“You were in a few days back, right?” he says. “I caught a glimpse as you were leaving, and Glory said you were just passing through. You passing back? Or waiting out this damn storm?”
I hesitate, not believing my reprieve. But he stands there, his smile warm and friendly and nothing more.
He doesn’t recognize me. Why would he? It’s been twenty years, and it’s not as if I returned to this part of the world without taking precautions with my appearance.
I only remember him because he occupies a bigger space in my memory than I would in his. A boy who’d been kind when I needed kindness. A man with that same kindness in his eyes, despite biceps big enough to lift a car and tattoos that tell me he’s spent time behind bars. I grieve a little, seeing those prison tats. Grief for the inescapability of his fate, the fate of so many who’ve lived our life. We wanted out, he and I. A better path to better places. I’m not sure either of us found it.
“Tom Lowe,” he says, extending a hand. Then he sees the grease streaks and pulls back with a rueful laugh. “Mmm, on second thought, better stick to hello.”
“Daisy,” I say. “Daisy Moss.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Daisy Moss. I hope you found someplace warm and dry to wait out this storm.”
My gut instinct is to say something noncommittal. For the past month, that’s been my response to questions as innocuous as “So, where are you from?” Yet the words that leave my mouth are “I took shelter in a shed, but the homeowner was kind enough to let me stay in her lanai.”
“You must mean Celeste,” he says, as if this is the only answer.
He walks to the bench and takes a glop of cleaner from a jar, rubbing it on his hands as the sharp tang of orange fills the garage. “Good. She’s new around here—inherited the place from her granny a few months back.”
“So I heard.”
“Glad she took you in. This storm’s a real witch. Never seems to end. Hurricane season, huh?”
As he dries his hands on an old towel, I glance at the workbench.
“I don’t suppose you rent tools,” I say.
He looks over, brows rising.
“Celeste has a leak, and I’ve promised to fix it. From the looks of her house, though, I have a feeling any tools there belong in the last century.”
He chuckles. “Middle of the last century more like. Sure, we can work something out. Or I could swing by and fix it myself.”
“I owe her,” I say. “And I know what I’m doing. I’m a carpenter by trade, but I’ve spent more time repairing leaks than crafting fine furniture.”
“I know what that’s like. I’m an aviation mechanic, and I pay the bills keeping these junk heaps on the road. Gotta go where the jobs are.” He waves me into the shop. “Let’s get you rung through, and then we’ll talk tools.”