“He never mentioned you in his letters,” Dawson mused.
She shrugged. “He didn’t mention you, either.”
He nodded before turning his attention back to the workbench again. Folded neatly on the end was one of Tuck’s bandannas, and lifting it up, he tapped his finger on the bench. “The initials I carved are still here. Yours, too.”
“I know,” she said. Below them, she also knew, was the word forever. She crossed her arms, trying not to stare at his hands. They were weathered and strong, a workingman’s hands, yet tapered and graceful at the same time.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” he said.
“I know.”
“You said he was forgetting things?”
“Just little things. Considering his age and how much he smoked, he was in pretty good health the last time I saw him.”
“When was that?”
“Late February, maybe?”
He motioned toward the Stingray. “Do you know anything about this?”
She shook her head. “Just that Tuck was working on it. There’s a work order on the clipboard with Tuck’s notes about the car, but other than the owner, I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s right over there.”
Dawson found the order and scanned the list before inspecting the car. She watched as he opened the hood and leaned in to look, his shirt stretching tight around his shoulders, and Amanda turned away, not wanting him to realize that she’d noticed. After a minute, he turned his attention to the small boxes on the workbench. He pried back the lids, nodding as he sorted through the parts, his brow furrowing.
“That’s strange,” Dawson said.
“What?”
“It wasn’t a restoration at all. It’s mainly engine work, and minor stuff at that. Carburetor, the clutch, a few other things. My guess is he was just waiting for these parts to arrive. Sometimes, with these old cars, it can take a while.”
“What does that mean?”
“Among other things, it means there’s not a chance the owner can drive it out of here.”
“I’ll have the attorney contact the owner.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “I’m supposed to meet with him anyway.”
“The attorney?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “He’s the one who called about Tuck. He said it was important that I come.”
Dawson closed the hood. “His name wouldn’t happen to be Morgan Tanner, would it?”
“Do you know him?” she asked, startled.
“Just that I’m supposed to meet with him tomorrow, too.”
“What time?”
“Eleven. Which I’m guessing is the same time as your appointment, right?”
It took a few seconds before she grasped what Dawson had already figured out—that Tuck had obviously planned this little reunion all along. Had they not met here at Tuck’s, they would have done so tomorrow no matter what. As the implication became clear, she suddenly didn’t know whether she wanted to punch Tuck in the arm or kiss him for it.
Her face must have telegraphed her feelings, because Dawson said, “I take it that you had no idea what Tuck was up to.”
“No.”
A flock of starlings broke from the trees, and Amanda watched as they veered overhead, changing direction, tracing abstract patterns in the sky. By the time she faced him again, Dawson was leaning against the workbench, his face half in shadow. In this place, with so much history surrounding them, she swore she could see the young man Dawson used to be, but she tried to remind herself that they were different people now. Strangers, really.
“It’s been a long time,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Yes, it has.”
“I have about a thousand questions.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Only a thousand?”
He laughed, but she thought she heard an undercurrent of sadness in it. “I have questions, too,” she went on, “but before that… you should know that I’m married.”
“I know,” he said. “I saw your wedding band.” He tucked a thumb in his pocket before leaning against the workbench and crossing one leg over the other. “How long have you been married?”
“Twenty years next month.”
“Kids?”
She paused, thinking of Bea, never sure how to answer the question. “Three,” she finally said.
He noticed her hesitation, unsure what to make of it. “And your husband? Would I like him?”
“Frank?” She flashed on the anguished conversations she’d had with Tuck about Frank and wondered how much Dawson already knew. Not because she didn’t trust Tuck with her confidences, but because she had the sudden sense that Dawson would know immediately whether she was lying. “We’ve been together a long time.”
Dawson seemed to evaluate her choice of words before finally pushing off the workbench. He walked past her, heading toward the house, moving with the liquid grace of an athlete. “I suppose Tuck gave you a key, right? I need something to drink.”
She blinked in surprise.
“Wait! Did Tuck tell you that?”
Dawson turned around, continuing to walk backward. “No.”
“Then how did you know?”
“Because he didn’t send one to me, and one of us has to have it.”
She stood in place, debating, still trying to figure out how he knew, before finally following him up the path.
He climbed the porch steps in a single fluid motion, stopping at the door. Amanda fished a key from her purse, brushing against him as she slipped it into the lock. The door swung open with a squeak.
It was mercifully cool inside, and Dawson’s first thought was that the interior was an extension of the forest itself: all wood and earth and natural stains. The plank walls and pine flooring had dulled and cracked over the years, and the brown curtains did little to hide the leaks beneath the windows. The armrests and cushions on the plaid sofa were almost completely worn through. The mortar on the fireplace had begun to crack, and the bricks around the opening were black, charcoaled remnants of a thousand roaring fires. Near the door was a small table bearing a stack of photo albums, a record player that was probably older than Dawson, and a rickety steel fan. The air smelled of stale cigarettes, and after opening one of the windows, Dawson switched on the fan, listening as it began to rattle. The base wobbled slightly.
By then, Amanda was standing near the fireplace, staring at the photograph sitting on the mantel. Tuck and Clara, taken on their twenty-fifth anniversary.
He walked toward Amanda, stopping when he was beside her. “I remember the first time I saw that picture,” he offered. “I’d been here for about a month before Tuck let me inside the house, and I remember asking who she was. I didn’t even know he’d been married.”
She could feel the heat radiating from him and tried to ignore it. “How could you not know that?”
“Because I didn’t know him. Until I showed up at his place that night, I’d never talked to Tuck before.”
“Why did you come here, then?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shake of his head. “And I don’t know why he let me stay.”
“Because he wanted you here.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. But Clara hadn’t been gone that long when you came along, and I think you were just what he needed.”
“And here I used to think it was just because he was drinking that night. Most nights, for that matter.”
She searched her memory. “Tuck wasn’t a drinker, was he?”
He touched the photo in its plain wooden frame, as if still trying to comprehend a world without Tuck in it. “It was before you knew him. He had a liking for Jim Beam back then, and sometimes he’d stagger out to the garage still holding the half-empty bottle. He’d wipe his face with his bandanna and tell me that it would be better if I found someplace else to stay. He must have said that every night for the first six months I was sleeping out there. And I’d lie there all night, hoping that by the next morning he would have forgotten what he’d told me. And then, one day, he just stopped drinking, and he never said it again.” He turned toward her, his face only inches from hers. “He was a good man,” he said.
“I know,” she said. He was close enough that she could smell him; soap and musk, mingling together. Too close. “I miss him, too.”
She stepped away, reaching over to fiddle with one of the threadbare pillows on the sofa, creating distance again. Outside, the sun was dropping behind the trees, making the small room even darker. She heard Dawson clear his throat.
“Let’s get that drink. I’m sure that Tuck has some sweet tea in the refrigerator.”
“Tuck doesn’t drink sweet tea. He’s probably got some Pepsi, though.”
“Let’s check,” he said, making for the kitchen.
He moved with the grace of an athlete, and she shook her head slightly, trying to force away the thought. “Are you sure we should be doing this?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what Tuck wanted.”
Like the living room, the kitchen might have been stored in a time capsule, with appliances straight from a 1940s Sears, Roebuck catalog, a toaster the size of a microwave oven and a boxy refrigerator with a latch handle. The wooden countertop was black with water stains near the sink, and the white paint on the cabinets was chipping near the knobs. The flower-patterned curtains—obviously something Clara had hung—had turned a dingy grayish yellow, stained by the smoke from Tuck’s cigarettes. There was a small, barrel-top table with room for two, and a clump of paper napkins had been stuffed beneath it to keep it from wobbling. Dawson swung the latch on the refrigerator door, reached in, and pulled out a jug of tea. Amanda entered as he set the tea on the counter.
“How did you know that Tuck had sweet tea?” she asked.
“The same way I knew you had the keys,” he answered as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a pair of jelly jars.
“What are you talking about?”
Dawson filled the jars. “Tuck knew we’d both end up here eventually, and he remembered that I like sweet tea. So he made sure he had some waiting in the refrigerator.”
Of course he did. Just as he’d done with the attorney. But before she could dwell on it, Dawson offered her the tea, bringing her back to the present. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
Dawson held up his tea. “To Tuck,” he said.
Amanda clinked her glass with his, and all of it—standing close to Dawson, the tug of the past, the way she’d felt when he’d held her, the two of them alone in the house—was almost more than she could handle. A little voice inside her whispered that she needed to be careful, that nothing good could come of this, and reminded her that she had a husband and children. But that only made things more confusing.
“So, twenty years, huh?” Dawson finally asked.
He was asking about her marriage, but in her distracted state it took her a moment to grasp. “Almost. How about you? Were you ever married?”
“I don’t think it was in the cards.”
She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “Still playing the field, huh?”
“I keep pretty much to myself these days.”
She leaned against the counter, unsure what to read into his response. “Where do you live now?”
“Louisiana. In a parish just outside New Orleans.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s okay. I’d forgotten until I came back here how much it looks like home. There are more pines here and more Spanish moss there, but other than that I’m not real sure I could tell the difference.”
“Except for the alligators.”
“Yeah. Except for that.” He offered a faint smile. “Your turn. Where’s home these days?”
“Durham. I stayed there after I got married.”
“And you come back a few times a year to see your mom?”
She nodded. “When my dad was alive, they used to visit us because of the kids. But after my dad died, it got harder. My mom never liked to drive, so now I have to come here.” She took a sip before nodding toward the table. “Do you mind if I sit? My feet are killing me.”
“Feel free. I’ll stand for a bit, though. I’ve been stuck on an airplane all day.”
She picked up her glass and started toward the table, feeling his eyes on her.
“What do you do in Louisiana?” she asked, sliding into her seat.
“I’m a derrick hand on an oil rig, which basically means that I assist the driller. I help guide the drill pipe in and out of the elevator, I make sure all the connections are proper, I keep on the pumps to make sure they’re running right. I know that probably doesn’t make much sense since you’ve probably never been on a rig, but it’s kind of hard to explain without actually showing you.”
“That’s a long way from fixing cars.”
“It’s less different than you think. Essentially, I work with engines and machines. And I still work with cars, too, in my spare time anyway. The fastback runs like new.”
“You still have it?”
He grinned. “I like that car.”
“No,” she challenged, “you love that car. I used to have to drag you away from it whenever I came by. And half the time, I didn’t succeed. I’m surprised you don’t carry a picture of it in your wallet.”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“I was kidding.”
She laughed, the same free-spirited laugh from long ago. “How long have you been working on rigs?”
“Fourteen years. I started as a roustabout, worked up to roughneck, and here I am, a derrick hand.”
“Roustabout to roughneck to derrick hand?”