CHAPTER 5

Ben

“Should we go up there?”

Isla stares up the mountain, where as of this morning, work on the roadway to the clearing above has begun. Heavy equipment rolled in earlier, and Jim Bayfield, the local contractor, came knocking on the trailer door.

It has been a busy week. The first few days, I left Isla alone with her camera and her laptop, while I looked after the grounds and worked on the Deville. I had to pry her away from the computer at night and force her into bed. Since her selection of pictures was finalized and sent off, she had nowhere to go with her nervous energy, and when I suggested putting together a budget for the house, she dove straight into that.

I was pleased to see her uncle had amassed quite a decent contingency fund; one that could easily handle the groundwork for the house. It had been the start of an interesting conversation about money. Uncomfortable, as I would’ve expected, since the moment I laid out my financial condition and suggested she add my savings to the house budget, she was up in arms. What finally got her to give in was when I explained that it was simply an investment. I’d done well over the years. Had a financial advisor handle my savings, since I didn’t have time to dick around with that, and the guy had made me some nice change. Of course I’ve had virtually no living expenses.

“I’m a couple of years away from fifty. It’s about time I spent some on me. And if it makes you feel more comfortable, we can have that lawyer in Cortez draw up some kind of agreement.”

I know she’s worried about what might happen if things go south between us. Turning this into a business agreement just takes that stress out of the equation.

Jim Bayfield was recommended by Nicholas Flynn, Al’s lawyer, and I guess now Isla’s as well. I wasn’t too sure about that guy at first glance. Looked a little too soft and pretty, until he shook my hand. Rough calluses lined his grip and his eyes were unwavering. Smart guy, too.

Bayfield is a general contractor, who is clearly well connected; he has a crew and equipment ready to go within a week.

“Let them get some work done. We’ll get some coffee up there when they break,” I suggest, smiling as Isla almost has her nose pressed against the small window. “Want to help me rip up some carpet?” That gets her attention. She turns around wearing a big grin.

“Yesss—demolition,” she says, channeling her inner Schwarzenegger, as she slips by me.

“Renovation!” I call after her, just as she disappears out the door.

-

By the time lunchtime comes around, both of us are grungy, but the old carpet is piled up outside the trailer. Isla had pulled the padded backing off the banquette seats as well, deeming them unfit for reupholstering. She’s outside jotting down measurements for the replacements, while I scrape away at the old glue on the floor with a putty knife.

“I’m going to put on some coffee,” she says, sticking her head in the door. “I think they’re taking a break.” I lift my head to listen. It’s quiet out there. All morning the sound of heavy engines could be heard, but now I can only hear the crunch of gravel under Isla’s feet as she makes her way over to the other trailer.

Putting the putty knife down, I step out of the trailer and breathe in deep, trying to clear the dust from my nose. It’s a clear day. The campground is quiet, only twelve sites rented out and all, but one older couple, hunters. During the summer you can hear the constant buzz of engines on the water, but now the reservoir is still. Only an occasional fishing boat puttering by.

I load up the old carpet in the wheelbarrow from the shed and roll it over to the garbage dumpster, tossing it in. By the time I get back to the site, Isla is already coming out of the trailer, a large tote in her hands and her camera around her neck.

“You coming?” she calls out when she sees me.

“Need a second to wash my hands,” I mumble against her ear when I reach her, giving her hip a squeeze before slipping inside. A quick splash of water on my face to clear the worst of the dust, and I’m back outside.

“Give me that,” I order, grabbing the tote from her and slinging it over my shoulder. I take her hand as we walk over to where the trucks are parked at the base of the path.

“Not much to see yet.” Jim’s clearly seen us coming. Five guys, plus Jim, are sitting at a picnic table they must’ve hauled up here from one of the empty sites. “Hope you don’t mind,” he says when he catches me looking.

“Of course not,” Isla answers first. “Whatever you guys need, just let us know. We brought some coffee.” I put the bag on the table and Isla starts pulling out not just a large thermos and Styrofoam cups, but a container of brownies. Were the hell she got that from on such short notice, I have no idea.

Under approving grunts and words of thanks, the guys attack both coffee and sweets like a bunch of locusts.

“Did you at least save me a brownie?” I whisper in her ear, and she elbows me in the stomach in return.

“That’s a dangerous precedent you’re setting, young lady.” Jim smiles at her. “Now these Neanderthals will expect to be fed every day.”

“Haha, that would be a no,” she says with a smile. “First day on the job gratitude only, I’m afraid.” She sits down beside Jim, who moves over a little to give her room, and plants her elbows on the table. “So, who’s scared to have their picture taken?”

In minutes, she has the gruff looking crew of guys eating from her hand, with her ready smiles and quick wit. I cross my arms and lean against the fender of a truck, watching her magic at work. When there’s nothing but a stray crumb or two left in the container, and the last drop of coffee is gone, she coaxes the lot to pose in front of the massive bulldozer. I stay where I am, scrolling through my phone to kill time while she takes shot after shot, until Jim calls a stop to it, citing a need to get some more work done before day’s end.

The air fills with the sound of engines, and I sit down at the table, putting my phone facedown as Isla and Jim approach.

“What are the chances of pouring a foundation and getting up framing before winter hits?” I ask when they sit down. Isla looks surprised, but I keep my eyes on Jim, who’s scratching his chin.

“Middle of September now,” he says pensively. “Doesn’t leave a lot of time. It would have to be in by the end of October. Six weeks, give or take. Do you have plans drawn up?”

“Maybe,” I answer tentatively, since it all depends on Isla. “We’ve been looking at some pre-fab homes. There’s one we both like and we have the option of doing interior finishes ourselves.”

“But the guy we talked to said it would be anywhere from four to six months to get the modules built,” Isla pipes up.

“I know,” I confirm, as I flip over my phone and swipe the screen before shoving it in her direction. “But things change.”

I watch as understanding hits her and a big grin almost splits her face.

“We can have it as fast as it’ll take the trucks to get it here,” I tell a confused Jim. “Someone walked away from their contract, and the sales guy will let us have the components, as is, at seventy percent, provided he can have it out of their warehouse before winter. He attached the plans to the email.”

“Oh my God,” Isla gasps beside me. “I can’t believe our luck.”

“Before we celebrate, let Jim have a look at the plans.”

“Can you print those off?” He points at my phone.

“Yes!” Isla jumps up, shoving everything on the table in the bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” she says as she starts walking. “Are you coming?” She throws me an impatient look over her shoulder that has Jim chuckle.

“Looks like you’ve got a live one there,” he guffaws as I stand up.

“You have no idea,” I tell him as I take off after her.

But I do it wearing a grin.

Isla

“She’s coming?” I beam at Ben when he hangs up the phone and gets in the truck.

“We’re going there,” he says, smiling back. “She’s up to her eyeballs in court cases, but has booked the Thanksgiving weekend off. She’s excited to meet you, though,” he quickly adds when my face falls.

We’re on our way to pick up the Toyota and have an appointment at the bank to get our finances sorted. Feels like everything is suddenly moving forward at a breathtaking speed, when my life before coming to Dolores seemed to have been stuck in second gear. Thinking about Ben’s sister visiting would have been a welcome distraction from the near overwhelming changes.

“That’s not until November,” I point out, pouting a little.

“We’ll drive to Albuquerque and make a trip of it,” he promises, squeezing my knee before turning out of the gates. “We’ll be busy once Jim gives us the go ahead on those plans. Besides, I’ve got a trailer to finish first or they won’t even have a place to sleep.” Just like that my smile is back and my fingers are crossed.

“We,” I correct him. “We have a trailer to finish.”

“Of course.” Ben tags me around the neck and pulls me close to plant a kiss on my head. Snuggling into his side, a thought occurs to me.

“We should go shopping in Albuquerque. We need furniture.” The responding growl is a clear indicator Ben, like most men, does not like shopping. Not that I particularly enjoy shopping for clothes, or just for the hell of it, but shopping with a purpose? That I enjoy.

“Not going shopping.”

“But, Ben, we’re gonna have a whole house to furnish and decorate. I can’t make all those decisions on my own.”

“Pixie,” he says with barely subdued impatience. “I don’t shop. I also don’t care much beyond having walls to keep us dry and warm, a bed to sleep in, and a fucking shower, big enough to fit us both. Other than that, the only requirement I have is you.” Any irritation I feel fades at his sentiments. “If you don’t like shopping alone, take Stacie; she’s got a masters in bargain hunting.”

-

The bank manager is doing his best to sell us on a mortgage when we explain what we’re there for, but Ben is adamant he doesn’t want to lock in to anything that we can’t control ourselves. All we want is some emergency financing, something we can access on the spot if we were to run into trouble. In the end, they compromise on a small line of credit that we can access, or pay off, at any time.

Ben is still grumpy when we leave the bank.

“Patronizing son of a bitch,” he mumbles under his breath. I stop him with a hand on his arm.

“He’s an idiot,” I concur. “Which by now I’m sure he realizes, since we walked out of there with exactly what we came for, and not what he wanted to sell us. So chill.” I wind my arms around his neck when he glares at me. “That may intimidate him in there—” I nudge my head in the direction of the bank, “—but your scowl doesn’t scare me at all.” I watch as the corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes soften.

“No?”

“Not even a bit,” I tease. Ben’s arms come around me, lifting me clear off the ground as he takes my mouth in a toe-curling kiss. When he sets me down again, I’m grateful for his hands on my hips to steady me. My legs are far from steady.

“We’ve got a car to pick up,” he says, leading me to where the truck is parked.

When we pull into the dealership, I tell Ben to go ahead, that I’ll be right in. I wait until I see him walk into the office before pulling out my phone.

“Is this Phil?” I ask when a man answers.

“Who wants to know?”

“It’s Isla Ferris, Al’s niece. He gave me your number.” I explain why I’m calling, and after a brief conversation, I end the call and hop out of the cab of the truck to follow Ben inside.

“Wanna drive the truck or the Toyota?” Ben asks half an hour later, when we’re back outside.

“Is that a trick question? Like I’d dare get between a man and his new wheels,” I joke, holding my hand out for the keys. “Better follow me,” I call over my shoulder as I walk toward the truck and open the door. “We’ve gotta make one stop on the way home.”

Before he has a chance to ask questions, I’m in the truck, start the engine, and drive off, leaving him glaring after me.

Dolores isn’t big and Merritt Way is easy to find. And Phil McCracken’s place is impossible to miss. The fields around his doublewide trailer are littered with car carcasses. I pull into the driveway and watch in the rearview mirror to see Ben pull his shiny, new car in right behind me. I’m already out of the truck by the time he ambles up.

“Al’s buddy?” he asks, just as the trailer home’s storm door squeaks open, and a small, stooped, old man, dressed in overalls and a ball cap, steps out.

“Phil McCracken, in the flesh,” I confirm, walking ahead to where the old man is waiting. “I’m Isla, Al’s niece,” I call out when I spot the shotgun casually held alongside a leg. “And this is Ben.” I point over my shoulder, where I’m sure he is somewhere right behind me.

“Come round back,” Phil says without a greeting, as he makes his way around his house. I start following when I feel Ben’s hand slip in mine.

“If someone starts playing the banjo, we’re hauling ass,” he leans down to whisper in my ear, and I fight to keep the snicker bubbling up in check.

The urge to laugh disappears the moment we get a good look at what’s hidden behind the house. Shielded from the road by a strip of trees and underbrush on one side and a barn on the other, are two neat rows of tarp covered cars. About eight of them. In places where the tarp has shifted, gleaming chrome and bright paint can be seen. Classics. From what I can see, either restored or very well maintained.

“This way,” Phil calls out when he looks back to find us stopped in our tracks. I can feel Ben’s heat right behind me.

Phil points to the other side, where right along the barn sits what Uncle Al used to call a silver Twinkie. A large Airstream, propped up on blocks.

“Son of a bitch,” Ben mumbles, as he suddenly takes the lead and is already running his fingers over the silver panels by the time I catch up.

“1952 Cruiser,” Phil says, no small amount of pride in his voice. “Varmint got in, tore up the inside. Spent five years working on it, almost had the inside done when the wife got sick. Time I got back to it, after Maisy passed, damn critters had damn near ate through the floorboards. Ain’t had the heart to give her another go. She’s waistin’ away. Damn shame.”

“Sorry about Maisy,” I say, stepping closer and covering his gnarled, wrinkled hand with mine.

“Been a while,” he says, almost dismissively, but his weathered voice cracks. “Damn near eight years. Long damn time for a man to cook his own damn meals.”

-

Two hours later, we drive off in the new Toyota, leaving the old truck to be fitted with an equally old blade Phil had in the barn and offered for a measly hundred bucks. The brittle man is still standing in front of his house, watching us drive off in our ‘cheap, foreign, dinky-toy,’ according to him. He promised to have the truck done before first snowfall, which is vague enough to be a little worrisome.

“My boys’ll come ’n give me a hand,” he said, when Ben carefully asked whether he’d need a hand with the heavy plow.

The Airstream had been a little trickier to negotiate, but Ben is not a stupid man. As soon as he clued in that as much as Phil didn’t want to let it go, he also wanted to see his project finished. In the end, it was as simple as an offer to come check out progress at any time—lend a hand even, if he wanted—and the promise of a hot, home-cooked meal at the end of each visit.

“Long fucking day,” Ben says, picking my hand off my knee and slipping his fingers between mine. “But a very productive one. Thanks for this, Pixie.” I watch his profile as he drives with a barely there smile on his face. Happy, though—he looks happy.

“Don’t thank me,” I tell him. “I just found my next project.”

“Phil?” He throws me a quick glance before focusing on the road again.

“An American Garden of Classics. That’s gonna be the name. Images of Phil’s cars through the seasons.”

“Bet that would tickle him,” he says on a yawn, which of course triggers one of my own.

“Let’s pick up something easy in town,” I suggest. “I don’t feel like cooking.”

Ben lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the palm.

“Good idea,” he says with a cocky grin. “That leaves more time for dessert.”