Love in Smoke Page 2

  TWO

  When the sun rises, so does the creeping feeling of self-hatred. I hate that I used alcohol as the bubble wrap between me and my feelings. Then I wonder, momentarily, if I am becoming him. If this is how he started out. But I pick at the hem of my shirt to distract myself from that thought. When I must rely on hard liquor to survive even the menial events of day-to-day life, then I’ll worry.

  It's only when I go into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth that I’m reminded by my reflection that I’m wearing his shirt. It’s rumpled from sleep, the material so worn it’s paper-thin in places. I tear it off, unconcerned with the sound of buttons hitting the floor, and toss it into the tiny trashcan that was left by the previous tenants. No telling what’s been in it, but it seems like a good place for my alcoholic ex-husband’s shirt. What I can’t get rid of so easily is the tan-line left where my wedding ring used to be. It’s subtle, but it might as well be a flashing neon sign to me and others that I’m recently unwed. Unattached. Damaged goods.

  As it so often does, the notion slides into my mind that Jenson and I could have made it work. If I had been stronger, had tried harder, we could be together right now, still married. Happily? I’m not so sure. But I banish those thoughts and replace the padlock on the box of emotions they came out of. Regret is a terrible thing, the first card in a precarious card castle of poisonous thoughts. I can’t invite that back into my life.

  This is my new beginning, I remind myself.

  Once I change and eat a bowl of cereal, I’m headed back out to do some exploring, with no plan in mind. After all, you never know what you’ll stumble across when you’ve got nowhere to be and nobody to see.

  This region is mainly just a mish-mash of farmland and forest, striped by backroads that seem to lead nowhere unless you know exactly where it is you’re going. I don’t, so it’s no surprise when I take a few turns and realize I have no idea how to get back to where I started. I pull up the GPS app on my phone before I end up more lost, but the signal is nonexistent. Fantastic. When I pull into a driveway to turn around, a sign with Shanalynn’s Designs painted across it has me easing on the brake. I scan the surrounding area, all grass and barbed-wire fencing and old, weather-worn buildings. Where does she get her customers from? The sky? And “designs” could mean anything. The gate is open, though, and as of now I have nothing better to do than figure out what exactly Shanalynn designs.

  The gravel crunches loudly enough to announce my arrival, yet there’s not a soul in sight. Do they just trust anyone and everyone out here? I pull up in front of an old farmhouse that reminds me a little of the one I’m renting, though this one has a fresh coat of paint and brand-new shutters by the looks of it. I was considering knocking on the front door, but when I get out of my car, I hear music blaring from somewhere behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I notice the doors to one of the buildings are thrown open. I approach cautiously—after all, nearly everyone owns a gun these days—and peek inside, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dim interior. The building is packed full of furniture, both broken and restored, some stacked haphazardly and some arranged in a way that I think was meant to show them off. And in the middle of all the hodge-podge is the woman who I assume is Shanalynn.

  She’s on her knees on the dusty floor, bent over and peering at the underside of a wooden bench that honestly looks like a piece of crap, showing no sign of surfacing anytime soon. Meanwhile, some god-awful, auto-tuned monstrosity is blaring from unknown speakers. I knock on one of the doors, not wanting to startle her, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.

  “Are you Shanalynn?” I try asking, leaning up on my tiptoes to better my chances of being seen. Nope, nada. She’s just wiggling one of the pieces on the bench, and her focus has yet to leave the hunk of junk.

  My eyes sweep the perimeter of the barn and finally land on a speaker no larger than a brick with a phone hooked up to it. Bingo. I sidle over to it and press the power button.

  “What the hell?” Shanalynn says from the ground, her head swiveling. Her mouth forms an apologetic O when she sees me standing there, and she straightens and brushes off her overalls. Yes . . . overalls. A knot of dark curls spills over top of the red bandana she’s sporting as a headband.

  “I’m sorry. I knocked, but you were just so . . . focused.”

  She laughs and shakes her head, revealing two dimples in a kind face. “It’s all good, I was just in my zone.” She bustles over and offers her hand, and I shake it. Yep, it’s another one of those. By tomorrow, everyone in town will know my name. I kind of owe her, though; I did interrupt her jam session.

  “You must by Shanalynn. I’m Raven.”

  Her face tightens into a grimace, and she drops the rag she’s holding over by the speaker. “Eeesh, no, just Lynn. Everyone from high school will tell you otherwise, but I prefer Lynn.”

  “Changing your sign would be a start,” I offer. Then, remembering how blunt I can come off sometimes, I hold up my palms. “I didn’t mean it like that. You don’t have to change your sign, it was my fault for making assumptions.”

  Lynn laughs again. “It’s fine, and it probably wouldn’t help anyway. It’s impossible to shake off your grade-school image when you’re still living in your tiny hometown at age twenty-eight. Anyway, TMI, sorry. I have diarrhea of the mouth sometimes. Most times. Jesus, see what I mean? What can I help you with?”

  I make a circuit of the room, examining her pieces, and I can’t help but notice how perfectly opposite we are. Jenson could never get enough out of me, and yet, this girl has told me nearly her whole life story, on accident, in under a minute.

  “I’m looking for a few things to furnish my home.” I emphasize “few.” I don’t need to clutter up my life again. You couldn’t walk through our old house without running into piles of well-thumbed magazines, sheet music, and abandoned guitar picks. Maybe that’s why it disintegrated so fast.

  “Well, as you can see, I have plenty of shit. I mean things. Did you have a certain style in mind? Classic? Farmhouse chic? Modern industrial? Are you one of those Joanna Gaines types?”

  I chew on my lip, buying time. I hadn’t thought of that yet. When I was half of a married couple, our furnishings made our home look like a thrift shop. Jenson liked furniture that told stories, as he had said to me many times. Well, our scarred end tables and couches could tell plenty of stories, but I’m not sure all of them were worth hearing. I thought he was going to cry when I went out and bought a new couch for our anniversary. But nope, he just did what he always does and wrote a song about it. He was one of those: a brooder.

  It’s alarming how quickly I’ve stepped back into the no-man’s-land of memories, and Lynn is looking at me questioningly. “Classic, but not stuffy. And I like rustic, but with a modern touch.” Those things are contradictory and make absolutely no sense, but Lynn’s nodding like she understands.

  “I know just what you need. Come this way.”

  I follow her, surprised by her lack of hesitation, but it’s too early to tell if she actually gets me. She leads me to another section of the barn and flips on a light. We’re surrounded by scraps of lumber and a few assembled pieces made up of raw, blond wood.

  “I still have to stain them, but that’s what I have finished so far.” Lynn gestures toward the opposite end.

  “Do you have someone who builds these for you?” I ask, running a finger over the smooth wood of a bulky chest.

  “I make them. I only just started designing my own furniture, but I eventually want to do custom work. If you need something now, those won’t take long to finish, but most of what’s in the other room is ready to go.”

  Even unfinished, I can tell the new pieces will go well with what I have in mind. Modern, clean lines, with a homey feel.

  “I’m in no hurry, but I like these. I’ll also need a dining table and chairs, something small to fit in my house. It’s tiny.”

  “Most places are, in this neck of the woods. Do you live around h
ere? I can deliver for free if you live within twenty miles.”

  “Right up the road.” I go to point in the direction of my place before I remember my current predicament. “I actually ended up here because I’m lost and I don’t have the faintest idea how to get back to the highway.”

  “Oh, you just continue up the road and make a right at the T. Takes you straight there.”

  “Of course it does,” I mumble under my breath. Lynn pats her pockets, then waves me over into the other room, where she stops at a desk and slides a scrap of paper and a pen over to me.

  “Just write down your phone number and address, and I’ll let you know when they’re finished. I could probably have them done by tomorrow.”

  “No rush.” I write down my information, pleased to have accomplished my mission so easily.

  Lynn accepts the paper, taking a closer look. “Hey, that’s the old Miller place. They just recently left.”

  “Tell them they forgot their trashcan.”

  “What brings you to Heronwood?” she asks, despite my dry humor. I almost say “divorce,” but then I remember how I vowed to keep my slate clean. Tell one person you were married to chart-topping Jenson King and everyone will be lining up wanting to buy off his memorabilia. Or his secrets. I don’t have the former and I won’t give up the latter. It’s not who I am.

  “Change of scenery.”

  “I hear ya. Though why you picked here is a mystery.”

  I just shrug and angle myself toward the door, making my impending exit known. “Well, thank you so much for the furniture. And the directions. Do I pay you when you drop it off?”

  “Sure. I trust you,” she answers, giving me a parting wave.

  I almost scoff. Trust. The one thing I never seem to have enough of was the one that led to my demise.

  THREE

  The only word I can think of to describe the expression on Lynn’s face when she climbs my front steps and takes a quick look around is awe. It confuses the hell out of me.

  “Wow, this place has a ton of potential. Did you buy it, or are you just renting?”

  If potential is what she sees when she looks at my sagging porch—almost half of the spindles on the railing either missing or barely hanging on, the slightly off-kilter front door, and overgrown flower pots—who am I to convince her otherwise?

  “I bought it, but I’m questioning that decision now. Not sure how long I’m going to stay.”

  A man steps out of the truck, and she waves him over before turning back to me and whispering conspiratorially. “Ahh, it’s not so bad if you can deal with the scowls in church. They’re skittish about newcomers. But, if you don’t think H-Wood is the place for you, the best advice I can give you is to get out now while you still can. This town sucks you in like quicksand. Only the quicksand is people. And the people are either old or mean. Or both.” The man steps onto the porch and takes off his ball cap when he shakes my hand. “My husband, Adam,” she explains with a proud smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Adam.”

  “He’s the muscle behind this operation, and I don’t even have to pay him.”

  “Lucky you,” I say.

  With Adam’s help, we get everything unloaded in record time, and the little gray house finally begins to resemble a home. A sparingly-furnished home, but it’s a start. I’m exceptionally proud of it. Lynn finished everything with a pale-gray stain that gives it an aged look yet keeps the interior looking bright. Stopping at the new entry table, she steps back and plants her hands on her hips.

  “Here you need a big mirror on the table, with either two lamps or two vases on either side. Cotton stems. Or roses, if you’re more into the romantic look.”

  I squint my eyes, trying to adopt her vision. “Dead roses, maybe.” Lynn just regards me with curious amusement.

  “Where did you move here from?”

  “The city,” I answer vaguely, though it’s not hard to guess that I mean Nashville.

  “Do you know anyone out here? How did you even find us?”

  Truthfully, Heronwood found me. I took an aimless road trip west, and the town appeared out of the pines so suddenly I nearly had to slam on my brakes to avoid passing it up entirely. Once I realized where exactly I was, thanks to a proud, weathered sign, I had already made it to a crossroads at the town square. There were a couple of moms pushing strollers laden with kids, and men in heavy work boots congregating outside the hardware store. No karaoke bars or music museums in sight. It was the kind of place that made you want to be a part of it, though what I desired most was anonymity.

  For fear of being regarded as insane, I go with a more simplified version. “I Googled ‘charming towns of Tennessee.’ ”

  Lynn nods, straightening her bandana. “Well, charming could be our town motto. Along with backstabbing. Wouldn’t that look good on a billboard?”

  It surprises even me when I let out a genuine chuckle. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the strong urge to laugh, but Lynn is so casually blunt when she makes her jokes that it’s unavoidable. She just blinks at me.

  “I’m not sure I know anyone with your sense of humor,” I say in explanation.

  “There’s more where that came from. This place gives me plenty of material.” She makes for the door, then pauses. “So you really don’t know anyone here?”

  “Not one person,” I admit. I find it difficult to deflect her questions as easily as I did Mr. Kirkwood’s. She’s like a human lie detector.

  She gives me a small smile and nods her head once. “Well, you have my number. Let me know if you need help with anything. This town may be small, but it’s chock-full of snakes. Just keep your eyes open, okay?”

  I nod, though I’m a little doubtful that my facial expressions aren’t betraying my inner concern. I’m not sure anyone can take such an ominous warning so casually.

  Lynn is halfway through the door when she stops and pops her head back in. “You know what? No. I’m not going to do the half-assed-neighbor, ‘call me if you need me’ thing. Meet me for coffee tomorrow at Brewser’s. That’s if you’re not too busy.”

  The mantra I gave myself when I left Nashville comes to mind. Work. Home. Focus on yourself. Work. Home. Focus on yourself.

  It was my intention to move out here for some self-imposed rehabilitation of the soul. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent, and to make that aspect easier I accepted that I wouldn’t try to make any friends. But as of now, my future is looking pretty dark and lonely, and Lynn kind of seems like the light at the end of the tunnel. Or the sunshine forcing its way through the blinds of a dark room when you’re hungover.

  “My schedule is crystal clear,” I say with a sigh.

  “I thought so,” she says, and then she’s gone.

  FOUR

  When I go to back out into the street in the morning, there’s a pool of fluid in my driveway where my car was just parked, and although I know nothing about cars, I know that’s not standard. The best part is I have no idea where a mechanic’s shop is located.

  My phone call to Lynn goes to voicemail, so I have to settle for the next best thing. Mr. Kirkwood’s eyebrows nearly disappear up into his hairline when I walk back into the General Store, and he claps his leathery hands.

  “Back so soon to share your applesauce recipe?”

  Shit. I did not account for him remembering my false promises. I shrug regretfully. “Left it at home again. Silly me. But I do have another question for you.”

  “Sure, let’s hear it.”

  “If I were having car troubles, where would be the best place to go?”

  “Uh oh, that doesn’t sound too good. Not an emergency, I hope?” he asks concernedly. I swallow down the sigh that’s begging to be let out. This guy plays hardball. He could probably turn a request for toilet paper into a lengthy conversation.

  “Not that I know of, but I should really get it looked at as soon as possible.”

  “Well, do you know what’s the matter with it?”


  I shrug, and he looks off into space like the answer will appear out of thin air.

  “There was a puddle in my driveway when I left earlier,” I offer.

  “Hmm. Might be a cracked radiator. But you’re in luck. I have a buddy who owns an auto place just off the square. Called Henderson’s. Just head that-a-way and you’ll see it on your left.”

  The instructions seem simple enough, but Mr. Kirkwood escorts me out onto the sidewalk and reiterates them, pointing and making sure I can see the top of the red sign for Henderson’s, just over the brick facades of the other buildings.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood, I really appreciate it.”

  He waves me off, but I think I hear him shout “Call me Raymond!” as I’m backing out of my parking spot.

  Whatever is wrong with my car, it must not be detrimental because I head “that-a-way” and make it to Henderson’s intact. Inside, a small, balding man is on the phone behind the counter, scrolling and clicking on a desktop computer while he speaks. Scroll scroll. Click. Tap tap tap. The red nametag on his chest tells me his name is Fred. As impersonalized kind of guy for an impersonalized kind of place.

  “What can I do you for?”

  I look up, and Fred is staring back at me. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes seem to wander a bit. I guess that’s what I should’ve expected. I dressed for a coffee date, in a swingy t-shirt dress and ankle boots, and now I’m sitting in a place that looks like it has never once received female attention.

  “There’s something wrong with my car. There was fluid in my driveway when I pulled out this morning, and I was won—”

  Just then, another man pops his head through the dingy gray door behind the counter. “Sorry, Mr. Fred, ma’am. Could you come out here for a sec?”

  “Can it wait? I was just about to help the lady here,” Fred says, exasperation evident from his tone.

  The technician looks between the garage and Fred, shrugging helplessly. “Not unless you’re willing to deal with Mrs. Weller when she comes down here asking why her car isn’t ready yet.”