Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

I head for my truck. “I have a million berries to sell at the farmers’ market tomorrow night, so Toby will be here to help you.” I booked my table this morning. Agnes and Mabel have eagerly signed up to help me.

He frowns and works his mouth as if tasting the words he wants to say before letting them out. “Will you be here in the mornin’?”

I pat Oscar on his head. “Yeah. I’ll be here.” Mabel sleeps until ten and Agnes has no issues entertaining herself. Though, she’s been hinting at meeting the infamous Roy Donovan. I pause. “By the way, I have family visiting from Bangor until next week. If one of them is crazy enough to come here with me, you better be on your best behavior,” I warn with a stare. “Because if you’re a jerk to them? No amount of eggs or wooden jackasses on my doorstep will ever get me back here again.” I climb into the driver’s seat.

“Why’d you come back, girl?” he hollers after me, tilting his head with interest.

What did make me come back?

My pity for the cantankerous bastard who chases everyone away so they can’t get too close?

Or is it my growing curiosity about the man who spent nine days in the woods, keeping Muriel company while she came to terms with the reality that her son was gone?

Or perhaps this has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.

Me, sensing that he likes having me around far more than he lets on.

Me, seeing Roy as another monumental challenge in this isolated life, but one that I can overcome.

Me, feeling like, if I can win over the man who keeps reminding me that I’ll never fit in, then maybe I will belong.

Maybe all three. All I know is, I felt compelled to come.

“I must be really bored.” With that, I start the engine and take off, the truck dipping and bumping through the potholes.

I catch a glimpse of Roy watching after me in the rearview mirror.

And I swear I see him smile.

* * *

“What’s this for?” I survey the wooden crate, brimming with Roy’s wooden figurines, that sits on the edge of the porch the next morning. Beside it are the dinner dishes I left last night, washed and stacked.

Roy shifts on his feet. The milk pail dangles from his good hand. “You said you’re goin’ to be at that farmers’ market today, right?”

“Right,” I say slowly.

“And you think people might wanna buy these things?”

“I do.” I’m not sure if a farmers’ market is the best place, though.

His weathered face furrows. “I won’t be able to build anythin’ for another month, at least. I need to make some money.”

Roy’s asking for my help. And, by the clench of his jaw, he’s having a hard time doing it.

“How much should I sell them for?” I ask somberly.

I catch an almost inaudible sigh escape him. “Whatever you think you can get.” He turns and trudges toward the barn.

I pull out one figurine, then another, marveling at the detail. “Have you at least signed them?” I ask, turning one over.

“Signed ’em?” He stops, his face twisting. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because these are art pieces!”

“They’re not art. They’re just wood,” he mutters, as if the very idea is deplorable.

I roll my eyes. “They should be signed.”