. When are you coming back?”
“I still have two weeks. I was planning on using them,” I replied.
“Right. You got my message about Wendy, right? She has to go on bed rest next week.”
“Bed rest? Is it that serious?”
“Uhh. I don’t think so.”
“Did you ask her?” I wasn’t surprised he didn’t know any details.
“Look, it isn’t my business. I just work the schedule.”
I sighed. “So you need me back a week early?”
“We do, babe. Can you come home?”
Home. It was a funny word lately. Dallas was where my apartment was. Where I kept my massive shoe collection and my journalism school diploma. The island wasn’t home anymore. But the memories had started to seep in in surprising ways. Familiar scents. Comfortable accents. Views that soothed my soul.
“Yeah, of course.” I tried to smile. “Tell Wendy not to worry about it.”
“Good. I knew you’d come through. We’ve missed you around here.”
“Thanks. I’ve missed it too.”
“See you next week.”
“Yep. See you soon.”
I hung up and realized my job of going through Aunt Lindy’s house had just become unsurmountable. There was no way I was going to get everything done in a week. I was crazy to think it would have been done in two.
That meant I was going to have to come back.
16
Blake
I pressed my palms into the sawhorses and closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was in here.
All I could smell was sawdust and turpentine. Everywhere I looked I saw him. Climbing the ladder with a bucket of paint. Arguing in the office about a bill someone refused to pay. But they were only memories. Dad was gone. He wasn’t going to barge in here and tell me I was doing this all wrong. He would know a better way to do it. He always had a better way than I did.
I picked up a tattered piece of sand paper and braced it between my hand and a piece of juniper. I smoothed the wood with the rough surface. The more I moved it back and forth, the sleeker the wood looked. I ground it harder, repeating the motion.
I got lost in it. The movement. The stillness of the barn. What it meant that I had opened the doors to his sanctuary.