Jack

I read somewhere the earth is round so we can’t see too far down the road. Opening my eyes mid-morning Sunday, the first thing I see is my hard-on tenting the elegant Matelassé blanket over me. The second thing I see is Ember across the room.

It takes me a few seconds of blinking before I remember coming home last night after my run-in with Tabby and having a few more drinks. Then, possibly a little drunk, I dug her portrait out of the closet again.

“Fuck,” I growl, sitting up and rubbing my face. “No more midnight cocktails.”

Throwing the blanket aside, I stalk down the hall toward the bathroom. My feet make dull thudding noises on the soft pine floors.

This place is really nice, I think, entering the sparkling bathroom. Bracing myself with one hand against the wall, I reach down and ease my erection toward the bowl so I don’t paint the elegant ceiling yellow.

Out in the kitchen, I open and close the empty cabinets realizing quickly I forgot a few important things. I don’t even have coffee.

“Dammit,” I growl, heading for the bedroom to put on clothes. I jerk faded jeans over my hips and a gray tee over my head. Scooping up a baseball cap, I’m out the door.

Two minutes later I steer The Beast into town, searching for coffee and sustenance. It’s deserted, of course, since half the population is at church and the other half is sleeping it off. When I was a kid, the closest grocery store was two towns over. Thankfully, someone’s opened one here since then.

I pull up outside the building I’ll be painting tomorrow. The sign reads, “Pack n Save Poboy Shop,” and it’s adjacent to the hardware store.

A little bell rings over the door when I enter, but the place is empty. Only a guy in a ball cap sits behind the register studying his phone. I grab a plastic basket and make my way through the aisles quickly, grabbing a loaf of bread, coffee, filters. The refrigerated section has a limited supply, but I grab a package of ground beef, sausages, what looks like a decent steak. Cheese and a carton of cream, and I return to the front.

The guy puts his phone down and quickly rings me up, placing my items in the plastic bags hanging beside him. I look up and read the menu. The listing is a full range of specialty sandwiches from pastrami on rye; to turkey, apple, Brie, and bacon; to New Orleans muffulettas; and Cajun shrimp and oysters.

My stomach growls just reading it.

“Hey,” I say, giving the guy a nod.

“How’s it going,” he answers without looking up.

“How long has this place been open?”

He doesn’t smile. “’bout five years.”

“You the owner?”

Dark eyes evaluate me. “No.”

He goes back to scanning, and it looks like that’s all I’m getting.

I try again. “I’ll be honest, when I lived here, there weren’t many people of color in Oceanside Village.”

“Still aren’t.”

I think a moment, and as a last-ditch effort, I hold out my hand. “Jackson Cane. I used to live here. I’ll be painting your storefront starting tomorrow.”

Brown eyes move from my outstretched hand to my face. “It’s not my storefront.”

I think he’s going to leave me hanging, but he catches my hand in a firm shake. “André Fontenot.”

“Good to meet you, André.” I motion to the sign. “You make the sandwiches?”

“Yep.” I’m all bagged up. His work is done. “Thirty-two fifty.”

Digging in my pocket, I pull out two twenties and hand them over. “I’ll stop in tomorrow and try one. Which do you recommend?”

“Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”

“Fair enough.” I nod, heading for the door. “I’ll be working every day for a week at least. Maybe I’ll try them all.”

“Suit yourself.”

His answer makes me chuckle. I’m getting nothing out of André I don’t earn.

Pausing for a moment, I look up at the two-story buildings—my project. The paint’s flaking off all of them, and I’d like to give them a good once-over before I start tomorrow.

I’ll come back after I’ve had a cup of coffee and eaten something. Pulling the driver’s side door, I’m greeted with the usual pop! It’s a far cry from my Audi, but I couldn’t give a shit. I place the bag on the bench seat and slide in.

---

It’s early afternoon when I make it back into town. I’ve left the truck at home, and I’m on foot this time. It’s not far enough to drive unless you’re carrying perishables.

The sun beats down strong, and sweat traces a line down the center of my back. I’ll need to get an early start tomorrow if I’m going to beat the hottest part of the day. I’m keeping construction-worker hours now, not lawyer hours.

Stopping at the first building, I peer through the leaded-glass windows. When I was a kid, this was a five and dime store. Emberly’s aunt owned it, and I remember she kept a barrel of candy at the front register. She’d told me why once, but I can’t remember. Something about a book she’d read… Little House on the Prairie shit.

The main thing I remember is it was full of hard candy, similar to Jolly Ranchers but a homemade variety. I was addicted to the cinnamon ones, and even though they were a nickel, she’d let me have them for free. I must’ve eaten twenty of those damn things a day. My mouth was always on fire.

Cupping my hands over my eyes, I see the place has been completely cleaned out except for the front register. A heavy wooden table is positioned against the back wall, and the shelves that extend to the ceiling are full of what look like baking supplies.

A large farm-style sink is beside two ovens stacked against the wall and on the other side is a refrigerator. It looks like somebody’s opening a bakeshop, and it’s pretty damn girlie—all whitewash and ribbons and dried flowers and twig clusters everywhere.

Wyatt gave me three different colors for the buildings—light blue, a peachy beige, and sand with black shutters. This place should be the peachy beige, I think.

Moving down to the hardware store, a few customers are inside. Wyatt is behind the counter bagging an order. I’m surprised. When I lived here nothing was open on Sundays. A quick glance tells me noon to six for this place today. Every other day begins at ten.

My new boss catches my eye, and I give him a nod. He waves for me to come inside, and I go up to the counter. The person he’s helping grabs his bags and takes off out the door.

“Ready to start tomorrow?” Wyatt asks.

“Yep, bright and early.” Motioning with the swatches, I say, “Peachy beige for the cake place. Light blue for you, and this fleshy sand for the poboy shop.”

He nods. “Works for me.”

“I’ll need to get the supplies. You here early?”

He frowns and holds up a finger. I wait as he reaches under the counter, taking out a small metal box. A set of keys is inside, and he pulls one off and hands it to me.

“Lose this, and I’ll dock your pay a hundred dollars.”

I almost laugh. “You own a hardware store. You can make a new key for free.”

“But I’ll have to change all the locks, and that’s a pain in the ass.”

A quick nod, and I take it. “Understood.” Stepping back, I motion next door. “I’ll set up the scaffolding and arrange it so it doesn’t impede your business.”

“Good thinking.” He gives me that weird, knowing look he gave me earlier. It makes me uncomfortable, like he has some secret on me, and he’s going to whip it out when I’m not looking.

“Okay, then.” I back toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to your customers.”

Out on the street, I walk in the direction of the poboy shop. I’ve got the cottage pretty stocked, but a muffuletta and a glass of pinot sound good for tonight.

André is inside, and he’s slammed. It’s early for dinner, so I keep walking further into the old neighborhood. It’s a road I remember well, and my chest grows tighter with each step. Without realizing, I’ve put myself on a path down memory lane.

Everything changes as I get closer to the main cluster of houses forming the tiny garden district. The town is laid out around a collection of twenty or so houses in a four-block radius. It’s where the original “founders” planned a neighborhood village. The stragglers, newcomers, transients, and business-owners planted their cottages and shotgun houses on the fringes or they lived over the businesses they owned.

My hands are in the pockets of my jeans as I follow the sidewalk. The trees are ancient and otherworldly. Their trunks are dark wood, nearly black, and thicker, as big around as two adults. The branches are heavy and curved, almost reaching to the ground, and covered in dark green leaves.

I’m thinking about painting, stretching a canvas, when I look up, and I’m at the corner.

It hits me like a gut punch. The old house takes up the entire block with its curved porches and arched latticework. The yard is pristine as always—crepe myrtles and gardenia bushes. It’s too late for the gardenias, but the bushes are thick with leaves. Other bushes are dotted with cranberry-red clusters of flowers.

My breath is shallow as my eyes rise higher to the cedar shake roof, to her old window hidden behind the tall oak tree. One thick branch extends like a ramp from the ledge to the ground. I involuntarily clutch my stomach as a phantom memory assaults my mind.

I can see Ember swinging over that narrow gap between the roof and the tree. She was quick and nimble. She moved like a dancer, sure and strong…

“Hello! You there?” The strong female voice cuts through my internal distress.

It’s stern and authoritative. It’s so familiar.

“Young man!” she insists. “This is private property!”

Pushing off the painted fence, I turn to see the woman I remember well. From her startled expression and the way her eyebrows shoot up, I can tell she remembers me, too.

“Jack?” It’s just above a whisper. “Jack Lockwood?”

“Hello, Miss Marjorie.” I gesture to her fence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be on your land. I just… I…”

I don’t know what to say to her. She never wanted me here. Anytime I was, I was sneaking around, or I would sit in my car out there at the corner, waiting until I saw Ember dash across the road and into the woods just beyond the settlement.

The wild woods with the path that led all the way to the shore, to our place. The place where we would meet.

“What are you doing here?”

I have to confess, I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me the same question. “It’s my home. I came back to see if anything has changed.” That’s a new reason. Is it true?

“You weren’t supposed to come back.”

She’s never looked this way in my memory—confused, anxious… afraid? I don’t care about this woman standing in front of me. I didn’t care about her as a teen, and that sure as hell hasn’t changed now. Only one question is burning in the top of my mind.

“How is she?” Nostalgia, longing, regret… all the feelings of loss twist together in my chest.

Her mother’s lips tighten, and I see her fear turn to fury. “The same as she ever was.”

“What does that mean?” I don’t intend for my tone to be forceful. Still, it came out as a challenge.

“It means she’s still better off without you.” With that, Marjorie Warren turns on her heel and storms into her enormous home, slamming the door.

I’m left staring at the mansion, knowing the words aren’t right. They can’t be right.

Only… what made Ember start believing them? At some point after I left, something changed. I remember that night, talking to my father, seeing the proof it was over…

I slowly return the way I came. Passing the poboy shop, I decide I’m not hungry. Talking to Marjorie has left me feeling exhausted and beat down. Everyone keeps asking me the same question—why am I here?

I’d thought it was to clear my head, get some perspective on work, but now I’m thinking I came here for another reason. Something in me needs to put the past to rest. I need to close this door. I need to write the end to this chapter of my life.

Back in the cottage, I pull out my laptop and do something I’ve fought against for years. I open a search engine and type the name Emberly Rose Warren. My finger actually hesitates before I hit Enter and wait.

In a blink, the page fills with entries, but none of them are her. One is a stripper, which almost makes me laugh. Clicking the Images tab turns up nothing. She’s not here.

The answer to my question won’t be found that easily.