The book return
792 Words
After breakfast, Granny announced I was needed in the garden. I went outside and started picking beans, the morning sun already warm on my shoulders. Across the yard, Trent was on the shed roof, his movements efficient and sure-footed.
“How do you know Trent?” I called up to Granny, who was tying up tomato plants nearby.
“He’s the son of an old friend of mine,” she replied without looking up.
I laughed. “You never leave here. What friends?”
She straightened, fixing me with one of her looks. “I have plenty of friends, thank you very much. Now, as soon as you’re done with those beans, bring them in. I’m making stew for lunch.”
Trent joined us for lunch, though he was very quiet, speaking only when spoken to. He sat at the far end of the table, his long frame looking almost too big for Granny’s delicate dining chairs.
“How’s your father doing?” Granny asked, passing him the bread basket.
“He’s doing well,” Trent said, his voice low. “He sends his thanks.”
Thanks for what? I wondered, glancing between them. But neither elaborated.
When he finished eating, Trent stood, carrying his plate to the sink despite Granny’s protests. “I’m gonna fix that fence next,” he said, then nodded toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Clara.”
“Be careful out there,” I blurted out, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “There’s a huge wolf. I saw it just last night.”
He paused, his hand on the doorframe. When he turned back, there was the ghost of a smile on his lips—the first I’d seen from him.
“There is?” he said, his dark eyes finding mine. “Thanks. I’ll be very careful.”
And then he was gone, the screen door creaking shut behind him.
I stared after him, that strange sense of familiarity tugging at me again. Something about the way he’d smiled, the knowing glint in his eyes when I’d mentioned the wolf…
“He’s a good boy,” Granny said softly beside me, startling me from my thoughts. “Known him since he was small.”
“His father,” I started, still watching the empty doorway. “What did he thank you for?”
Granny’s expression softened, becoming distant. “Oh, that’s an old story, dear. I helped his family once, when they needed it most.” She patted my hand. “Now come on, these dishes won’t wash themselves.”
But she didn’t elaborate further, and something in her tone told me not to push.
The next day, I found myself watching for him. Not obviously—or at least, I hoped not, obviously. I just happened to be reading on the porch when he arrived. Just happened to be refilling my water glass in the kitchen when he came in for lunch. Just happened to glance out the window when he was working on the fence line.
He was always quiet, always focused on his work. But sometimes I’d catch him looking at the house, his expression unreadable.
On the third day, I gave up pretending and brought him lemonade.
He was crouched by the fence, replacing a rotten post, when I approached. His shirt was damp with sweat despite the early hour, and there was dirt smudged on his forearm.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” I said, holding out the glass.
He straightened slowly, eyeing the lemonade like it might bite him. “Thanks.”
Our fingers brushed when he took it, and I swore I felt a spark—static electricity, probably. He jerked back slightly, nearly spilling the drink.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“‘S fine.” He drank deeply, his throat working, then handed the glass back. “Appreciate it.”
An awkward silence stretched between us. He turned back to the fence, clearly dismissing me.
“Did you get your book back?”
I froze. “What?”
He didn’t look at me. he just kept working the post loose. “Your book. Did you get it back?”
My heart started hammering. “That was you?”
He went very still, then seemed to deflate slightly. “Yeah.” He fumbled with the post, his usual grace deserting him. “When I… when I went back to look at the fence, I saw it. It had to belong here. No one else around.”
“But…” I tried to piece it together. “That was at night. Late.”
“I work late sometimes.” He still wasn’t looking at me. “Checking the property lines.”
- Writer
