Deke
The summer sun beat down on my bare back as I tossed the last of the rotten timber into the wheelbarrow. With a deep sense of satisfaction, I studied the now bare area beside the shed in my backyard.
My backyard. Not my old man’s.
This was my home I was selling. Had been my home for two years. I needed to remind myself Boyd Williams had been dead and buried a while now.
I’d arrived here from Denver after driving my Dodge truck for twenty hours, the trip broken up with an overnight stay in a motel along the way. Since then, I’d thrown myself into making a list of what needed to be repaired or spruced up.
The property manager had made sure the tenants kept the yard in good shape. That left me with clearing up items that had been left here from the time before Boyd’s death.
Standing under the shade of an old elm tree, I studied the outside wooden exterior of the two-story house. Now looking slightly worn in an old coat of faded yellow paint, it was due for a new coat of paint, and I’d booked a crew to start in two days. The colors I’d chosen were light gray with a white trim, and a bright glossy yellow for the front door. Actually the colors had fancy names like Lemoncello Devine, but yellow did it for me.
I’d played with the idea of whether to bother repainting, but the real estate agent had advised it would add three times the cost of getting the job done to sale price of the property, so I decided to go ahead with the job.
Grabbing the handles of the barrow, I steered my load down the side passage to the hired dumpster taking up space in my front yard and began emptying out the load of timber. I’d paid a property manager to empty the house after Boyd’s death. The woman had organized and boxed up any personal papers, and I’d received them soon after. Everything else from my childhood home had been either donated to Goodwill or tossed. As far as I could tell, Boyd had thrown out anything that had been mine years ago, likely just after I’d left to join the Navy. The dumpster I’d hired for this job was being used purely for building material.
The fact that there was not a trace of who I was from before I was eighteen hadn’t surprised me. That’s the kind of person my old man was. Spiteful. Mean. But it did remind me that memories were precious. Sometimes that’s all we had left.
The sound of a car door closing directly across the street had me looking toward the Hawkins old house.
I froze.
A woman with long brown hair was talking on the phone as she retrieved a small box from the trunk of a blue sedan. She was smiling, and her laugh was carried on the summer breeze.
Sophie.
But her parents had sold the house. The real estate agent had even told me the price. What was Sophie doing here?
I stood there, staring, taking in every second I could of the woman I’d tried—and failed—to remove from my life. If it were possible, she looked more beautiful than before. Her curves were fuller, and in the sunshine, she had a glow about her, a spark that was emphasized by the backdrop of fresh blooms surrounding her in what used to be her mother’s garden, but still obviously well-tended by the new owner.
I couldn’t look away from her. Hell, I should have been cursing and making a retreat, but I gave myself this one moment to drink in her beauty.
Ending her phone call, she slipped her cell in her back pocket and closed the trunk. A burst of breeze whipped her hair around her face. Turning to push her hair away, she caught sight of me.
Her stunned expression mirrored my shock from moments ago.
There was no way I could walk back inside the house like nothing had happened. In all honesty, I didn’t want to. Sure, I had questions as to why she was here, but Sophie was there, and I was a selfish enough bastard to take a chance for a few moments with her.
My t-shirt was hanging on a tree limb in the backyard, so I’d just have to walk across to her wearing my jeans and boots.
Drawing closer, I watched her chest rise and fall as she took what I guessed were a few steady breaths. The look of shock in her gaze gave way to something akin to…panic? A heavy feeling lodged in my chest. Panic wasn’t something I ever expected from Sophie. I stopped six feet from the white picket fence, not wanting to crowd her. Was seeing me that intimidating a prospect?
“Sophie.” I deliberately used my name for her, a way of reminding her I wasn’t a physical threat.
“Deke.” She looked over my shoulder toward the house and then back to me. “You’re moving in?”
I didn’t miss the tone of regret in her voice.
Our little reunion had fuck-up written all over it.
“No, getting the place ready to sell.”
Her sigh could only be described as one of relief. “How long are you planning on staying?”
I guess she wanted me out of here as soon as possible. I stomped down my irritation. After all, I’m the bastard who broke her heart. What else could I expect?
“A couple of weeks at most.” But that didn’t explain why she was here. Glancing at the two-story house with its white gingerbread trim and blue painted exterior I had a question of my own.
“I was told your parents had sold their house and moved to Florida.”
“They did. Nearly a year ago. I bought the house.”
“I remember how much you loved the place.” Playing dolls on the stairs as a tiny kid, making a cubby in the attic and then joining Rob, Andy and me in the tree house her dad built in the huge oak in the backyard. The house had always been a place of wonder and happiness for Sophie. “I’m happy for you that you’re making it your home now.”
Her gaze softened, if only for a few seconds. “Thank you, Deke.” Her voice sounded husky, and for a couple of seconds, it was as if the pain and distance since our last parting had melted away.
But the next instant, she blinked, and the emotional wall between us was back in place.
She cast a glance over her shoulder at the house, then turned quickly back to me. “Look, I’m sorry. But I have to get back inside. ” She backed away. “I’ve got something on the stove. Good luck with selling the house.”
I stood there as she turned and practically ran into the house.
As I walked back to my house, I reminded myself I deserved probably far worse from her than the reserved greeting I’d received.
Sophie was making a life for herself in a home she loved. The best I could do for her was stay away and let her continue doing so in peace.