I arrive home to find my car parked in the driveway—freshly washed, by the looks of it—with a note trapped beneath the windshield wiper. The only words written on the paper: See you soon. Hmm, that’s a little foreboding, but okay. As for my keys, I find them in the mailbox when I check it.

Inside, the silence hits me like a wall. It’s settled like a fine layer of dust over everything, a stark reminder that there is no one expecting me. Meanwhile, my thoughts are loud enough to fill the room. I sit on my couch and lean my head back, mind whirring with the conversation from my and Lynn’s coffee date. Not just the part about the Cross-family legacy, but the dissolution of my marriage. I’ve told hardly anyone those details save for Caroline, and she ditched me for Jenson. Despite that betrayal, my gut tells me I can trust Lynn. I’ve ignored my intuition before only to see my life crumble in the aftermath. Maybe this time I’ll stay true to it, but that’s easier said than done. I was virtually shredded by friends, the minor tabloids, and gossip blogs for leaving my “emotionally damaged” husband in his “time of need.” I place the blame on myself more often than not, but there is more to the story than just his inability to cope without alcohol.

Everyone could tell you how passionately in love we were in the beginning. I didn’t start to notice the stark differences in the ways we loved each other until about two years into our marriage. It was like everything he did, everything he said, was all to get a reaction out of me, to better figure me out. It was exhausting. He didn’t understand me and my need to be left alone sometimes. And maybe I didn’t understand him and his need to fit me into his life.

He had this paper-doll cutout in mind of what his wife should be. He even sang songs about her. The woman in the lyrics was like a stranger, though he’d say they were about me. Maybe he thought I would strive to be that woman, that over time he could mold me into the muse he envisioned. But my edges were all spiky and barbed from past lies and deceit, and try as I might, I couldn’t quite fit into the stencil he’d created. My outlines were a little too rough for that smooth silhouette.

I have a theory that Jenson loved me as much as he did because I was never completely a part of his world. I’m not someone who is able to force every thought and feeling into my words to tell you how I feel, but he is. He poured everything he had into his music, and when it was all said and done, he would play me his latest chart-topper like he was offering up his heart on a platter. I am much more obscure than that, and maybe that fascinated him as much as it frustrated him. It was difficult to show him one hundred percent of what I was feeling, and that just made him push further to find out exactly what I was made of.

Things were mostly just fun in the early days, witnessing his deep-rooted passion while he traveled around and played his shows. As often as I could make it I would stand off to the side of the stage with a love-drunk grin on my face as I sang along to songs he’d written about me. The girls would clamor for his attention at meet-and-greets, standing in line with unrestrained enthusiasm as they waited for their turn in the spotlight that was Jenson’s attention. He never gave me reason to question him, and so I didn’t. I trusted him completely . . . until the drinking.

It started out innocently enough; beers during the set, a shot or two of whiskey to celebrate a show well done. Then it was rounds of shots sent to the stage from admirers, after-parties with generous bartenders, music festivals where binge-drinking was the least offensive thing you could do. A part of it is because he was more introverted than anyone knew. Crowds freaked him out, and the pressure of meeting with press and music executives often overwhelmed him. He became a master of self-medicating, and booze was his drug of choice. It was the tool he used to boost his charisma, but it became the instrument to his demise. It was bad when he was recording, but it was when he wrote that it was the worst. It’s like he would put everything he had into his music until he was drained, then he was left to try and fill the void with something else. That something was usually Maker’s.

When I finally confronted Jenson about his drinking, he made promises and halfhearted attempts to change. There were rehab programs and support groups and prayer sessions, but nothing stuck, and in the end, it wasn’t enough. The fire happened and I was done. It was heated in the weeks that followed me packing up the belongings I had left. I was angry at him and he was angry at me. Angry that I couldn’t be the girl from his songs who just gives and gives until there’s nothing left to her of any substance.

They say true artists put their heart and soul into their work when they’re creating. Jenson did that, but I don’t think he ever got those pieces back. He got so lost in his work that it became more and more difficult to pull him out when it was all said and done. There’s a reason his voice sounds so heart-wrenchingly beautiful. When you slice yourself open and bleed into your music, every song contains a pulse that beats to the rhythm of your heart, and everyone listening can feel it.

I drag myself off the couch, fighting to cut loose the weight of my memories. This has been an unexpectedly long day, though I didn’t accomplish much. Slow and steady, I tell myself. In the madness of this journey called life, I am not in a race with anybody.

Serena, my older sister, would tell me to pull up my big-girl panties and get on with it. My mother, on the other hand, sent her well-wishes in the form of self-help books. A whole stack of them that I’ve yet to figure out what to do with. They are offensively inspirational. Most people think she means well, but most people don’t know my mother. She’s furious with me for ruining “the one good thing I had going for me”—her words, not mine. My suspicion is that she hopes I’ll “find myself” in those books and recognize the mistake I made. It’s either due to denial or an actual lack of need for them that I refuse to even flip their pages, and I won’t even consider the former. I shove them into a shoebox and nudge that into the corner with my foot.

I should probably call them to tell them how I’m doing, but I don’t particularly want to be questioned by my mother, or lectured by my sister, so I put it off for another day. I think I’ll go sit in the shower instead.

 

 

My alarm cuts through the silence, and in the dark of the morning, I almost forget where I am. My bare room is still unfamiliar, even more so in the absence of light. It’s my first day back at work in a month, and I’ve fallen well out of the routine required by such monotonous tasks. It will take me a few days to get back into orbit.

I get ready in slow motion, then pad downstairs to brew some coffee. It’s only when I’ve gulped down half my mug and a granola bar on the highway that I notice there’s none of the traffic I prepared myself for. Heronwood at six a.m. is a ghost town, and the only vehicles humming down the two-lane roads are big-rigs that hurtle along at alarming speeds. I’ll definitely be early.

I’m drumming my fingers to the music from my iTunes playlist, unaware that I’m speeding until I see the flash of lights behind me; blue and red and obnoxious. Damn these country roads and their bored country cops. I ease on the brakes and pull off onto the grassy shoulder, rooting around for my license and proof of insurance, grumbling curse words under my breath.

“Morning, ma’am,” the cop greets when he reaches my window, tipping his head with a sly grin. He’s dressed in the typical khaki garb, with a tie and a gleaming silver badge. His hair is slicked into a style I’m sure he saw in a magazine, just missing the mark of what I would call trendy.

“Good morning, Officer.” I hand over my license, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He holds it between two fingers, a satisfied grin still on his face like he knows something I don’t. It’s unnerving.

“Sheriff Mike Branson,” he corrects me, lifting one shoulder to draw attention to the badge on his chest.

The sheriff. “My mistake.” I smile tightly.

Sheriff Branson finally scans my license and lets out a low whistle. “Nashville, huh? You just passing through, Ms. Sutter?” he asks, popping the wad of gum in his mouth.

“No. I live here now. Just heading into town for work.” And thank goodness I left when I did.

“Here as in . . .” he waits for me to fill in the blank, and I get the feeling he enjoys making people feel smaller than they are. I sit up a little straighter in my seat.

“Heronwood. I live in Heronwood.”

“Ahh. Newcomer, must be. In that case, welcome to town, Ms. Sutter. Now where are you headed off to in such a hurry?”

“I work in a dental office in Clarksville. I’m not used to the lack of traffic. Let the gas pedal get away from me.” I punctuate that sentence with a smile, hoping that if I seem friendly enough, he’ll let me off without a ticket. I may not be hurting for money, but I don’t want to deal with the hassle.

“Powell and Gray? Nice people over there.” This guy is giving Mr. Kirkwood a run for his money in the drawling conversation department, but at least Mr. Kirkwood didn’t look at me like a fresh steak he was ready to eat.

“Caldwell Dental. And they are.”

“Caldwell Dental,” he enunciates slowly, sucking his teeth. “Well, Ms. Sutter, I’ll just run your license and let you be on your way.”

“Thank you,” I add, but he’s already out of sight.

I sit in silence, picking at the hem of my shirt to staunch the anxiety humming through my veins. Sheriff Mike returns a few minutes later, handing back my ID.

“I’m going to let you off today with a warning, Ms. Sutter, seeing as how you’re still new in town.”

“Thank you, Off—Sheriff,” I correct myself hastily. “I appreciate it.”

“You be careful, you hear? And let us over at the police station know if you ever need anything. After all, we’re here to help you.” Sheriff Branson nods his head again, but I’m stuck on those last five words like a mouse on a glue trap. “You have a pleasant day.”

“Thanks.” I roll up my window before he walks away, but even a layer of glass between us can’t break the tension I feel in the air. The oddest part is, I’m not sure why it even exists. It was nice of him to let me off.

I shove my license back in my purse, making sure to signal before pulling back onto the road. Don’t want to give Mike Branson an excuse to stop me for another one of those pleasant conversations. I set my cruise control at the speed limit and roll into town right on time.

I’m met at the door by the dentist who owns the practice, a curt yet friendly man who looks to be about fifty, then I’m swept up by the office manager, who shows me around and introduces me to the other RDHs. For the most part, everyone seems welcoming. One girl looks me up and down like I’m competing against her for something. I’m not sure how much I can get ahead of her in the way of dental hygiene, but I’m sure she’s brainstorming a few ways at this moment. Shelby. I make a mental note to avoid leaving my food in the communal refrigerator so she can’t spit in it, or worse.

Then I settle into my workspace, learning the placement of all my equipment as well as stocking what I need from the supply room. My first patient sits down in my chair at eight a.m., and from that moment on, I forget everything but the job skills that are engrained into my muscle memory and what conversational tactics I need to relate to my patients.

 

 

I am unfocused and weary when I return home from my first full day of work, so it’s a shock when I step up onto the porch and shattered glass crunches beneath my feet. My eyes drag up from the ground to search the façade of the house for its source. The window to the right of my front door is smashed, shards of remaining glass hanging in the open space like teeth.

I freeze in place, uncertainty prickling across my skin. Could this be . . . Jenson? He has his issues, but he’s above breaking and entering, isn’t he?

I glance around and, seeing that nothing is amiss, place a hand cautiously on the door knob and turn. Still locked. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding leaves me in a whoosh, and I fumble in my purse for my keys. If someone entered through the window, I assume they would’ve just used the door to leave. Once I’ve stepped inside, I find the source of the mess: a baseball is resting on the floor, stopped up against one of the walls in the entryway. A quick look at it gives me no hint as to whom it belongs to.

Relinquishing my fantasy of crashing on the couch for a night of relaxation, I grab a broom and dustpan. Sweeping up my shattered window isn’t what I’d love to be doing straight after work, but c’est la vie.

Just as I’m dumping the last of the glass into the trash, a petite, stick-limbed woman with her hair in a wild ponytail and an arm around a chastised-looking boy, maybe twelve years old or so, approaches from the direction of the neighboring lot. A line of trees and about thirty yards separates our houses, so I haven’t seen or heard from them since I moved in. I straighten up and dust off my scrub top, putting on my best I’m not aggravated smile.

“Hi, you must be the new neighbor,” the woman says, her voice strained like it’s been spread much too thin. She sounds the way I feel. She stops on the first step, wincing at the sight of my window.

“Hello. I’m Raven,” I greet, stepping down so we’re on the same level and shaking her hand. I smile at the boy, but he’s too preoccupied with scowling at his shoes.

“I’m Marissa Santos. This is my son, Victor. Victor, shake Raven’s hand please,” she urges him.

I grasp Victor’s hand and release it quickly, for his sake. He looks more uncomfortable than his mother. “How old are you, Victor?”

“Eleven,” he mumbles.

“Victor needed to tell you something.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Go on, Vic.”

“I’m sorry for breaking your window,” he says in a rush of air.

I glance at the gaping space where the window used to be, feeling a little silly for thinking even for a second that it could have been anything other than an accident. That it could’ve been Jenson.

“And tell Ms. Raven how it happened.”

“I was trying to practice baseball. I’m sorry,” he says miserably.

I offer him a weak smile. His embarrassment is indication enough that it wasn’t malicious. “I appreciate your apology, Victor. I’m just glad to know it wasn’t a break-in or something.”

Marissa shakes her head, her expression one of weary relief, eyes kind. “Oh no, it’s pretty safe around this area. I’m on my own most of the time, and nothing has ever happened to make me worry.” Victor glances up at her and mutters something, and she quietly tells him to wait a second.

“Oh, I have something for you, Victor.” I stride through my front door, plucking up the baseball. He accepts it from me after just a moment’s hesitation. “For practice. Just try not to punish any more windows with your fastball.”

Marissa nods to him, and he takes off running, high-tailing it for his house.

“I really am sorry. His father is overseas—army—and he’s having a hard time finding someone to practice with consistently. He’s . . . had some trouble adjusting, and he’s been terrified to try out for baseball, for fear of failing.” I see the obvious concern in her eyes and my heart pangs for a beat. Not only for Victor’s sake, but for what she must be going through. A broken marriage is one thing. A happy one that’s forced apart by duty is quite another.

“I’m sure that’s difficult for both of you.” Her answering smile is tight.

The side of me that’s more empathetic to humanity reminds me I should tell her I’m here for her if she needs anything. My shredded heart tells me I don’t yet have to capacity to take on other people’s woes.

“Please let me know if you need anything,” I finally say. Everyone deserves a chance to not feel so alone. I don’t allow my mind to apply that statement to myself.

“Thank you.” She looks off in the direction Victor ran. “It is hard some days, but we make good on our debts either way. We don’t have a lot of extra money, but Victor has been very helpful around the house and with yardwork since Jamie left, so if there is anything you need help with—mowing, weeding, cleaning—we would be happy to do what we can to work off that window.”

I open my mouth, prepared to say no, but golden shafts of sunlight highlight the weed-choked yard, the crispy plants overreaching their borders in the front garden, the missing paint, and the grimy windows. One or two good cleaning days would give this entire place a facelift. Maybe then it wouldn’t feel so condemned and hopeless.

Sensing my hesitation, Marissa says, “It would be no problem. Please.”

I exhale and shrug. “Well, I don’t have a lawnmower.”

She waves off that concern. “We have everything you need.”

“All right, it’s settled. Maybe we can whip this place into shape. Does Saturday morning work for you?”

“Sounds great. I’ll send him over.” She steps off the porch and pauses. “And Raven? Welcome to Heronwood.”

I smile gratefully and wave her off, then head inside. Victor could be a lot of help with the chores, but the broken window is another issue entirely. I’m well-aware I live in the middle of nowhere, and the prospect of varmints climbing in and making themselves at home in my house sends a shiver of disgust down my spine. I’m not into it. There are people cut out for that life, but I’m not one of them.

A quick inventory of my belongings leaves me wanting. I would prefer a sturdy piece of plywood, or better yet, a magically-replaced window, but all I have is plastic wrap, garbage bags, some duct tape, and cardboard. I’ll have to call a repairman in the morning, but for now I grab the cardboard and duct tape. Better than nothing.

So now I live in a half-empty house with a cardboard window, with basically no friends to speak of—aside from Lynn. I know I shouldn’t expect anything, but at this point in my self-exploration, I thought I would’ve found more peace. Instead, I have a hole in my window to match the hole in my heart, and my thoughts are all that keep me company at night.

 

 

The doorbell rings just as I’m rinsing out my salad bowl, the noise echoing hollowly through the vacant rooms of my house, and I contemplate who it could be while drying my hands. Lynn coming by for another dose of truth? Trey Cross, here to collect on his debt? The darkness outside maximizes my unease.

I flip on the porch light and peek out the intact window on the opposite side of the front door, but the only thing I can see through the grime is a hazy figure outlined against the backdrop of light. I look down and straighten my shirt, wondering if I should take the time to run upstairs and put a bra back on. The doorbell rings again and I jump, unlocking the door and cracking it open. My eyes widen reflexively.

Dane is standing on my front step, staring down at my sagging porch in concern. His hair is disheveled. I’m struck by the thought that it isn’t completely unattractive.

“Not as nice as you’re accustomed to?” I ask, and he finally looks up, the skin between his brows creased. I’m still a little thrown off by his presence, and distracted with making sure the door obstructs the view of my boobs.

“Not as sturdy, that’s for sure,” he comments, scuffing the toe of his boot over the wooden slats.

“She’s a fixer-upper.”

“I’ll say.”

I clear my throat as his eyes trail over the rotting trim, the dead plants in the hanging baskets the last owners—those Millers—left behind. He probably sees this place as a dump. Hell, I would too if it weren’t currently serving as my sanctuary. I have more respect than that.

Then he sees the window and his jaw flexes beneath the skin.

“Something happen to your window?”

“So it would seem.”

He chuckles. “Friendly neighbors.”

“Fans of baseball,” I clarify.

“A baseball player claims another window. You should get that fixed pretty soon, you know.”

It begins to sink in how strange this situation is. I’ve only met the guy once, and even then, I didn’t give him my name. Now he’s on my porch and we’re making small talk about my window. I tilt my head at him, trying to discern why he’s here. Then my brain catches up to my whizzing thoughts and I remember my car.

“Ahh, you’re here for the car. Give me one second,” I say, holding up a finger for emphasis. I leave the door just long enough to dig my checkbook and a pen from my purse, then I return to where he’s still standing, rooted in the same place.

“How much do I owe you, Dane?”

His answering silence makes me look up in question. His head is cocked, brows slightly furrowed. When I give him an expectant shrug, he shakes his head, just a quick jerk of a motion.

“I didn’t come here for that. Jamie Santos, husband of the woman next-door, is deployed overseas. He asked me to check up on them when I could. I used to come by more often, but life has a habit of getting in the way. They’re family friends.”

“Oh,” I say. Kind of him. Then I wave my checkbook. “I have to pay you anyways, so what’ll it be?”

He gives me a number that’s much less than expected, and I scribble down the necessary information and tear it off for him. “Seems like I made out like a bandit, but here you go. Thank you for your help the other day.”

His smile is one that’s easy and unburdened. “It was no problem.” When his eyes trail downward, taking in my outfit—bleach-stained t-shirt and pajama shorts—I remember my missing bra. I pull the door in front of me again, craning my neck so I can see through the crack. Maybe not the friendliest move, but I don’t want my nipples staring him in the face.

Unoffended, he asks, “Do you own a lawnmower?”

I tsk. “You show up here unannounced, and now you’re insulting my yard?”

“I don’t remember insulting it.”

“You missed your chance, Cross, I already hired a lawn boy.”

Dane’s warm smile morphs into something more mischievous. “He’s doing a hell of a job.”

“He’s eleven, and he hasn’t started yet.” I’m growing impatient. I have episodes of my favorite shows to catch up on—on my laptop because I haven’t gotten around to buying a TV—and I don’t particularly want to stand here and play patty-cake through the door with a possible felon.

“I’m not sure if you’ve been out here lately, but this might be a little more work than an eleven-year-old can handle.”

“Are you saying you can handle it, Dane?”

He gives me a look, like that point is obvious. As if to prove it, he takes a step back and kneels, jiggling one of the vertical spindles of my porch railing until it snaps off in his hand like a toothpick. “This place isn’t even safe!”

“You fixed my car already, I don’t expect you to fix everything else in my li—” I snap my mouth shut. I was about to say “life,” but that would’ve gotten too deep too fast for me. I swallow the word and rock back on my heels.

“I specialize in fixing things,” he says.

“So I’ve heard.”

When his brows raise in question, I just give him a ghost of a smile. If by “fixing things” he means beating up his teammate’s dad and getting involved in some petty crime with his weird family, then sure, he’d be telling the truth. A real “fixer.”

“Do you always give people hell when it comes to helping you out?”

“You should’ve heard my conversation with the eleven-year-old.”

Dane bites back a grin. “Okay,” he says, nodding. He pulls the check out of his pocket and rips it in half. Then in quarters. Then in eighths. I just watch him. I want to ask what that was about, but that would lead to more familiar banter. We’re already getting cozy enough as it is.

“It looks like you’ve got enough on your plate right now with this place. The car is the least of your worries.”

“I didn’t go to your shop expecting a handout. And you could’ve told me it was yours, by the way.”

“It’s my dad’s. And I know you didn’t. But I can’t accept your money knowing it could go toward a worthier cause. You could fall through your front porch at any moment. Seriously.”

“The money has nothing to do with the porch,” I remind him. I was this close to settling our debt and ridding myself of the Crosses.

“Maybe not, but I don’t want that on my conscience.”

I shrug helplessly. The man is agonizingly persistent. “You must understand my hesitation.” When he just tilts his head in question, I sigh. “Put yourself in the shoes of a single girl living in the middle of the Tennessee backwoods. Would you tell that girl to trust the random guy who stole her business from another auto shop?” A few seconds after I say the words, I regret it. I’ve just admitted I’m single to a man with testosterone all but oozing out of his pores. Not the wisest thing I’ve ever done.

“Well, firstly, and pardon me for saying it, but did you stop to think whether I was concerned about your relationship status?” He leans back against the porch railing, his hands gripping the beam. Confident move for someone who’s been questioning its structural integrity since he got here. And although his words are meant to be cold, they pull a smile out of me. This guy bites back. I can appreciate that.

“You didn’t say anything about the trusting part.”

“I’d say you could tie my hands behind my back if you felt the need, but that would make me pretty useless in the fixing department, wouldn’t it?”

I ignore that comment, though I feel something stir in my stomach. What the hell? Settle down, nerves, he’s just a man with eyes the color of paradise and a beard that needs shaving. “All right. What does this hospitality entail?”

Dane looks up at the sky, as though he’s tallying up all the issues with my little house. “It’s a long list, but we can start with this death trap of a front porch. Then I’ll think about taking your money.

After Dane finally departs, with a promise to return on Saturday morning, I resume cleaning up the remnants of my dinner. It dawns on me as I’m wiping down the counters that I made a decision just this afternoon to stay away from him. I don’t know much about him other than what Lynn’s told me, but I know enough to conclude that he doesn’t fit into the idyllic season of solitude I’m seeking. He seems nice enough, but they’re all nice for a time, aren’t they?

So now I have a date with a skinny boy and a man who might be a criminal in his spare time to get this place looking more like a house and less like a shack someone might cook meth in. Meanwhile, I ignore the fact that I might just be trading in one debt for another.