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
“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
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