A text pops in seconds later.
Beau:Don’t be sore at me. I have something special with Kirsten, but it’s still early days and I don’t want anything to mess with it.
I tap back the only decent four-letter word I can muster.
Braxton:Fine.
I head into the coffee shop and buy myself a dry cappuccino with half and half. I hadn’t planned to, but the aroma in the place was impossible to resist. I pace the interior while I’m here, admiring the loft with its central vault accented by what looks like original beams. A massive banner explains the car-wrap I saw in the lot. Apparently, the Town Car belongs to an author of sorts. Must be doing a book signing here.
As I check out the upper level, complete with an impressive view of the ocean, my thoughts are pulled back to the disturbing call I got this morning from Davis, the lead over my construction crew. I had him take over the home development side of Wheaton Construction once I decided to step away and focus on private, custom jobs. Davis gave me word that the new guy—a friend of one of my recent hires—used unnecessary force to kick a pair of homeless guys out of an unfinished home—one of many in the subdivision we’re building near Norfork.
It’s not uncommon for that to happen this time of year. Especially when we’re at this particular phase of the building process, the place is framed, the floors are unfinished, and there isn’t a lot of damage a few guys taking shelter can do besides use the toilets before plumbing comes through.
I’m not one for kicking a man when he’s down; under different circumstances, that could be any one of us, Pops would always say. And before my brother Blaine took his last breath, he was living proof.
In my late brother’s honor, I’ve established a protocol for this type of thing. When we find squatters taking shelter in one of our worksites, we offer to see them to the nearest bus stop and buy their way to the local shelter for a hot meal and a roof over their head.
I regret not taking the time to cover this aspect with Levi. He needs more training than most of my hires, but since he was Johnson’s friend, I hoped it’d be worth the effort. The jury’s still out on that.
A deep ache bloats low and steady in my chest. It’s hard to fight my pessimistic ways. I couldn’t save Blaine; what makes me think I could save anyone else? But I know that’s not the point. The point is that someone I love was once on those streets, and I prayed to God he’d meet the kindness of strangers. All I can do now is offer that very thing to others.
I tear my eyes from the crowded boardwalk and spin in place to survey the adjacent wall, separated by the vaulted space. It’s part of the shop, that much I can tell, but where’s the access point?
I’m quick to take the wide staircase back to the main floor, trail through a rather cozy area of the joint where guests play checkers and chess, up to tea tables on the floor, and discover a stairwell. A small sign tells me there’s an office up there.
As a carpenter, I admire the woodwork on my way up the narrow staircase. It’s not exactly a spiral case, interrupted by several small landings as it is, but it does shift directions clockwise all the way up to the top.
“It sounds like this book is coming into your life at the perfect time,”a woman with a Jersey accent says from the other side of the wall.
Surely, the creaking stairs have given me away, but I freeze just the same, listening for a response. This must be Maggie’s office, I decide, and what a perfect place. I bet there’s a window in there with a view.
“I hope so,” another woman says. No accent—probably Maggie. “Of course, I also thought my timing was three or four years ago when all my friends were getting married.I don’tknow, sometimes I wonder if I accidentally missed my person, you know? Or maybe I scared him away.”
“How so?”
I’m shamelessly eavesdropping, but since Maggie is off-limits anyway, what does it matter? I take a cautious sip of my drink.So good.
“By taking my time,” the one I assume is Maggie replies. “I’m not the type to throw myself at a guy or rush into anything. But it seems like that’s what guys want. If you approach things cautiously—and why shouldn’t you with the divorce rate out there—you’re some boring dud who’s not even worth their time.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Jersey voice says, speaking my thoughts exactly. I’m suddenly glad Beau drew a line; the last thing I want is to pay for damage done by some punk in the woman’s past.
“I most definitely am. But I have a question for you about the cover of this new book. It’s gorgeous, by the way. Something about the appearance of the heart and the way the Cupids are portrayed suggests, to me, that love sort of sneaks up on us. But maybe I’m reading too much into it.”
“No,” Jersey says, “you’re right. The Cupid darts give indications, markers, if you will, of common occurrences found in long-lasting relationships.”
“But if the instances take us by surprise—meaning we can’t orchestrate them—then what good is it to know what they are?”
I cringe. This chick is pushy. I lean in, half expecting Jersey girl to pop off.
“Ah, you’re already getting to the heart of it, aren’t you? The four Cupid darts listed in my book are meant to show the reader just how often Cupidattemptsto strike.
“Yourjob is to take note when you encounter one or more of those things with a potential match. Take them as signs, if you will, that you should pay closer attention to that person because if thingsdowork out between you, the relationship is more likely to last.”
What a load of crap.I shake my head and let out atskthat echoes in the small space.
“Just a second…” comes a mere whisper. The soft padding of footsteps tells me someone’s approaching the all-but-closed door.
I clear my throat and give the old paneled door a tap with my knuckles. I mean for it to be a series of taps, but the thing swings open before I can get the second one in.
