Olivia
Come Friday, I’m up at the ass-crack of dawn, donning a pair of sensible flat shoes and a nice dress as I head into town. I want to hit the realtor bright and early because I know being in August’s hair isn’t doing me any favors.
I’m around two miles into my journey down Oak Street when August’s pickup pulls up alongside me.
“Wivvie,” Bettina says, and I turn and smile at her.
“Well hi, sugar. Where are you off to today?”
“I have daycare, silly.”
“You do? Well that sounds like fun.”
“Auggie says we cwouldn’t stop because we’re gwoing to be late.” She leans out the window and whispers conspiratorially, “But I twold him he hawd to.”
“Bettina,” August chides.
I smile at him. “From the mouths of babes, huh?”
“You want a ride or not?” he asks.
I smile, sweetly. I have no intention of getting in the car with him. “No thank you, I’m just fine walking.”
“What kind of man would I be if I left a pretty lady by the side of the road?”
My brow shoots skyward, and I start walking. “The kind that’s late.”
The truck screeches to a halt, and Bettina yelps as her tiny body is flung back against the seat.
“Stay in the car, Bett, and put your belt on,” August says. He climbs out of the vehicle and catches my shoulder, pulling me toward him. “Look, about the other day, when I …” He sighs. “Well, I know we haven’t really talked about it, and I owe you a proper apology. So, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, it was just in—”
“Instinct? I know. I told you this wasn’t my first time at the rodeo.”
His expression is stoic, but the way his eyes narrow give everything away. “How many others?”
I level him with a sharp look. “Too many to count.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because what I do saves lives. Because too many good men and women who fought for our country are forgotten about when they return home. Because wounds on the inside can be so much harder to heal than those of the flesh. That’s why I do it.”
His brow is furrowed and he stares at our feet for a long time, likely telling me to shut up inside his head. A beat later, he lifts his gaze to mine and says, “Please get in the car.”
“It’s better if I walk.”
“Oh, you’re stubborn, ain’t ya?”
“I guess we’re both too stubborn for our own good.”
“Fine.” He stalks back to the car. “Don’t say I didn’t ask.”
“Wasn’t gonna,” I say and set off again. The door slams and the idling engine coughs and splutters as it takes off and zooms past me in a cloud of dust and heat.
In town, though my feet hurt and I’m craving a coffee, my first stop is Renoux Realty. Georgia smiles widely as I set foot in the door, and then the smile vanishes when she recognizes my face. I take it the Stepford Wives didn’t appreciate my outburst yesterday.
“Good morning, how may we help you today?” she asks with a pasted-on grin, as if we didn’t have a conversation just yesterday about my needing a place to live.
“Well, for one, I need to pick up the keys for the shelter I purchased out on Highway 98 and then, hopefully, you can help me find somewhere to live in Magnolia Springs.”
“You bought old man Tinker’s shelter?” Georgia asks.
“Yep.”
A crease forms between her brows. “Why?”
“Because I run a program for vets and dogs.”
Georgia makes a face. “You know what? It’s none of my business. Let me go get your keys and a copy of your paperwork.”
And this is exactly the reason why Magnolia Springs needs Paws for Cause, because no one here is interested in the welfare of their veterans. In fact, after the way Mayor Winkler spoke about August yesterday, I’m wondering why he even sought me out in the first place. Unless there was some hefty government bonus awarded to his town that I didn’t know about. Which just might break my heart, so Winkler better hope and pray that I never find out about it.
Georgia comes back a few minutes later with the paperwork, but I can’t help noticing she’s not holding any keys. “It appears that Mr. Renoux sent them off to Elberta to make a copy a few weeks ago—his brother owns a key cutting business over there—but we don’t seem to have them back yet.”
“But I didn’t ask for a copy to be made.” I’d told Mr. Renoux that I’d pick up my keys when I came to town. What I’d failed to do was make sure his office was opened when I arrived. That was a small oversight on my part that saw me twiddling my thumbs, cleaning too much and baking enough cookies to feed the Cottons for a month.
She waves that away with a lazy hand gesture. “Oh, Mr. Renoux is just thoughtful that way.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” I say. “But do you think he could be thoughtful enough to drive on over there and get them back for me?”
Her lips turn up in a tight smile. “He’s out of town at a conference for the rest of the week.”
“Of course he is,” I say with a sigh. I may have to bribe August to drive me to Elberta, because I have a shelter to resurrect, and I’ll go crazy sitting around Tanglewood for another week.
“I can call you as soon as they come in though.”
Or I could just have a locksmith come over and change the locks. She has just given me the title to the property. Keys or no keys, that shelter is mine. I flash her an unfeeling smile. “Sounds great. Now, about those rentals.”
Georgia taps away on her computer. “I’m sorry. We don’t have any listings right now.”
“But I haven’t told you what I’m looking for yet.”
“We don’t have anything at all.”
“Really?” I ask in disbelief.
“Mmhmm, no rentals at this very moment, but there’s a little hunting shack about five miles out of town that’s coming up for rent in a few weeks’ time. If the current tenants don’t sign on for another year, that is, you’d be welcome to come look at it then.”
My heart sinks. “Well, if you hear anything, will you let me know?”
“You got it, girlfriend,” she says, overly bright as I stand and head toward the door. The sting of it hitting my ass on the way out hasn’t even subsided before she’s picking up the phone. Probably calling Kathy Abernathy.
This is a huge blow. Not Georgia activating the gossip tree—I could care less about that—but my lack of an apartment. It means I’m stuck at Tanglewood far longer than August and I expected.
Still, I’m determined as ever. This town needs my help. August Cotton needs my help, and I’ll be damned if I let a little thing like a roof over my head stop me from doing my work. Paws for Cause is stronger than ever, and if I can get enough of the community’s support behind me, I can make this work. Though that may prove difficult now that I’ve given the mayor and all of Stepford a serious tongue-lashing.
My feet ache as I walk through town. I need a mode of transport that doesn’t involve them carrying me six miles a day. Before long I’ll need a car, but seeing as there’s no dealership here I’ll have to head up to Mobile and find my own way with something secondhand. I left my van behind in Fairhope because Paws for Cause needed it to transport animals to and from nearby shelters and veterans who aren’t mobile, so I’m left with one option: walking.
I’m tempted to head out to the shelter right now, but it’s the middle of the day and walking another two to three miles out of my way doesn’t hold that much appeal. Besides, it’s not like I have a set of keys to get in. Instead, I buy a bottle of water, some sunblock, and a wide, straw-brimmed hat from the local market before I make my way back to Tanglewood.
I’ll likely be the color of a lobster by the time I hit the Cottons’ long drive, but there’s nothing to be done for it. As I walk down Magnolia Drive, I come across a yard sale and decide to stop in because the lawn is shaded by a beautiful big old live oak, and it’s at least ten degrees cooler in the shade. I pick over chipped china, baskets full of costume jewelry and knick-knacks that I have no intention of buying, and then I see it: the answer to all my prayers—or at least all my prayers right at this very moment. A bike for sale. It’s powder blue, well loved, and has one of those little baskets on the front covered in flowers. It also has a flat tire and a busted chain, but I pull out a few dollars from my purse and pay the woman for it anyway. She tells me it was her mother’s bike, and she wishes she could sell it to me in better condition, but that no one has been looking after it for all this time. I’m not fazed by this. I’m a single woman who’s lived alone for most of her adult life. I’m self-sufficient when I need to be, and I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty. I’ve fixed all kinds of things, and a rusted old chain and a flat tire won’t stop me.
I push it out the front gate and along the road, and Lord have mercy if I don’t lose my shit and nearly toss the thing several times on the way back to Tanglewood when the chain seizes and the wheels stop turning and I practically have to drag it through the sticky summer heat, but make it to Tanglewood I do. Shortly after I’ve walked up the drive, I throw the damn thing to the ground and kick it some, just to make myself feel better, and then I take a deep breath and look up to find Bettina watching me from the balcony. I shrug and give her a “What are you going to do?” face. She giggles and scurries away from the landing.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, and I’m just about to head upstairs to change my clothes when my gaze lands on August standing on the front porch, watching me closely.
I frown. He frowns, and I start up the steps. “That Miss Maple’s bike?”
“Yep, her daughter sold it to me.”
“It’s a damn wreck. You woulda been better buying a new one.”
“I can fix it,” I say through my teeth.
“You can, huh?” He smiles.
“Sure, I can. I mean, how hard can it be?”
“You tell me,” he says. I push past, careful not to touch him in the slightest and stalk up to my room, flinging my hat down on the bed along with my sunblock. That man is so infuriating. I quickly change into a white tank and a pair of jean cut-offs that I had no intention of wearing in front of others, but it’s hot outside and I’ll be damned if I’m going to fix this bike in a nice dress. Besides, it’s not like anyone here is looking.
When I head back outside, August is looking the bike over. He straightens and turns to face me. His gaze rolls over my body from head to toe. His shoulder’s slowly rise and fall, as if he’s taking in a deep breath. He wets his lips, and my own breath catches in my throat because it’s been a long while since I had a man look at me that way. I dated a guy from Monroe a little more than a year ago, but it was an odd pairing, and he certainly didn’t look at me the way August is now.
August doesn’t say a word, just shoves the bike toward me by the handlebars so I have no choice but to take it or have it fall on my feet, and then he stalks up the front steps, and I’m left there wondering how the hell I’m supposed to get through to this man when he can’t even look at me without wanting to push me away.
I push the bike over to the garage that sits off to the side of the house and stand it up in the shade, then I get to work. Only, I’ve never fixed a bike before, and I don’t have the faintest idea of what I’m doing. After staring at it for a good twenty minutes or so and hoping that the solutions to my problem will just automatically manifest in my mind, I take the liberty of using a screwdriver from the tool box in the shed and I pry the chain off. It snaps and comes away in two heavily rusted greasy pieces.
“Goddamn it,” I shout to the empty room and throw the chain over my shoulder. One lands with a thud against the concrete, but I spin around to check the other, terrified I’ve hit something important. Not something, but someone, it seems. August stands behind me holding the grimy piece in his hands.
“You’ll need a new chain now.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I say, and then I feel bad because I did just throw a bicycle chain at him. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“You didn’t.”
“You caught that midair?” I glower in disbelief and mutter under my breath, “What are you, a ninja?”
“Marine, actually.” He laughs. I give him a stern look, and he wanders across to the other side of the garage. “I think I have one here somewhere. Can’t do much about the brakes though, sorry.”
“What’s wrong with the brakes?”
He chuckles, as if what I just said was hilarious. “They don’t work. I can fix them, but I’ll need a part.”
I frown. “I don’t need your help.”
He turns to me with an eyebrow raised. “You one of them feminists? I don’t need a man to do anything for me?”
“No. I’m not a feminist, I just don’t like owing people anything. I’ve been fending for myself for a long time.”
He walks toward me and drops the chain into my hand. It’s old, and greasy, but it’s not rusted, just covered with a thick layer of dust. I nod. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back for the chain.”
“Don’t worry about it. We got a couple lying around here anyway, so if that doesn’t fit, let me know. Dad kept every little piece of junk that came his way in this shed. Mamma couldn’t stand it.”
“I said I’ll pay you back,” I say sternly.
He shrugs and slides a tub of grease across the counter littered with tools and dust. “Suit yourself. You’ll need this too. I’ll leave you to it.”
I don’t say another word as he walks out of the garage—I just stare down at the chain in my hands and the tub of grease. August’s fingerprints are stamped in the dust. I place my thumb over the largest one and smile at how big his prints are compared to mine. The memory of walking in on him in the bathroom flashes unwanted into my mind, and all I can see are those big hands wrapped around his big … no! August Cotton is a potential client; he’s not to be manhandled, not even in my wildest fantasies. That can never happen, but damn, if that big broody Marine doesn’t make me want things that I have no right to want.
Long after the sun has set, I have the bike chain all greased up and not at all where it should be, and it’s clear that I have no idea what I’m doing. This is a lot different from scooping up dog poop or changing a fuse. I’m out of my depths with this one, and I need help. But I’ll be damned if I’ll ask for it, because August isn’t the only stubborn adult occupying Tanglewood right now. I wipe my hands on a grease-stained towel I find on the work bench and set the bike to one side of the shed, then I climb the stairs to the house. The scent of tomato sauce, dough, and cheese assaults me. Pizza, again. I need to freshen up, so I have no idea why I’m tiptoeing down the hall toward the kitchen like a creeper.
“Auggie, why we hawe to hawe the pizza again?”
“Because, it’s pizza or toast,” he replies gruffly around the dull clanging of plates and the sounds of the cupboard thudding softly closed. “Now, be good and help me set the table.”
“’Cwause why?” Bettina complains. The legs of a chair scrape along the floor. “Mamma never made pizza or toasts.”
“Mamma ain’t here, Bett. You got me. You’re stuck with me, and I don’t know how to do nothin’ else.” My heart breaks with the hopelessness in his voice, and I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, so I quietly ease away from the kitchen.
“Why can’t Wivvie cook?”
“Because Olivia is a guest. You don’t make guests cook,” he says impatiently. “Besides, she don’t belong here. She’ll be gone soon enough, and it’ll be back to me and you.”
I take a step back, and the boards creak beneath my feet. I wince and hightail it up the stairs, my heart racing at the thought of being caught listening in on August and his little sister.
I run the bath, and I try my best to remove the grease stains from my hands in the sink without staining the vanity with it. When I’m done, I pour in a ridiculous amount of bubble bath, and I sit on the edge of the tub with my hand swishing the foam around in the water. I wonder what it would be like to share this tub with the angry Marine. I wonder if there would even be room enough for me, given that he’s built like a tank.
No! No sharing bubble baths with August Cotton. You cannot afford to be thinking of a naked, wet August right now. Or ever. He might not have signed up to my program yet, but I have no doubt he’ll come around, and taking bubble baths with clients is a huge no-no. Daydreaming about sharing more than just a pizza with this man is a very dangerous thing. I’m just about to strip off my clothing when there’s a soft tap on the door.
“Olivia, are you decent?”
Am I decent? That depends on whether you’re taking my thoughts about our naked bodies slipping against one another in the tub into account, now, doesn’t it?
“Mostly,” I say, and give myself a mental smack down as he opens the door.
“How much of that did you hear?” That’s August for you—right for the jugular. He doesn’t like to mince words.
“Hear? Hear what? I didn’t hear nothing,” I say too quickly, which of course is code for “I heard every damn word you said, mister.”
“Listen, I didn’t mean—”
“Nothing by it?”
“I just don’t want her getting too used to this,” he says, staring at the steaming bathwater. “I don’t want her getting used to having you around.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“That’s not what I—”
“I went to the realtor today. Apparently there’s not a single rental in all of Magnolia Springs, though I don’t know if it was payback for yesterday or there just really isn’t any rentals here. Either way, I’ll be gone as soon as possible,” I say with a sigh. “As soon as I can find somewhere else to stay, but in the meantime, I don’t mind cooking for you and Bettina.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“She can’t eat pizza every night. If you buy the food, I’ll cook it.”
“No, she’s my sister, and I’ll take care of her,” he says. “I don’t need help.”
“Good Lord. You know I’ve met an awful lot of Marines in my time, but none anywhere near as stubborn as you. Marine or not, you’re still human, and you’re out of your depths with that girl.”
His eyes flash, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. “Don’t you come up in here tellin’ me what my sister needs.”
“If you keep shutting everyone out like this, you’re going to lose her.” I stand. My voice is raised to meet his own fever-pitch, but I sigh and lower it so Bett doesn’t hear. “They will take her away if you can’t provide adequate care.”
“I’m giving her all the care she needs.”
“No, you’re not,” I snap. “You have a problem, August, and not dealing with that problem is hurting her.”
“You might be used to ‘helping others,’ but you can’t shrink my head. I’m fine.” He steps closer, and I shove him back with my hands against his chest, but August is quicker and grabs hold of my wrists, pulling me to him. His eyes narrow and then widen as his thumbs trace the scars along my forearms. He turns them over to get a better look, and I attempt to snatch my arms back, but his grip tightens. While I’ve never been comfortable displaying them to the world, I don’t cover my scars, and most people never see what’s right in front of them anyway. Only a handful of people have ever noticed. Still, that doesn’t mean I like them being touched.
“What the hell is this?”
I yank out of his grasp and rub at my wrists, which ache from the pressure of his grip. My face is hot, and I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. “We all have scars, August. And we all need help at one point or another.”
“Olivia—”
“You can leave now.” I turn my back on him and lift the hem of my shirt, pulling it up over my head. I know it’s a surefire way to get rid of him. He can’t see anything but the back of my lace bra, but I feel him there behind me for a beat too long. My skin prickles under the weight of his stare, and then he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. My throat constricts, and I stare down at the bath filled with bubbles. All I see is red spilling out of my veins like ribbons snaking over my naked body. Seventeen years old and I was so thin, so broken. I’d been desperate to live and longing to die, caught between two worlds, two realities, and here I was, fifteen years later, attempting to hide those wounds from a man who’d faced down death every day with an assault rifle and likely a goddamn smile on his face. August has walked the thin line between here and gone too—only difference is, he’s still walking it.
I shake those thoughts from my head and step into the scalding-hot water. We all have scars. Some of them kill us little by little, some all at once, and some even save our lives.
I spend a long time in the bath. Too long. I’m pruney, and my skin is completely waterlogged when I get out. It’s dark, and I feel a pang of guilt as I stare at the tiny pink toothbrush on the vanity before me. August must have sent Bettina to bed without brushing her teeth because I was hogging the bathroom. I need to be more aware of the burden I’m placing on the Cottons. I’ll be sure to stay out of August’s way for a while. After all, I have a shelter to start up. August doesn’t want my help, but I haven’t given up on a single soul yet, and I don’t intend to with him either—I just need to give it time. The house creaks and groans from the heat of the day as night settles in and I cross the hall, climb into my empty bed, and stare up at the moonlit patterns on the ceiling. I’ve got nothing but time.
A faint bang comes from outside, and I climb out of bed and cross to the French doors, peeking through the curtains. I don’t see anything. There’s no angry Marine at my door, but the sound comes again, and I quietly unhook the latch and open it. I step out onto the porch and glance around. He isn’t here, but I hear the rattling of tools and walk over to the other end of the balcony. There, in the spill of light from the garage, is August, fixing the chain on my bike.
I frown. I could go down there and stop him, ranting and raving about being capable of doing it myself, but I don’t. Instead, I study him. The way he moves, the rigid muscles in his back, the way he favors his right leg, his real leg, when he could just as easily use the prosthetic to support his weight. This tiny little action tells me so much about him. He’s stubborn as hell, and doesn’t like to depend on anyone or anything. Well, that makes two of us. I suppose I can’t fault him for that. After my daddy died, I was taught not to depend on anyone but myself. It made me into the woman I am today. And I like that woman; she’s tough, and sometimes brave, and she knows when to push and when to pull back, but even she knows you can’t walk through this world alone without support. Without someone to care about what happens to you, and without someone to ease the pain a little when it gets too hard and you feel like giving up.
August Cotton may have fought a war, he may know more about fixing bike chains than me, and he might even be a lot smarter than this town gives him credit for, but he still hasn’t figured out that no one can do it alone. He will, though. And I’ll be there when he does.