Page 17 of Lightning in a Mason Jar
He quirked a dark eyebrow. “I got bit by far worse overseas.”
“Compared to mosquitoes in the South?” She jabbed a thumb toward the swampy marsh just beyond the ditch. “That’s saying a lot.”
“Try shaking your boot out every morning to check for scorpions.”
She shuddered but then stayed quiet rather than pushing to keep the conversation alive. Sharing had eased some of the tension inside her, like a slow release from a pressure cooker, a little bit at a time to keep from getting burned. Still, she knew that digging up the past didn’t necessarily serve the same purpose for other people.
The truck jostled in a pothole just before a bridge spanning a narrow channel of the river. A small johnboat with a lone fisherman drifted below.
Martin draped a wrist over the steering wheel. “I took the job because I want the chance to clean things up rather than tear them down.”
Some of the old anger at him faded. “Aunt Winnie liked you. She defended you when the town was griping about all their illegal dumping citations. Which is saying a lot since she wasn’t known for being much of a rule follower.”
“Your aunt was a fierce individual with a big heart.” Turning, he looked at her over the top of his sunglasses, his brown eyes full of sympathy. “If I haven’t said so before now, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She looked away, the intensity of his gaze amping the pressure inside her. “I owe her ... everything.”
“Yet you’re leaving behind the town and home she loved.”
His words got her back up, but she pushed down the urge to explain how moving to Myrtle Beach had always been Winnie’s dream.
Plans would be made. Only to be canceled. There’d been no missing the whisper of fear in Aunt Winnie’s eyes once the time drew close to leave the city limits, as if doing so would burst a magic spell.
The truth was likely far simpler. Aunt Winnie had suffered from some level of agoraphobia. Sure, she could leave her farmhouse, barreling down Main Street and county roads in her old Ford truck with confidence. No farther.
But sharing that with Martin would feel like a betrayal of Winnie’s memory. “I learned long ago not to care about other people’s opinions of me.”
“You mean you don’t care aboutmyopinion,” he said with a wink, stopping the truck at a blinking red light at a crossroads.
“To think I was starting to like you. Don’t you have someone to rescue from a rampaging pig?” Bailey Rae slumped in her seat, but some of the sting had left her words now. Something had shifted between them with those few hints into the man inside.
“I’m sure I do, but none as interesting as you.”
Her mouth dried right up.
A honking horn sent them both sitting upright, and he eased his foot off the brake.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the hospital parking lot. She couldn’t bolt out of the truck and into the elevator fast enough. Each squeak of her shoes on the tile floors took her one step closer to finishing up business and heading out for the coast. Martin was a distraction. Simple as that. And she wasn’t like her mother, to be swept about by the changing winds of attraction to a new handsome man. Especially not one who had far too many secrets lurking in his deep brown eyes.
Mind and purpose back in focus, she knocked on the door to Gia’s hospital room. “Gia, it’s me. Bailey Rae from the market. And the game warden, Martin Perez.”
“Come in,” a soft voice called from inside. Weak. But alive.
Could Bailey Rae have lived with herself if the woman weren’t? Thankfully she didn’t have to go through that emotional minefield.
Bag in hand, she drew in a bracing breath of antiseptic air and pushed through the door.
After a single look at Gia Abernathy’s battered face, Bailey Rae knew. The woman needed a lot more than a bag of granola bars or hand-me-downs, and her mission for her final weeks in Bent Oak had just expanded.
1971
Libby and I began walking home together after that fight in the paper mill lot. Last week’s altercation had spooked us both. Even though we hadn’t shared about our pasts, an unspoken bond existed between us, an understanding that we’d both faced something dangerous and survived.
We were warier now. There was comfort in numbers. So we walked down the narrow sidewalk along Main Street toward the towering brick elementary school. Today was their last day of the school year, and I wondered if our work schedules would stay the same.
Libby swiped her forehead. “Slow down, please.”
I hadn’t realized I was double-timing along the sidewalk. Most likely stomping out my frustration. I punished the pavement because I couldn’t punish Phillip.
