He Stood Me Up, so I Married His Brother novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Smooth Nails

Neely shows Thatcher the coffee can of nails she pulled off Ashwood's storm roofs, decides to bid the city rebuild herself, and Lorene invites the newlyweds to Sunday dinner.

"Who?" I asked.

Thatcher drank his coffee.

"Thatcher. Who sent him up?"

"If I say it, it's my word against a widow's," he said. "I already know how that goes."

"Try me."

"Not tonight."

I looked at the coffee cup in my hand. Then at the shop.

"Hold on," I said. "Riverside Bend. Off Highway 17."

He went very still.

"Wait here."

I unlocked the side door and flipped on the shop lights.

The big blue coffee can was on the top shelf behind the caulk tubes, where Crosby would never look.

I carried it out and set it on the tailgate between us.

"Last October's storm," I said. "Fourteen roofs peeled at Riverside Bend. Ashwood subbed six of the tear-offs to me."

I pried the lid off.

The nails were bagged by address. Six sandwich bags, six house numbers in my handwriting.

"I tore off decking you could put your thumb through," I said. "Nailed with these."

He took one bag and held it under the shop light.

Smooth-shank nails. Shiny and straight, with no rings cut into them to grip.

Nails like that back right out of a deck in a high wind. Any roofer on the east side knows it.

"I kept them because I didn't know what else to do," I said. "Crosby told me it was a supplier mix-up."

Thatcher took a nail out of the bag.

"Same nail," he said quietly.

"Same as what?"

"Same as the deck I tagged."

His voice didn't change. His hand did. It closed around that nail until his knuckles went white.

"The spec was plywood and ring-shank nails," he said. "Somebody swapped it for thin board and these. I wrote it up. I put the tag on the door."

"And they kept building."

"They kept building."

He put the nail back in the bag, very carefully.

We sat there with the can between us.

"The city's doing sixty houses on the east side," I said. "Storm rebuild. New roofs, new decks, the whole thing."

"I know. The council votes in December."

"Ashwood's going to win it."

"Ashwood always wins it."

"My aunt's house is one of the sixty. On Bolton Street."

He turned his head and looked at me.

"Ashwood's going to put these nails on my aunt's roof," I said.

"Probably."

I put the lid back on the can and pressed it down with both hands.

"Then I'm bidding it," I said.

"Faircloth Roofing has five people."

"Five good people."

"Lorene has lawyers, and a council that eats at her table."

"Lorene just cancelled sixty percent of my work by text. I've got time on my hands."

He laughed. It surprised both of us.

"You're out of your mind," he said.

"I married you this morning. That's been established."

Thursday a squall came in off the river at three in the afternoon.

We were on the last of my own jobs, a little shotgun house on Gwinnett Street, half torn off.

The sky turned green over the river. The crew scrambled for the tarps.

A gray pickup pulled up at the curb.

Thatcher got out, and looked up at the roof and the sky.

"What are you doing here?" I yelled down.

"Shift's over. You're short a man."

He was up the ladder before I could argue.

The rain hit like somebody had turned over a bucket.

We dragged the big blue tarp up over the open deck. The wind tried to rip it out of our hands.

Thatcher planted his boots and held his end.

"Batten it!" I yelled.

He already had the strip of lath in one hand and the hammer in the other.

Tammy and the crew got the far side. Thatcher and I had the ridge.

The last batten went in. The tarp snapped tight and held.

I tried to stand and my boot slid on the wet shingles.

His arm came around my waist and caught me.

He pulled me up against him and held me there on the slope, both of us soaked.

The rain was running off his hair, into his beard, down his neck.

His shirt was stuck to him. I could see every line of his chest through it.

I could feel his heart going hard against my hand.

Neither of us let go.

"You okay?" he said.

"Yes."

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

The wind died for a second. All I could hear was the rain on the tarp and my own breathing.

He lifted one hand and pushed a wet strand of hair off my face.

His thumb stayed on my cheek.

I leaned in. So did he.

His breath was warm against my lips. One more inch.

"Ridge is holding!" Tammy yelled from the far side. "Y'all can come down now!"

Thatcher gave a ragged sound that was half a groan.

He didn't step back right away.

His thumb moved once more across my cheekbone, slow.

Then he let go of my waist and steadied me on my feet instead.

"Ladder," he said. His voice had gone low and rough. "You first."

My legs were shaking on every rung.

At the bottom, Tammy handed me a towel and stared at me over her sunglasses.

"Don't," I said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"I was going to say your husband swings a decent hammer."

My phone buzzed in my soaked pocket.

I wiped the screen on my shirt.

Lorene Ashwood again.

"Sunday dinner. Six o'clock, Gaston Street. Bring your husband."

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