Burying Water (Burying Water 1)

Locking eyes with her—because I need to know that she wants this as much as I do—I slowly push into her. My name escapes her lips, followed by a low moan that makes me swear under my breath. With parted lips, she watches me expectantly as I pull out and push back in again, deeper, earning another moan. She curls her hand around the back of my head and pulls me down to kiss her again. We keep that slow rhythm, our mouths breaking apart just long enough to let her little moans out, her arms and legs wrapped around my body, her thighs squeezing me tight, her nails dragging along my shoulders and back.

Until I can’t hold out anymore.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” she whispers, her hands cradling the back of my head.

Neither did I. I rest my forehead against hers, both of us struggling to steady our breathing, our chests rising and falling together. Enjoying the intimate silence.

Until a tear touches my nose.

“Oh God. What have we done?” I feel the tension start to course back into Alex’s limbs.

Pulling out of her, I yank the condom off and toss it to the floor—something I normally wouldn’t do but right now, I don’t want to let go of her long enough to find a trash can. I roll onto my back and scoop her into my chest, holding her tight.

“I’m sorry, Jesse. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m just . . .”

I kiss the top of her head. “You’re just a good person.”

“No, I’m not. Not after that.”

“Do you think Viktor’s lying in bed right now, crying over what he’s doing?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m no better than he is.”

I shut up and let her cry against my chest, watching the minute and hour digits on the clock change as her breathing grows slow and heavy with sleep and my own guilt sets in. I really like Alex—talking to her, laughing with her, just being around her.

Feeling her.

But tonight, I took advantage of this girl, even though I was trying not to. And I feel like a complete dickhead.

The sky begins to lighten when I carefully roll her off me. I pull my clothes on and after watching her sleep for a long moment—I don’t know when I’ll see her again—I leave, needing to get home to change before work.

I hope she doesn’t hate me after this.

EIGHTEEN

Water

now

The scent of lavender and sandalwood announces Dakota as she places a tall black coffee and a pastry in front of me.

“What a wonderful morning it is!” she exclaims with a broad smile, dropping her suede fringed purse onto the counter. In the three weeks since I started working at The Salvage Yard, the twenty-four-year-old shopkeeper has greeted me with those exact words every single day, rain or shine.

You would think that it might have gotten old by now. And yet it’s a daily reminder that every morning is a wonderful morning. Because I shouldn’t be alive to see it.

Short, natural fingernails curl around the top of a box. “Oooh! I’ve been waiting for Ms. Teal’s jewelry. Is this it?”

I nod through a sip of coffee as she reaches in and pulls out several copper-colored bracelets made from guitar strings, her big doe eyes sparkling with excitement as she slides them onto her wrist. The shop is tiny and jam-packed with all kinds of recycled merchandise, from jewelry to clothing to furniture. And, of course, Ginny’s quilts, which I found out are made from discarded scraps of fabric from a local sewing store.

“What do you think, Water?” She holds up her arm to display the various pieces.

“They’re beautiful.” Especially against her naturally dark Native American skin. She says she’s only one-quarter Chinook, but it must be an awfully big quarter, given her exotic dark features, thick black hair, and svelte figure. I would describe her more as hippie by choice, though, opting for flowing maxi dresses and Birkenstock sandals and a makeup-free face.

She drove back to Sisters from San Francisco in her 1982 VW Beetle seven months ago after the great-aunt who raised her and owned The Salvage Yard died, leaving her the shop. Dakota expects to head south again one day, but right now she’s enjoying “being back with nature.”

I think that’s why, the day I walked in here with Meredith and introduced myself as Water, she offered me a job on the spot, saying something about the stars aligning and a kismet connection, her slightly glazed eyes getting this dreamy look in them.

The rumor that Dakota smokes a lot of weed is not so much rumor as fact.

Luckily for me, my hippie boss believes in things like gut feelings instead of résumés and references. She also doesn’t believe in paying taxes, so I’m handed cash every second Friday.

“They’ll go fast with the tourists. Just you wait.” She slides the jewelry off her wrist. “All of this stuff will.”

I help her cut open the rest of the boxes delivered over the last week, pulling out hemp-woven bags, log lamps, and metal sculptures, until my fingertips grasp a coarse fabric.

This feels . . . I pull the material out and find a red-and-blue checkered blanket. I rub one corner between my fingertips, the strange blend of soft and rough textures pricking my skin.

“Those are wool, from the McMillan farms, about twenty miles south of here. We get a dozen each spring and they’re snapped up within weeks.”

An eerie tingle runs through my body, holding the blanket in my hands. When it comes times to pull them all out and lay them on a table, I find I can’t let the red-and-blue one go. But the price tag Dakota just stuck on one is more than I make in a week! “Is there any chance I can set one of these aside until I have enough money to buy it?”

She smiles. “Why don’t you take it home tonight and I’ll just deduct a quarter from your next four pays. At cost for you, of course.”

“Thank you.” I know I’ll have to remind her or she’ll forget. I tuck it under the counter with my purse and then continue my work, hanging the rest of the bracelets.

Dakota hums to herself, reviewing a small notebook she keeps tucked in the old cash register. She doesn’t believe in computers. “How’s Ginny doing with her quilts?”

“She’s been working hard.” I set to break apart the cardboard box.

“And you? How is your new hobby?”

“I think I need to come up with another one.” Ginny showed up at my door one night two weeks ago with a bag of scrap material, a ruler, and a “cutter.” She started me off by showing me how to make basic squares. That was easy. Last week, she showed me how to stitch the squares together.

I’ve learned that I’m not the most patient person.

Apparently I also stitch like a drunk, according to Ginny.

The bell hanging over the door jangles and my stomach tightens just a little. I automatically shift my stance and shake my hair forward. I do this anytime someone walks into the shop. That’s the problem with having a long scar line running down the length of your face. The concealer provides marginal help, but it can’t hide the creases when I smile. At least I don’t have a giant gap in my teeth anymore.

“Dakota Howard. Well, I’ll be damned. Look at you!” the tall dark-haired guy who just walked in announces, straightening the collar of his black coveralls, a tag that reads “Fanshaw Electrical” sewn into the breast pocket. “When Dad told me you called for some wiring issues, I had to take the job.”

Her face pinches up with recognition. “Chuck?”

He grins. “You bet! How long has it been?”

“You were a couple of years ahead of me in school, so . . . maybe eight years, I guess?”

That’s the thing about a town like Sisters: everyone knows everyone. And everything about everyone. It’s a miracle I’ve kept my own situation under wraps.

Chuck stops in front of the counter and throws me a wink. “Who’s your lovely coworker?”

“This is Water. Ginny Fitzgerald’s cousin, who moved here a few weeks ago from . . . ?” She squints in thought.

“Pittsburgh,” I fill in. I feel bad for lying to Dakota, as nice as she is.

Chuck’s eyes widen. “Crazy Tree Quilt Lady?”

“The one and only.” I force a smile. Yes, she may be crazy, but she has her share of reasons and it bothers me that people call her that so openly.

“Dad says he saw Old Fitzgerald’s yellow truck driving through town but figured Ginny had sold it, given she hasn’t been seen in years. She still have those horses?”

“Just the two.”

“She’s nuts for not selling off some of that land, or at least taking in some boarders. My pops drove out there one day to suggest it to her.” He chuckles. “That didn’t go over too well.”

“Let me guess. She chased him away with a broom?” He’s right—renting those stables would be great for her, financially. But that would mean people coming onto her property, and everyone knows how Ginny feels about that.

“You should talk her into it. I know lots of people who’d be interested.”

“I’ll mention it to her,” I offer, though I’m not sure I will. That will earn a thirty-minute rant about nosy Sisters townspeople.

“She’s got over a thousand acres, last I heard. It’s worth a mint, so close to the mountains. Get on her good side and maybe she’ll leave it to you when she kicks it.”

“Uh . . .”

“What’s it like, living with that old nut, anyway?” They’re both looking at me as if they expect me to pull up a chair and start listing all of Ginny’s quirks.

“It’s great. She’s been very kind to me.” I begin rearranging the jewelry rack to make room for the new bracelets.

I guess Chuck gets the hint. “So, Dakota . . . you called about a problem with your stereo system?”

Dakota throws her hands in the air. “Please! It just stopped working one day and this silence is driving me insane!” She leads him back through the beaded curtain, giving him a chance to do a once-over, his gaze lingering on her ass.

“No wonder it quit. How old is this thing?” I hear Chuck exclaim from the cramped storage room/office. The stereo system hasn’t been working since I started here. Neither has the security camera, which Dakota says is just a dummy anyway, to scare off thieving thirteen-year-olds.

The bell jangles over the door and Amber walks in with a quilt folded over her arm. “Hey! Why aren’t you sleeping?” I ask. Amber’s been working a stretch of night shifts. Her red Mini usually pulls into the Welleses’ driveway around the same time that I’m filling the horse trough with grain and fresh water each morning.

“I picked up a day shift tomorrow, so I need to stay up until tonight.” She hands me the quilt.

I shake my head. “I don’t know how you do it, Amber.”

“Reminding myself that I’m going to be traveling the world next year with ease. That’s how I do it.” She hands me the quilt—the blue-and-green one Ginny’s been working on all week. “Ginny said to put it in the display window.”

I can’t help but smile. The woman doesn’t own this shop, but she acts like she does. I lay the quilt out over the table of wool blankets. The token tree is there, as always, with gold and green fields stretching into the horizon.

It’s just like all the others—except this one has two tiny horses in the far distance, one black, one brown.

Amber digs into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “The artist sent this with me. You forgot the grocery list on the porch.”

“Let me guess . . .” Sure enough, the same three things top the list. “When will she stop doing this!”

“When she’s six feet in the ground, and knowing Ginny, that won’t be for another fifty years.”

After two weeks straight of dried-out chicken legs, mealy instant potatoes, and beans from a can, I politely offered to cook dinner one night, as a thank-you to her. I wasn’t even sure I knew how to cook, but I figured it was worth a shot.

Ginny grumbled but then relented—admitting that she hated cooking—and I set out, borrowing a cookbook from Meredith, getting ingredients for a beef stew that looked easy enough and using my ’70s kitchenette for the very first time.

I may not remember ever cooking, but it turns out I’m pretty good at it. By Ginny’s second helping, she agreed.

I suffered through a few more days of “Ginny’s Classic” and then, when it was time for Meredith to go grocery shopping, I insisted on doing it. Ginny gave me two folded twenty-dollar bills and a grocery list with three items: two pounds of chicken thighs, five boxes of instant mashed potatoes, and seven 14-ounce cans of Heinz baked beans in tomato sauce.

I humored her by picking them up, but I also used my first paycheck to grab ingredients for several recipes I wanted to try. When I dropped her groceries off at her doorstep that day, I asked if I could cook again that night.

That was almost three weeks ago. We’ve since fallen into this routine where she hands me a list on Thursday night and I go grocery shopping on Friday after work. In that time, I’ve happily cooked every night and brought the dishes down to her front porch. And yet she still gives me a list with chicken, potatoes, and beans, even though I’ve now stopped buying them.