Not Quite Fixed Read online

  Which leaves me with two final options: I can call a tow truck, or Knox.

  I’m not sure what makes me call Knox. I do it without thinking this time, my chest a tight mixture of embarrassment and relief when he answers.

  “Hey, everything okay?” he asks, like he’s got ESP or something.

  “Mostly. I’ve got a flat about twenty minutes down the road, though, and no spare.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling like a stupid woman. It’s not a feeling I love. “Could you pick me up?”

  “Ugh, and it’s raining, too. Of course.” He pauses, and I hear a noise like he’s putting away tools. It’s easy enough to imagine him with greasy hands, wrist deep in his boat’s engine.

  Which is ridiculous, because he’s supposed to be meeting me in thirty minutes anyway. He’s not working on his boat. Who even knew that fantasy lived in my head?

  “If you’d rather I called a tow…”

  “Graciela, please. Don’t be silly. I’ll be there in a few minutes with a tire. You still drive that old hunk of junk Honda?”

  I decide not to take offense, since he’s helping me out of a jam. “Yep.”

  We hang up, and I waste the twenty-minute wait scrolling through social media. I’ve just about given up on the world and chucked my phone in exasperation when his rust-spotted diesel truck pulls a U-turn and then parks behind me on the side of the road.

  He gets out as I watch in my rearview, staying still so he won’t know I’m checking him out. Maybe if I remind myself of how good-looking he is in a mirror, it’ll lessen the effect, like Hermione Granger peeking around corners so she doesn’t get the full force of the basilisk’s stare.

  To be honest, it works about as well.

  Gravel crunches under his heavy footfalls and then he’s here, leaning down to peer in the driver’s side window as he blinks rain out of his huge dark eyes. I’m not sure how long I stare at him like a deer caught in headlights, but it’s long enough that he makes a rolling-down-the-window motion to spur me into action.

  I have the errant thought that kids born today will never know why we say “roll down the window” but manage—for once—to stop the word vomit before it comes spewing out.

  “Thanks for coming,” I choke out instead.

  “Sure. You okay?” Knox is looking at me like he’s worried this flat tire is the thing that finally made me crack. Probably because he’s standing in the rain and I’m still sitting in my warm car gaping at him.

  “I’m fine. Sorry.” I kick open the door and start to get out, but he shakes his head.

  “I’ve got this. Brought you a new tire and everything, it’ll just take a couple of minutes.” He gives me a crooked smile that sends some kind of weird zing through my blood. “I didn’t want to scare you, that’s all.”

  “I’ll get it back to you after I take my car to the shop.”

  “Nah, you can keep it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I am lame. So, so lame.

  It’s not that I’m looking for a new relationship. Hell, I’m probably not even ready to go on a date. My feelings are still raw from the whole thing with Beau, and then Leo…well, it’s impossible to wrap my hands around my emotions where he’s concerned. They’re too big. Too unwieldy. They stretch too far into the past, and my mind literally can’t compute a future where I live in Heron Creek but don’t speak to Leo Boone on a regular basis.

  But hell. I’ve got two eyes and plenty of working hormones. Knox MacArthur is gorgeous, he’s a massive flirt, and at the moment his rain jacket is molded to every bulge on his impressively muscled body.

  If I was looking for someone to help me forget my troubles—and maybe my name—for a few days or a week, he seems like a prime candidate.

  He’s efficient, too; it takes him less than ten minutes to jack up my car and swap out the tire. He brought an actual tire, not a donut, so there’s no reason to be worried about continuing on to Seabrook.

  “Follow me?” he asks, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. “I’d like to run back to my boat and change before we grab a drink.”

  “Sure.”

  I’m in a bit of a daze for the rest of the ride to the small fishing community where I first met Trent Boone. It’s just as seedy as I remember, but the marina office where I met the creeptastic owner or operator or whatever is dark.

  Knox is waiting for me on the dock. I peer out at him from under my umbrella, feeling suddenly unsure of myself. What am I doing here, meeting a man I barely know on his turf in the cold, rainy darkness?

  “It’s just this way.”

  And now I’m following him down the wooden path along the port like he’s Saint Patrick and I’m one of the snakes that never lived in Ireland in the first place. Logically, I’m not overly worried. Amelia knows where I am. Knox has no reason to hurt me, and he certainly doesn’t look like the type of guy who would need to coerce companionship.

  Those thoughts are superfluous. Unnecessary and pointless. I’m here because he wants to talk to me about Trent Boone, for some reason. And to get a drink, which I need now more than ever after the incident on the road.

  The thought of alcohol brings to mind Brick and the wine, and my chest feels tight. That conversation with my cousin is not going to be much fun at all. It needs to be had, though, even if I put it off with tonight’s excursion. No more secrets.

  “This is me,” Knox says, stopping beside a boat that looks pretty similar to the rest of them. It’s older but well kept, with what looks like a fresh coat of blue paint gleaming on the hull.

  He leaps onto the deck and turns back, stretching out a hand to help me up. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask whether I need to be aboard if he’s just going to change, but the steady sprinkle is escalating to a downpour. I figure inside is the best place to be.

  The name painted on the side of the boat—White Whale—amuses me. I didn’t exactly take Knox for a reader of classic literature, though stereotyping is obviously wrong and all of that. Still, I don’t know why a seaman would name his boat after Moby Dick.

  Seems like awful bad luck if you ask me.

  Which no one did, I remind myself as I take Knox’s hand and follow him belowdecks and out of the rain. But it is curious, a sailor who isn’t superstitious.

  You know what curiosity did to the cat, a devil on my shoulder quips.

  I grit my teeth and pretend I didn’t hear a thing, turning my attention instead to the inside of Knox’s boat. It’s a simple setup, much like Trent’s. There’s a head, a bunk, and a galley, each separated into their own smaller compartments. There’s a table with three rickety chairs in the galley, and the door to the bunk stands open. Both spaces are clean, if not particularly tidy. A couple of pictures sit in frames, of two older people with Knox and a girl who looks startlingly like him—his sister, no doubt.

  There’s something endearing about a grown man who still takes family pictures. Probably because his mother asked.

  Knox peels off his rain jacket and shirt, revealing pebbled skin that’s somehow tanned in late winter. I avert my eyes, not stopping to think too hard about why.

  He doesn’t seem to notice that I looked away, let alone that I’m struggling to stick to the decision, which only makes me feel more ridiculous than usual.

  “There’s liquor in the cabinet under the sink. We could just have a drink here, if you don’t want to deal with the rain. I mean, unless you’d rather go out.” He pauses, and the weight of his gaze pulls my eyes back to him.

  He’s got a fresh shirt on, thank goodness. The expression in his brown eyes is hesitant.

  “I guess you don’t know me that well. Is it weird to just hang out here?” His gaze darkens with concern. “I mean, I could tell you that you don’t have to worry about me making any unwanted advances, but you might not believe me. And…”

  At this point he almost seems to be talking to himself, and his nervousness breaks the tension that’s been building inside me. A smile spreads over my face, and the sigh
t of it stops Knox mid-babble.

  “What?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious. “Do I have something on my face?”

  That makes me snort. “No. I guess it’s just a surprise to find such feminist thinking in a big, handsome commercial fisherman from South Carolina, that’s all.”

  “Wait. Let’s go back to the part where you think I’m handsome.”

  My face feels hot. I do my best to ignore it. “Maybe I was wrong about you thinking like a feminist.”

  “No, no, you’re not wrong. Although being a feminist is mostly just being a decent human being, so don’t go giving me too much credit.” His voice is tight.

  “Well, most men don’t take the time to put themselves in a woman’s shoes,” I reply carefully, navigating a sudden tension gnawing at the edges of the space between us.

  He doesn’t say anything in response. Apparently Knox MacArthur isn’t ready to slide this particular puzzle piece into place for me.

  I clear my throat, needing to fill the awkward pause in our banter. “So, what can I make you to drink?”

  “Whiskey for me,” he says, grabbing a clean pair of jeans and starting into the head. I guess he isn’t planning on changing those in full view.

  A niggle of disappointment surfaces inside me, but I mentally stomp on it. That’s not why I’m here.

  I mean, I assume it’s not. I still don’t know why I am here.

  As if he reads my mind, Knox’s expression grows grim. “You’d better make those drinks doubles. I’m going to need it if I’m going to sit around talking about ghosts.”

  “You believe in ghosts?”

  Knox avoids my gaze for the first time tonight. “Kind of hard not to, don’t you think?”

  With that enigmatic response, he ducks into the head and closes the door with a quiet click. It puts a barrier between us, however small. Space to think, or maybe just to gather my thoughts.

  I should have known it was a ghost; why else would he have called me about an issue related to Trent Boone? It’s not like we’re friends.

  This is my life now.

  Knox is for sure right about one thing—this night is going to require a double pour of whiskey.

  Chapter Three

  When Knox emerges from the bathroom, the damp ends of his hair are the only remnants of our unplanned meeting in the rain. A determined expression hangs on his rugged features, one that curls my fingers tighter around my whiskey glass.

  I hand him his drink as he strides toward the table, and he holds it up to clink against mine. His dark eyes, crinkling at the corners with something like amusement, hold my gaze over the rims of our glasses as we tap them together.

  “Did you know that in German culture, it’s rude or bad luck or something to not look people in the eye when you’re toasting?”

  “I did not,” I reply, happy that the ease between us has returned. “How did you come by this knowledge?”

  “My sister lives in Switzerland.”

  So many mysteries. The reminder that meeting new people can be an adventure of discovery is a welcome one. I had that when Beau and I first met, of course, but the majority of my circle of friends in Heron Creek gave up their secrets a long time ago. While there is comfort in knowing everyone you come across, I’m just now, in this moment, realizing that it can also be a bit boring.

  Everything in life is a double-edged sword. And that includes living in a small town.

  “What does she do in Switzerland?”

  “Teaches math. She’s lived in three different places since she graduated from college. Loves it.”

  “And you have an excuse to travel,” I guess.

  He clinks my glass again, this time in agreement, while he rolls a sip of golden liquid around in his mouth. Our gazes connect for one long second, then another, before he lifts the tumbler to his lips and takes another big swallow. I follow suit, the sweet, smoky liquor making my tongue and throat tingle before it lands warm in my belly.

  “You hungry?”

  I start to say no, and then think better of it. I am hungry—it’s coming up on when I would normally eat dinner—and downing all of this booze without something to soak it up seems inadvisable. For a few reasons, not the least of which is Knox wanting to talk about ghosts.

  Which has become as much my business as library books and archives, no matter whether I admit it or not.

  No matter how often it has reared its head lately, the realization startles me every time it stares me in the face. It’s starting to be weird in a good way, though, and not a way that makes me want to hide in the woods.

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Okay, well, I can make grilled cheese or spaghetti.”

  “Grilled cheese is fine.”

  It actually sounds divine, like blissful comfort food, on a rainy, cold night like this.

  Knox gets to work, grabbing a skillet from a cabinet and a stick of butter from the fridge. I decide there’s no reason to let him do all of the work and set to work finding bread and cheese. To my surprise, he’s got no American “cheese,” only slices of yummy looking gouda and thin white cheddar in the fridge.

  A cheese snob. Maybe he picked that up in Switzerland, too.

  I grab it and find artisan bread in the breadbox, handing that over, too. The urge to laugh at every single stereotype he’s bucking tickles my throat.

  “There’s a container of matzah ball soup in there, too, if you want that. Nothing better than soup and grilled cheese, if you ask me. Especially on a dreary night.”

  “Did you make the soup?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.

  His cheeks turn red. “No. This woman Fran at the diner, she made it for me. I’ve been a bit under the weather for the past couple of weeks.”

  “Jewish penicillin,” I murmur, repeating what I’ve heard LeighAnn say more than once.

  “Yep. And if you know any Jewish women, then you know why I have a vat of leftovers.”

  We work in companionable silence for several minutes, until the enticing scent of melted butter and gooey cheese sizzles up into the small space. The soup has started to bubble happily on the stove, and I’m feeling strangely cozy. Welcome and not at all out of place, even though I’ve never been here before and Knox and I remain virtual strangers.

  It’s nice.

  “So, Graciela Harper, tell me the story of how you came to be the sort of woman who sees ghosts and inspires ‘handsome’ men to change your tires on the rainiest of nights.” He does air quotes around the “handsome,” as if my observation could be anything but factual.

  “Well, when you put it that way, I feel as if I need some amazing origin story. In truth, my life was pretty normal and boring until about eight months ago.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s true. I spent my summers in Heron Creek as a kid, went to college and then graduate school back home in Iowa.” I take another drink to steel myself for the next part. “Got engaged to a guy who it turned out couldn’t keep it in his pants, left him, and came back here to take care of my Gramps. The rest is history.”

  “You left out the part about seeing ghosts.”

  “You remember that, huh?” My attempt at a joke goes about as well as ever. Which is to say, neither of us laughs.

  “Kind of hard to forget a thing like that.” He quirks a smile as he delivers our sandwiches to the small table and goes back to the galley to ladle out some soup. “I didn’t realize it was a secret, though. Is it?”

  “Not exactly.” I grab some spoons for the soup on the way to the table, then slide onto the built-in bench. “No. I just…I don’t know. Some people don’t understand, that’s all.”

  “I’m guessing most people don’t understand,” he comments, tossing some napkins between us and settling his large frame into the small chair across from me. “So you probably mean some people don’t believe you.”

  “I never saw a ghost until I moved back to Heron Creek last summer. Not that I know of, anyway, and th
e first one turned out to be an ancestor. So I get it. I wouldn’t have believed me, either.”

  “That must have been quite the shock.”

  “It was. She smelled terrible.”

  That makes him laugh for real, straight from his belly, and I take a moment to acknowledge how weird it is to feel this comfortable with him. Especially given that he does, at the same time, make my pulse jump every time his eyes meet mine.

  I take a moment to point out to myself that he doesn’t seem interested in anything more than a little flirting here and there, and then recount how I met Anne Bonny. I move on from there, trying my best to explain how her presence in my life seems to have opened a door, something that’s apparently not unusual for my father’s side of the family, and leave it at that.

  There’s pretty much nothing he could say or do that would encourage me to talk more about Frank. About my fears over what sharing his genes could mean, about whether the other Fourniers are possibly still after me. I’m going to spend some time pretending it’s all fine. I need to, even if it turns out to not be true in the long run.

  Maybe that’s why I’m avoiding Travis.

  “Well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. The ghost thing,” he clarifies. “I don’t…I guess you could say I’m a proper believer. Have been ever since I was a kid.”

  “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

  “No. I’ve had feelings, though. Just experiences here and there that make me sure there’s more to this world, and the next, than what we can see or understand.” He shrugs, but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t seem embarrassed, but neither does he elaborate. “Anyway, it’s safe to say I believe you.”

  I didn’t realize how much it would mean to hear someone who doesn’t know me, and who isn’t currently being haunted, say those words until they came out of his mouth. It feels like a dam has burst inside my chest, with warmth gushing out and falling all the way down into my toes.