Page 11 of Sweet and Salty
“Not yet,” I manage, apparently summoning some inner reserves of calm and cheer I didn’t know I possessed. “But it’sfine. It’s not the right time. It will give me more time to test recipes out on all of you.”
My mom shakes her head and kisses the side of mine like I’m three and not thirty-three. “Hon, you don’t have to be everything to everyone all the time.”
Except there she’s wrong. Yes, I do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jesse
“How wasthe May Day Festival? That was always my wife’s favorite. We talked about going this year, but, you know, extenuating circumstances.” Harbor Stryke’s voice doesn’t even have the courtesy to sound tinny over my cell phone. Despite the other terrible features of my cabin, it gets excellent cell reception.
“I didn’t go.” I brush leaves from the gutters onto the ground below. Maybe if they make enough of a pile, it will make up for the cracks in the foundation. I might not be a builder, but even I know that isn’t how concrete should look.
“What do you mean, you didn’t go? Have you been to bingo? Everyone loves bingo.”
“I’m not everyone.” The ladder shakes below me as I shift my weight. I curse and readjust.
“What about your neighbors? Have any of them invited you over to dinner?”
I glance for the thousandth time that hour toward the farm where I suspect Laura lives. It’s a neat yellow farmhousewith white shutters and the entire back wall is painted with a riotously-colored mural. All different kinds of flowers. I don’t know how I missed it during the winter. Then again, I’ve been up on the ladder a lot more over the last two days, and the view just happens to be there. I am not trying to see Laura Marshall. I’m not some kind of creepy spy.
“Why are you so worried about my social life? Don’t you have other borderline convicts to check on?” I leave the phone on speaker as I climb down the ladder. Nothing in Laura’s yard except three very large potbellied pigs, the world’s laziest golden retriever, and a donkey who stares at everything with suspicion. I know more than enough about donkeys to know they’re always suspicious of something, so I don’t take it personally.
Harbor sighs loudly. “You need to live some sort of life, Jesse. I’m glad you got a job at least.”
“You’re not my counselor and you’re not my parole officer. I don’t need a life.” There’s a flash of movement in the woods separating my backyard from Laura’s, and my heart flips. Nope. It’s just the Golden Retriever following the sun to a different patch of land.
“I don’t know when the trial is going to be. What are you going to do? Hole up there and lament? That’s not healthy, Jesse. I’m acting as a friend here.”
“You’re a US Marshal, not my friend.” This comes out far harsher than I intended. I groan and lean against the wall, setting loose several dried splinters onto the muddy ground. “I’m sorry. You’re trying to help and I’m being an ass.”
Harbor’s voice softens, which is an impressive feat for someone whose very tone could probably command seas to part. “It’s a lot of change. I know you loved your job and you lost your house and…everything else too. But this can be good for you. Sometimes we all need a different perspective in life. Embrace it.”
If only that different perspective could have come with a mission trip in Paraguay instead of forced relocation for my own safety. Not that Esme—
Nope. Definitely not thinking about her.
“I will.”
Harbor grumbles in response, but it’s far deeper than I expected. I look up to see a local sheriff’s truck rumbling down the pitted, muddy driveway. I stand straighter, apprehension stiffening my posture. “I’ve got to go, Harbor. I’ll talk to you next month.”
“Or sooner. If you need anything, you have my number. Have fun and stay off the radar.” He signs off with a whistle. That man iswaytoo happily married.
The truck stops a few feet away. I cross toward it, pulling off my work gloves. What in the world could the sheriff want to say to me? I haven’t done anything, have I? Not being neighborly isn’t enough to get people in trouble in most parts of the country.
A tallish man, about my height and maybe a few years younger, with dark brown hair and white skin steps out of the truck in a sheriff’s uniform and cap with the LA Slingshots hockey logo on it. There’s something familiar about him, but not in a way that feels threatening.
“Hello, Sheriff,” I say, holding my hand out. “What can I do for you?”
He tilts his head and squints at me before taking my hand and pumping it twice. “Jesse Vanek? You’re new in town.”
“I am.” I swallow, the apprehension growing. My last encounter with the police did not exactly endear me to the profession. I spent over ten hours in an interrogation room. Maybe I’ve broken some law I’m not even aware of. Maybe renting this rundown piece of shit cabin really is a crime. “Is something wrong?”
He crosses his arms over his chest even as a smile plays over his face. “We can start with not introducing yourself to the neighborhood. I’m Rory Marshall. Laura told me you rented this place. Don’t worry. I’ve already been to see your landlord and read them the riot act. It’s irresponsible, saying you could live here. I swear she was hiding it from the rest of town just to get your money. Not that your landlord socializes.”
“Oh.” Relief floods through me. “It’s not a problem. I don’t even know her name, my landlord. I worried I was squatting, or something.”
“Nope, just got snookered.” Rory whistles through his teeth. “Sorry about that. If you want, we can try to find you a place closer to town. One with walls that won’t cave in when you breathe funny.”