A Summer Remade (8 page)

A quirk in his eyebrow followed by a twitch in his bottom lip takes my innocent comment plummeting to a whole new level of Joslyn’s Foot-In-Mouth Disorder.

He shakes his head. “Good to know. But I don’t want to take you to the Garden Supply Center.”

Heat floods my cheeks like a radiator set to high. “So where, then?”

“I need help building a float for the Fourth of July parade.”

A buzz of energy zaps through my veins. “Seriously?”

Drew’s confident expression wavers. “Yeah?”

I bounce and clap my hands like a three-year-old at a birthday party. “I’ve always wanted to help with a float!”

Drew holds out his hand to me and winks. “Then I’m honored to be the man who gets to fulfill such a wild fantasy of yours.”

Linking my arm through his, we head to his car. As he opens the passenger door, his eyebrows draw inward. “Joss?”

“Yeah?” I say, tugging on my seatbelt.

“Why is there a real estate sign at the top of the driveway with a giant X through it and the word ‘Not’ scribbled before the words ‘For Sale’?”

The heat in my cheeks is back, and it’s blazing down my neck.

I shift and sit straighter. “Because I’m not a child anymore.”

Three seconds of a solid Drew-stare later, he closes my door. No more questions asked.

*

When Drew pulls
up to an old, dilapidated warehouse it’s as if I’ve jumped from Anne Shirley’s picture-perfect Green Gables farm into Alfred Hitchcock’s
Psycho
.

My sense of adventure may not be the same as Drew’s.

This place is a dump. And given the dozen or so full black trash bags stacked in a pyramid at the side of the building, it might actually be a dump.

He shrugs apologetically as I step out of the car. “I know it’s not much to look at, but there’s no parking out front.”

I pinch my lips closed. Unlike Drew, my optimism is much harder to pull to the surface. I’d be willing to bet all four of my appendages that the front of this eyesore is no more appealing than the back.

Drew takes my hand and leads me toward a narrow alley at the side of the building. Half-dead patches of grass and half-eaten dandelions force their way though dirt and broken pieces of concrete.

We turn the corner. Drew stops, tugs on my hand.

I see the signs. They scream at me from every angle of the warehouse’s garage-like front. Most are weathered. All are bold, either in word or graphic or color.

“Birds poop every fifteen minutes. How long have you been standing here?”

“Children left unattended will be given to the Circus.”

“25 mph. Yes, your car can go that slow.”

And my personal favorite:

“In case of a fire. Please exit before tweeting about it.”

Drew laughs at my wide-eyed expression. “Impressive, huh?”

I nod slowly as my eyes work to take in the rest of the property. Hundreds of oversized rusty gear pieces, random cut-off pipe, metal, and rebar. “What is this place?”

A three-legged pit bull hobbles out of the open retractable door, bark-wheezing at us.

“You chasin’ the devil again, Pete?”

A weathered old man I’m certain could double as a deep sea fishing captain, calls after the mutt. The abrupt halt of the man’s shuffling feet and the gasp that leaks from his permanently puckered lips indicate we’ve been discovered. His wrinkled roadmap of a face transforms in an instant. “Drew Culver.”

Drew rushes to meet the old-timer, wraps a strong arm around his back and gives him a man-slap. “Good to see you again, Harve.”

Compared to Drew, Harve looks pocket-sized, shrunken and frail, yet his gap-toothed grin cannot be contained. It’s the face of joy. The kind carved from a lifetime of experience. The kind that’s chosen.

“You made it.” Harve says, beaming. “And you brought a lady friend with you.”

Harve faces me, and Drew’s cheeks brighten to a new shade of pink.

I take a step toward the men and the less than fortunate dog who sits at Harve’s feet, watching me through folds of skin. “Hi. I’m Joss Sanders.”

I offer my hand. Harve’s thick callouses scratch against the inside of my palm. He’s a hard worker. Even at his age. Which has to be eighty-five? Ninety-six? A hundred and ten? I’ve always been bad at guessing games.

“It’s mighty good to meet you, Joss Sanders. I’ve known Drew here since he was toddling around his old pops.” Harve grows silent, and it’s then I realize the connection between these two unlikely souls. Harve and Grandpa Culver were friends. “I think old Bill started bringing you out here to help with the float, well, what? A decade or so ago?”

Drew’s nod is thoughtful, as if he can see each year laid out before him in a colorful calendar spread, each memory, each moment with Grandpa Culver and Harve. His warm, acorn-colored eyes seem to hold a secret, and I hope he’ll share it with me.

“I’ll show you the supplies I’ve gathered. It’s not much, but I have faith you two can come up with something.” Harve pats the outside of his thigh. “Come on, Pete.” The pit bull limps after him obediently.

It’s hard not to stare at this odd couple of dog and man.

Drew bumps my shoulder and winks. “Probably should have given you a little warning, eh? I forgot how…” His eyes comb over the property again. “Unique this place is.”

Unique is one word for it. “No, it’s fine. This will be fun.” If a lie is small enough, simple enough, does it really count as a lie?

His smile answers my momentary moral dilemma.

He touches my arm, squeezes gently. “I’m glad you’re with me. Today would’ve been boring without you.”

Drew turns and follows Harve into the mysterious warehouse, leaving me with no other choice but to do the same.

‡

W
e trail after
Harve in the dusty sanctuary of old car parts, gears, trinkets, and signs. Lots and lots of signs. He stops in front of a back room where a giant heap of “supplies” scatter the concrete floor.

“Here it is.” Harve nods at the mess as if we’re supposed to understand what it is.

Naturally, Drew understands. He walks inside the dimly lit room, leaving me with Harve and his wonder dog.

“Great. We’ll get started. Mind if we carry this stuff outside? Better lighting under the pavilion, I think,” Drew says, managing one of his mega-watt smiles.

My gaze drifts to the floor. I can’t take my eyes off this mismatched pile of materials.

“Fine by me. I don’t care where ya choose to assemble it. Help yourself to any tools ya find.” Harve folds his arms over his bony chest. “The big parade’s only six days from now, you sure you’re up for this?”

Drew’s confidence is as inspiring as it is unwavering. “Absolutely. Joss is an expert visionary.”

Harve flashes me a crumply grin, and I don’t know whether to feel flattered or flustered by Drew’s unfounded assessment of me.

“I’ll be over in the main shop today. Got a lot of tinkering to get done before nightfall. Come on, Pete. They don’t need you nosin’ about.”

“Sounds good.” Drew’s already dropped to his knees to examine what we’ve been given.

The second Harve is out of earshot, I lean against the splintery doorjamb. “An expert visionary? Really?”

“Look what you did with your cabin in only a few days. And those old frames you painted. That takes vision.”

“Or a few days of cleaning and a few cans of paint.”

“Joss.” Still hunkered on the ground, he looks up at me, eyes alight with the kind of bright belief I wish I possessed. “I think you’re perfect for this project. Now grab some of this stuff, and let’s get to work.”

*

Four hours into
project Mess o’ Metal we are closer to filling a landfill than creating a float to pull behind Harve’s old Ford.

I hop up on an old workbench, the unsanded wood scratching the underside of my thighs. “We’re in over our heads, Drew.”

For the first time all day, he looks a bit, well, defeated. He’s rolled his shoulders, stretched his back, and sighed about a thousand times. Not that I’ve been counting. Everything he’s managed to piecemeal together has fallen apart.

Drew lifts the bottom of his shirt and swipes at his forehead. My throat feels stuffed full of cotton balls, and I drink the last few drops of warm water from the plastic bottle beside me.

“I swear this used to be easier.” He scratches his head, frowns at the pile.

“Probably because your grandpa knew how to build stuff. He had what? Forty some odd years of float-building experience.” I point between the two of us. “We don’t.”

Drew’s gaze narrows. “Who do you think taught me how to build? I could use some help creating a plan, you know.” He holds up his palm, halting my next argument before it can start. “And no, explaining why everything I try won’t work isn’t a plan.” There’s a defensive quality to his voice, a gravelly accusation. Due to the heat and the mess and the lack of food in our growling bellies, we’re far too close to the edge to step back and reassess the danger.

“You’re the one who took on this impossible project. Don’t get upset at me for being realistic.” I swing my legs, prepare to jump off the table top when Drew drops his hammer in the dirt and stalks toward me.

“Realistic?” He laughs, only this isn’t the jolly laugh I adore. “Is that what you call yourself?”

The impact of his words hits the center of my chest hard, digs in deep. He shakes his head and speaks to the ground. “Unbelievable.”

I raise my chin higher, embrace the hurt, pile it on top of all the other unresolved drama in my life, and resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest and stick out my tongue.

Drew lifts his eyes to mine. The rise and fall of his chest indicates he’s thinking, planning, scheming. And then, instead of walking away, he steps closer. His back shades me from the sun’s hot rays.

“Harve is a master at taking something meant for trash and turning it into a treasure, a keepsake. It’s why he named his store, Trash Or Treasure. He’s an artist. A brilliant creative who’s been dealt a whole lot of crap in his lifetime, and yet he’s used it for good. He sells his art all over the world. He’s humble, lives a small life on this tiny island. My grandpa saw a lesson in the way Harve lived his life, in the way he saw the world. He wanted that for me, too.”

Harve owns Trash or Treasure?

The kick drum of my heart booms louder, beats a truth into my veins that causes my body to heat from the inside-out. Drew didn’t bring me here to save me from boredom. He brought me here to show me what his grandpa had showed him.

I exhale, my throat tight as Drew’s hip brushes against my shin.

“Sometimes a fresh start means taking what’s already there and making it into something new. Something functional or even beautiful.”

My bony kneecaps press into his hard abdomen, our eyes, level, and I adjust for him to step closer. I feel the intake of his next breath, and the one after that.

“I’m sorry for being such a horrible assistant today. You’ve helped me so much and I…”

“You’ve helped me too.”

I can’t quite believe that, not when he’s literarily rescued me more times that I care to count.

Drew combs a hand through his maple-brown hair, and suddenly my fingers are alive, itching to touch what’s felt off limits until now. I don’t ask, I just reach. Drew stands stalk-still, like prey targeted by a hunter, his eyes focused on my face, then dipping to my lips. I roll a lock of his shaggy hair between my forefinger and thumb. It’s softer than I imagined, sleeker too. But Drew’s silence and heavy gaze make me wonder if I’ve overstepped. Slowly, I lower my hand.