I could handle a broken door.
Popping the hatch, I pulled out my groceries and locked back up. Danielle and Blake were due in an hour. He was bringing booze, she was bringing salad, and I’d be providing the pasta to complete the meal. Danielle had emailed me while I was in school, saying that she had a line on a new gig for us already, God bless her. I couldn’t imagine what it was, but figured so long as it was legal, I’d take it. When I’d checked my bank balance at the ATM there was only $22.63 left in the account.
I needed work, and I needed it fast.
Using my shoulder, I pushed open the door at the back of the building and started up the empty stairwell. The retail space downstairs had been for lease as long as I’d lived in Callup, but there weren’t any takers. Most of the downtown buildings were like that. Callup’s days of glory were long gone.
My front door was at the top of the steps off a little landing. There were two apartments, but one of them was currently uninhabitable because Earl had gotten a wild hair three years ago and torn out all the fixtures and cabinets. He’d decided to turn it into a luxury vacation condo¸ as if that would ever work. Then he got a new rifle and decided to go hunting instead, so now the place sat empty and collected dust like the rest of the town.
At least my apartment was in good shape. It was in the front half of the building, which was located on a corner, so I had lots of windows. There was a small kitchen in the back and a great big bathroom with a claw-foot tub.
I loved it.
The wooden floors were a hundred years old and the ceilings were high and covered in pressed tin. Best of all? The corner overlooking the street had a genuine turret built into it, curved glass window and all. It got bright, glorious sunlight almost all day.
That’s where I put my sewing machine.
Regina had started me sewing right after I moved in, and sometimes I think it’s what really saved me. I’d always loved fabrics and design, but she’d taught me how to take a shapeless pile of cloth and turn it into something beautiful. The first month I’d been afraid to leave the house, convinced that every motorcycle I heard carried Teeny. I spent my days torn between hating Puck and desperately wishing he was there to protect me. (Of course, when he came to check on me I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him.)
Regina took my crazy in stride, assigning me sewing projects in a no-nonsense voice, offering hints and wisdom along the way. I’d made all new curtains for their house before I’d gotten brave enough to visit downtown Callup. After four sundresses (two for me, one for Regina, and one for Regina’s cat—don’t ask) I was ready to drive to Coeur d’Alene with her to get groceries.
It’d taken a full-on quilt to get me to the point where I could hear the sound of a Harley without panicking.
Through it all, Earl and Regina were as patient as the mountains. Regina homeschooled me until I got bold and registered for the high school when I turned seventeen. For the first time in my life, I belonged somewhere.
Regina had three sewing machines and a serger at that point. This was a good thing because Earl had been laid off at the mine, so she’d started taking in mending to make ends meet. One of the machines had a computer smart enough to pilot a spaceship but I didn’t care for it. I preferred a delicate black Singer that was nearly a hundred years old—it’d belonged to Regina’s mother. Right around the time I’d been born, she’d finally replaced the foot treadle with a tiny electric motor.
The day I graduated from high school, Regina gave it to me.
The best modern sewing machines might be more efficient than my Singer, but she was strong enough to sew leather and delicate enough to repair silk. The engraving and gold leaf gave her an elegance that transcended function, inspiring me and filling my heart with the soft presence of the generations of women who’d used her to clothe their families.
Now I lived in my very own home and it was beautiful. The furniture might not all match, but the curtains and pillows and other little touches I’d created tied my small, private world together into something that was homey, comfortable, and best of all, normal.
Too bad I couldn’t convince Mom to join me. Whenever we talked, she insisted Teeny was better than he used to be. I didn’t believe it for a minute. He still used her to get drugs, she still used him to get drugs, and they always needed “just another fifty bucks, baby” to make it through.
Whatever. She was old enough to make her own choices and I couldn’t let her drag me down, too.
The blinking of the message light on my old-school answering machine caught my attention. Just one of the valley’s many weird quirks was the fact that less than two miles off the interstate, we lost all cell service. I still had a cell phone, of course—every time I drove to Coeur d’Alene it would spring to life with random messages and texts that’d been locked in a holding pattern since the last time I’d come into range.
Then I’d drive home again and return those calls from my landline, which created all kinds of confusion on people’s caller ID. It was inconvenient, but also kind of funny. I hit play on the message and Danielle’s voice spilled out, full of excitement.
“Hey, Becca! We’ll be over by six. I have great news!”
I looked at the clock—5:55 p.m. Well, crap. I ducked into the bathroom and gave myself a quick once-over. Not too bad, considering how fucked up my day had been. One of the best parts of beauty school was learning how to really take care of my appearance and I liked to keep myself together. Polished.
A quick run of the brush through my hair and a touch of lip gloss fixed me right up. I heard Danielle and Blake pounding on the apartment door and I opened it to find them wearing triumphant expressions. Blake held up two bottles, one of whiskey and the other of cheap red wine.