Page 69 of Love You To Pieces

Once in the kitchen, I methodically unpack the bags, half-listening to the conversation from the front door. Thanks to the narrowness of the hallway, I can hear their conversation without much effort, though it’s mostly just Ms. Hewitt berating Fox for taking unnecessary risks.

“One of these days, Deacon ain’t gonna be able to stitch ya up in one piece, Fox,” she chastises, her voice thick with disapproval. “I don’t need ya comin’ to my store missin’ a finger or an eye.”

I hear his embarrassed chuckle, and I can almost see Fox shifting his weight to his heels before bouncing back to his toes, though without his boots I’m not sure how well he can do it. For the first time since I met him, Fox looked normal. Not put together. Not dressed and ready to work as Wolf Lake’s sheriff. He’s always been intentional with his appearance, even if just in subtle, detail-oriented ways.

But now, my thoughts flash back to the loose tee I only saw for a second when he turned to me, with the neckline stretched and worn. His sweatpants looked like they’ve been washed too many times, and he’s barefoot, like he just got out of bed and crept downstairs.

“Deacon would have your head,” I whisper to no one, just as the click of toenails signals Pearl’s arrival into the kitchen from wherever she’d been.

“Hey, my good girl.” She comes over to rub against me, demanding affection, and I give it to her without hesitation. My dog is the best dog in the world, in my clearly objective and unbiased opinion, and whatever attention she wants from me, she’s more than deserving of getting.

I scratch her, starting carefully at her ears and working down her shoulders. Ms. Hewitt talks a little about the store, about a boy who might be her grandnephew, if I heard that part right. And finally, she sighs with all the wisdom of the elderly who’ve seen some shit and know a thing or two.

“You best be careful of them Hills,” she says, though the last word doesn’t make sense to me. Hills? Is that what she actually said? In which case, what hills?

“Hills?” I whisper to Pearl, standing up to resume what I was doing. I bring the two casseroles to the oven, and I set them inside with their foil tops to preserve their heat, though I don’t turn the oven on. The biscuits I cover with a clean dish towel. And the huge pitcher of dark, sweet tea goes into the fridge beside the parchment-wrapped bacon.

My fingers move quickly to fold up the fabric bags, and with Pearl at my heels, I head back toward the front door. The conversation gets more discernible even if I don’t know what Hills means, though I hear the word more than once.

Ms. Hewitt stops talking when she sees me, which lets me know this isn’t a conversation I’m supposed to hear. Good thing for me, I suppose, that eavesdropping has become a survival skill in the past week.

Has it—has it really only been a week?

It’s starting to feel like I’ve been here for a lifetime, though with that realization comes another one.

I don’t know anything about Wolf Lake, apart from the gas station, movie theater, and the guys’ house. I don’t even know what’s on the other side of the gate, since I escaped last night in the dark.

“Here you go, ma’am.” Polite as if I were raised to be a charming southern lady, I hand the neatly folded bags back to Ms. Hewitt. “I, umm…” This is where I’m supposed to give her a compliment, and I know that, really, but it’s hard to think when her pale eyes are on me, expectant and piercing.

God, she really is the most terrifying old lady I’ve ever met. Not only that, but with the way the color is almost all washed out from her eyes but her back is straight like she’s made of steel, I’d believe her if she told me she’s over a hundred years old and still going strong.

“I always wanted to learn to bake bread,” I blurt finally, my hand going nervously to Pearl’s ear, where I play with the soft fur. “You seem to be able to make almost anything.” Well, at least biscuits and now bread that smells like sourdough. While I suppose that isn’t anything, it’s 200% more than what I can do.

Her smile is surprised, and she glances at Fox with a look before adjusting her glasses that balance on the tip of her large nose. “Well, I thank you for that, hon,” she says. “I reckon I’ve been workin’ at it for long enough that I should have some skill in bakin’. You saw the photos on my wall last night.”

It’s not a question, and I have the sneaking suspicion her second call was fake. That she was just pretending to be on the phone so she could watch me until Fox and Deacon got there.

The thought sends a pang of guilt searing through my chest, and I cast a wary glance at Fox as if he’s going to keel over dead on the spot from another of my poor decisions.

“I did. You look like you really enjoy it.” I feel like a kid again, paraded in front of grannies and papaws, and my arms go behind my back as I fight not to twist back and forth like a nervous kid. God, I haven’t been so nervous around an older person in years, and I wish I knew what it is about her, what exactly, that makes me so nervous.

Fox takes pity on me, chuckling and leaning on the doorframe. “Thanks again, Ms. Hewitt.” For all the fondness in his tone, he still uses a respectful title, instead of calling her by her first name. I wonder if anyone calls her by it, though I suppose it isn’t important.

“You should stop by Mindy’s next time you’re in town,” Ms. Hewitt suggests, eyeing me again. “Can’t keep givin’ Sadie-Rae here all your clothes, Fox. It looks a bit indecent, improper even, if you ask me.” Now her reproachful gaze is all for Fox, who raises his hands in surrender, fingers spread.

The sheriff of Wolf Lake looks positively intimidated. He hunches his shoulders and gives a soft chuckle, though Ms. Hewitt spares him, her features softening. “I know you mean well,” she huffs. “You men just don’t think of things the way we do. Ain’t that right, hon?” She looks at me and I nod, not sure what I’m agreeing to, but wanting to agree nonetheless.

It takes another minute or two for Ms. Hewitt to say her goodbyes, and she tells us to let Deacon know she stopped by and that he missed her, though I’m not sure why that matters. Fox doesn’t close the door until she’s off the porch and in the oldest pickup truck I’ve ever seen, though it starts as smoothly as if it were brand new.

“Deacon will kill you himself if he knows you’re up,” I scold lightly, stifling a yawn.

Fox snickers. “Then I think I’d prefer to not be here when he wakes up. What about you?” He turns to look at me, a glimmer of mischief in his dark eyes. I can see he’s still in pain, even if he doesn’t admit it, and my mouth opens to protest.

“One way or another, darlin’ girl,” Fox drawls, still looking like the cat that ate the canary. “I’m going into town for breakfast. I love Ms. Hewitt’s cooking, and we’ll have it for lunch or dinner, but I am quite literally dying for eggs at The Porch.” At my obvious confusion, his smile widens. “Go brush your hair and put your shoes on. I’ll meet you back here in five.”

Pearl barks, and Fox gives her an apologetic glance. “Sorry, girl,” he apologizes. “But you know good and well Marianne is allergic to dogs. If we tried to bring you in, I’d be banned for a month.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR