Luke nodded and headed around the house. She tipped three gallon-sized cans of white exterior paint into a large bucket she’d bought at the home improvement store and grabbed two brushes from the nearby plastic carrier bag that still had supplies from her last shopping trip. Luke brought the first ladder over and set it against the house, disappearing around the corner again as he retrieved the second.
When he returned, he leaned the other ladder next to the first, side by side against the old “shakes” as they were called—the shingles that covered the house. Since they were made of cedar, the newer ones offered a spicy, wooden smell up close. Used for ages along the coast here, they were popular because they were naturally resistant to rot, and they could withstand storms as well as wind and sand abrasion. They always started out a light tan but as they aged, they turned the most gorgeous dark brown color, and the white paint on the trim acted as a defining outline, leaving the blue of the sea and sky to paint the landscape while the house sat quietly behind.
Callie climbed up the ladder, awkwardly holding the heavy bucket, her arms working overtime to steady herself with the weight of it. Luke had looked as though he was going to extend a hand to help, but she kept climbing until she’d nearly reached the top. She hooked the bucket on the ladder hook. No damsel in distress here, Luke Sullivan, she thought. Luke grabbed his brush and climbed up beside her, the bucket swinging between them.
With confidence in her actions, Callie dipped her brush into the bucket. “You want to get the brush full enough with paint that it can last you a few strokes, but not too much or it will drip on the siding and that’s difficult to get off.”
She scraped her brush gently on the side of the bucket and held it up to demonstrate as a couple of seagulls flew overhead, pulling Luke’s attention their way. She had to stifle a huff. Was he going to pay attention or not? He was supposedly there to help, and he needed to realize that life wasn’t all bikinis and yachts. If he didn’t focus, he could mess up the coat of paint.
“Leaning against a stilted house makes me feel like I’m swaying,” Luke said, applying paint to his brush as she watched anxiously. He observed her strokes for a moment politely before he started painting. Then, surprisingly, he painted a seamless coat onto the trim, and once he got going he was meticulous, the paint a perfect thickness on the old wood.
“You’re good at this,” she said, trying to hide her shock. He’d surprised her again.
He grinned but didn’t say anything.
As she painted quietly beside him, she wondered if she’d been so worried about him making assumptions about her that she’d failed to notice she was doing the same. Maybe it was because she was broken in some way, unable to give herself wholeheartedly to someone else, always worried about the intentions of others and closing up. She had opened up completely with Olivia and Gladys. But then again, she’d known them her whole life. She’d met her friend during the innocence of childhood, when every human being is naturally untainted by life, just before her father had left. In the back of Callie’s mind, she’d always wondered if she’d inherited her mother’s guardedness. It just felt a whole lot safer that way.
Her father’s leaving had blindsided both Callie and her mother. Callie’s mother wasn’t great after he left, becoming distant at times. She wondered now if she’d just been overwhelmed. Her mother had tried to make an effort, but by that time Callie was already in high school, and too hurt to accept her mother’s late response. Callie’s father passed away before she ever had a chance to find him and ask him why he’d left. So she was left to wonder.
She moved her arm back and forth, the brush gliding along the wet surface. “Have you ever painted before?” she asked.
Luke was quiet as he worked. Finally, not taking his eyes off the house, he said, “A little.” The hesitation in his response made her wonder if there was more behind those words than he was letting on. Already feeling pretty awful for having judged him, she didn’t press him on it.
“Have you always lived in Waves?” she asked.
He smiled at her, sending her heart pattering. The sun, now at its spot high in the sky, was hidden behind a cloud, offering some much-needed relief from the heat.
“I’ve lived here and at my house in Florida. I also have an apartment in New York, but I tend to stay around the coast.”
“Which is your favorite?” A breeze blew against her neck, cooling her briefly. She put more paint on her brush while steadying herself against the ladder.
“The Outer Banks is my favorite.” He reached his arm out to paint a spot further down the trim.
Callie continued to apply the next coat. “I loved coming here as kid—I waited all year for it.” She caught a runaway drip with her finger and wiped it on her shorts. “I came here every year with Olivia and her family. I spent so much time with them that I feel more like a Dixon than a Weaver,” she said.
“So you’ve known them since you all were kids?” He picked at his brush, removing a piece of dirt before continuing.
“Yeah. Olivia’s my best friend. She’s the first person I call when I need to talk, and the one who knows everything about me—the good and the bad.”
He nodded. “I know that kind of friend. I grew up with a guy named Todd Crowder. He’s moved away now; he and his family live in Portland. I fly out to see him once a year. He and I did everything together growing up. We worked at an ice cream parlor one summer just for fun. We wanted a reason to get out of the house.”
She smiled. “Were you any good at scooping ice cream?”
“I could swirl the soft serve ice cream about a foot high without it toppling off the cone. We used to make those for our friends until the manager found out we were giving extra large ice creams for the price of a single.” He looked over at her and chuckled. “We gave that manager quite a time that summer. Todd and I would write ‘Secret Concoction’ on the menu—the day’s flavors were written new every morning with chalk. Then we’d come up with a recipe based on the person ordering, changing it depending on what we thought the person might be like. The manager had a fit when he noticed that the topping selection had dwindled to barely anything by Wednesday when it was supposed to last until the weekend. He almost fired us, but he liked the idea so much that he let us continue.”
“So what would you make for me?”
Luke eyed her, that smile returning before he pursed his lips, squinting his eyes in thought. “Nothing too fussy—maybe a nice vanilla—but sweet and warm, so perhaps a hot fudge drizzle with homemade mint chocolate bark sprinkled on top.”
“That actually sounds perfect. My favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, causing three lines on his forehead. “Mine too,” he said with another grin.
“Whenever I had a bad day, my grandmother would take me out for ice cream,” she said. “I used to want to just get chocolate, but she’d say, ‘The fun in life comes from risking doing something new. That’s how you grow. Look at all the flavors! Pick one you’d like to try. If you hate it, I’ll buy you a chocolate one. The point is to try it.’ That’s how I ended up liking mint chocolate chip.”
“I like your grandmother.”