I’m lost in my thoughts until the chairperson clears her throat, and I look up. She has soft eyes and an encouraging half-smile. Her skin is clear, and her hair is a beautiful blond-brown combination. She looks like my Hannah; probably similar in age to her, too. My girl took a leave from college to watch me. Her fear of losing me turned into her remaining home because she worries about me. Apparently, I can’t be trusted to my own devices.
“My daughter has come home to stay with me. We own a farm.” Which I can no longer tend. I’ll never work those fields again.
We recommend the use of a walker, then graduating to arm crutches and possibly a cane.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be in the wheelchair.” Tears blur my vision of the yellow daisy print skirt over my cast. It’s my favorite skirt, and I pair it with my white blouse that has a Peter Pan collar. I used to think it made me look pretty, but I no longer think such a thing. I feel conspicuous and naked before these strangers, these fellow alcoholics.
“My daughter’s come home to assist me,” I repeat, running out of things to tell the group. I have no idea how long she’ll stay—if she’ll stay—or if one day, she’ll abandon me like Howard.
Chapter One
Ten years later: Fall 2019
[Beverly]
At my age, I no longer believe in love at first sight.
The breathtaking, thigh-clenching, blood-rushing sensation of seeing a person for the first time and sharing a moment.
But I am in lurve with Tripper Hanes, construction project manager of Nailed, a home improvement television show where he and his wife fix up old houses. He’s married to the beautifully exotic Virginia Hanes, who masterminds the decorative ensemble of a newly restored house like none other. I should know, as I spend a great deal of my time watching daytime television and do-it-yourself programs.
And I’m currently being interrupted from my favorite show by a sharp rapping on my front door.
“What the…?” I whisper as Tripper makes his introductory announcement: “Let’s nail this one, baby. See what I did there. Nail. Nailed.” Tripper Hanes is the full package: humor, handy, and handsome.
My thoughts wander back to love at first sight. I’d believed in the lie once—such a damn fool—and chased Howard to the very porch where someone now stands. Back then, I was young—just seventeen—and pregnant with Hannah. I’d grown up fast on this farm as a wife and a mother.
“It’s demo day,” Tripper announces from the flat screen, thankfully breaking up my recollections of Howard, and I smile despite myself. I love the antics of this ginger-bearded man as he tears down walls and builds up homes.
Only, the front door thunderously rumbles in the jamb once again.
“Nobody’s home,” I mutter as I stare at the television, listening to Tripper call out to his wife a parting, “Love you, GinGin.” He has a nickname for her, and it’s sickeningly sweet. I’d gag a bit except I like them as a couple. Their relationship is something I’ve never had.
My comfort-cozy rocking chair angles toward the front window, directing my gaze—should I wish to gaze—at the least-traveled road in Green Valley edging my property. The television set sits off in the corner. Hours of my day are spent in this chair because moving about my house is difficult at best.
You could walk again, doctors said.
I can walk; I’m just choosing not to, just as I’m not answering the rambling front door.
“Go away,” I mumble as my eyes remain on the television screen. Tripper rushes at a brick wall, hoping he’s loosened the concrete cutout enough so the section will fall from the impact, but the barrier doesn’t budge and he bounces back with enough force to knock his hard hat off his head. I wince as if I can feel the thud of his body, both against the solid structure and then collapsing on the wooden floor.
My door rumbles once more.
“What in tarnation?” Slapping my hand on the armrest, I feel my irritation growing. Patience is a virtue, my mother used to tell me, so I figure I can outlast the rabble-rousing of an intruder on my porch. Since my wayward husband’s disappearance and the unfortunate accident, I’ve spent most of my days sitting here. Waiting.
Waiting on a man who isn’t going to return.
Waiting on a miracle for the homestead he left behind.
Waiting on my daughter to be the next to exit.
Eventually, the porch intruder will get the hint.
“Tripper, honey, can you move that wall over there and this doorframe here?” The sweet Southern drawl of Virginia Hanes draws me back to the television set briefly before another powerful knock on the upper portion of the Dutch door interrupts my viewing once again. My eyes drift to the door panel where a large mass with broad shoulders is outlined behind the etched glass. Judging from the stature, I’m surmising whoever’s knocking on my door is a stout man.
Maybe he’s a bill collector. The thought makes me plant my feet on the floor, stilling my chair and attempting to scoot it backward a few inches (which would be nearly impossible for me to do).
Lord knows, we owe on this property.
With my disability and Hannah working two jobs to provide the essentials for us, it’s been ten years of debt. My beautiful girl grew up too fast, just like me. Thankfully, it wasn’t exactly like me. At least she wasn’t pregnant by a worthless man.
We all become victims of our circumstances at some point.
As firm knuckles tap the glass panel one more time, my attention snaps back to the gentleman outside. Is he a gentleman? His head lowers as he pauses from the incessant knocking. One hand lands on his hip, and I hold my breath as if the sound of exhaling could expose my position and redouble his efforts.
“Howard?” The deep masculine timbre, boisterous like a lumberjack bellowing, sends a shiver up my spine. Must be a bill collector as no one seeks out Howard. His gambling debtors. His philandering girlfriends. They’d called after his disappearance but had tapered off over the years.
“Howard, you in there?” The man pauses another beat and then paces to the porch railing, staring out at the property. It’s October, and the front pasture needs mowing. His broad back to the bay window gives me better access to view him, and my head tips, drawing lines across a leather harness strapped over his shoulders and crisscrossing between his shoulder blades.
Is that a holster? Is he carrying a gun? Have the Iron Wraiths come for their revenge? It’s been a decade of solitude without a glance from the motorcycle men living nearby.
It was an accident.
My eyes flick to the television set as Tripper and Virginia stand with their arms around one another, making some joke I can’t hear through the blood rushing in my ears.
What does it take for a man to love a woman like he does?
Abruptly, the stranger turns back toward the house, narrowing his eyes at the window even though the glass is thinly veiled by sheer curtains. My breath catches. For a moment, I wonder if he can feel my gaze. Does he know I’m looking at him? If I rock backward, the movement will give me away, and if I try to stand, I’ll definitely draw attention to myself, so I hold still like a deer in the forest sensing the approach of a threat. He can’t possibly see me because I’m too far back from the glass. Like an animal inside a cage at the zoo, I’m hiding in the shadows, hoping he’ll go away.