“I’ll patch these holes.” He’d paused, drill bit pressed to a screw. “Worried about the trim splitting?”
“Should I be?”
The drill whirred. “Better to set the plywood inside the frame, but your trim’s got some years on it. This’ll do.”
“My granddad built it!”
Eileen’s pride wasn’t lost on Adam. “I can tell, kid. Most houses have vinyl. Good craftsmanship . . . ” he sank another screw, “ . . . but wood requires maintenance.”
“Will you help us?” Eileen asked.
“Sure. We can—”
“No need, but thanks anyway.” I gestured to the screw he was holding. “Why so long?”
His eyes flicked to my face. “Needs enough bite to grab and hold the weight of the plywood—especially if the wind’s pulling.”
We’d moved to another window before I asked the obvious. “So there’re different types of screws?”
This time, he frowned, hesitating long enough that Eileen spoke up. “Mom. Different metal has different tensile str—”
“Stupid jackass could’ve killed—”
“Who’s a jackass?” Eileen interrupted.
I shot her a look, but Adam was already answering, “The guy I fired.” He jammed another screw into position. “Maureen told you, then?”
“No . . . ?”
“Why’s he a jackass?”
Adam shook his head and turned to look down at her. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. I fired a guy because his laziness almost . . . hurt someone.” He turned back to the window, tempering his voice, though I saw the anger he tried to hide. “Ran out of the right size screws and finished an install with ones too small to hold.” Even the drill sounded furious. “Used washers to compensate for the heads, but the damn shafts were too short by half.”
“Mom’s ladder at work?”
The drill stopped, and he spoke to the wood, “Lila, if you’d been—”
“I’m fine.” Different screws.
“Definitely a jackass,” Eileen muttered.
Before we’d finished with the front of the house, I’d made up my mind that somehow I had to tell Adam about my conversations with Sal and Miss Hester. If Sal was keeping things from me to protect Eileen and me, it wasn’t a leap to imagine that Miss Hester probably did the same to protect her own family; but Adam and Cara had to be told something. The only problem was, an hour later, with the wind whipping around the southeast corner of the porch and only two windows to go, I still had no idea what to say. I only had questions I hadn’t asked, or hadn’t gotten answers for.
“Eileen? Any chance you’d get me a glass of water and a snack? Not sure I can last until dinner after all.”
Eileen immediately looked from him, to me, and back again.
What was wrong with me? “I’m so rude! I should’ve offered you something!” Here the poor man was, helping someone else instead of prepping his own house for the storm, and—
“Relax.” He jiggled the drill at me. “You worry too much.”
“I’ll get you something.” My child’s expression was ludicrously angelic. “But it will take me a few minutes, and if you need me, you’ll have to come get me, ‘cause I won’t be able to hear y’all in the house with all this wind.”
“Thanks, soldier. Your mother will brief you after your mission—if you’ve earned clearance.”
Eileen laughed and ran off. I watched her disappear around the front corner and waited until I heard the unnecessarily loud slam of the screen door.
“Adam, I . . . ”
“Stop.”
My mouth shut in surprise.
“Thank you. I get to go first.” His eyes skimmed over me, and he sighed. “Relax, will you?” He set the drill on the ladder and leaned against the house.
That was a bad sign. He must’ve been planning this all day! Helped us out so I’d feel even more guilty . . .
“One of these days, I hope you come to trust me.” He studied the rippling marsh. “You don’t know me, but . . . you do. In a way. Right?”
After a second, I realized he was waiting for me to respond, but I couldn’t find my voice. His angels were visible again, undulating between us in the same tidal flow I’d seen two weeks ago in the store—and again at Maureen’s. Two weeks ago. That’s all? Two weeks ago the only abnormal thing in my life had been me.
“You’ve been avoiding talking to me.”
Technically that wasn’t a question, so I eased away and settled across from him against the railing. The evening gusts were cool and wet on my neck, and I pulled my hair out of its knot.
“Phil said you were upset at work Saturday and then pretended you were sick.”
Instant heat rushed under my skin, and I had no chance of lying. What did Maureen and Phil think? My teeth grabbed at the sore spot in my cheek. I needed to make it up to them somehow . . .
“Stop. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. They’re not mad . . . ” his voice was full of concern, “ . . . we’re just worried about y—”
“Jesus. Me stop? You stop!”
“Stop what?”
“Stop being so—so nice!” I flung a hand toward the boarded windows for emphasis. “I’m not a—a damsel in distress!”
He frowned and straightened up off the wall. “I didn’t think you were.”
“Well, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not m-me, okay?” I heard the tremble in my voice and rallied a good glare to make him take me seriously. “We both know I’ve been avoiding you because I haven’t wanted to talk to you, which means I’ve been holding out on you—which means I’m a horrible person! So just stop!”
And he did stop.
