The Darkest Joy Read Free Page B

Cold water pours out from solid nickel taps, the metal frosting.
    I put my hand underneath the rush and snatch it back. It’s so cold it burns.
    I might as well be in a foreign country , I think.
    I shut off the water just as I hear an engine.
    I open the door and quickly shut it behind me; don’t want that precious heat to escape.
    I watch a 1970s Bronco pull up the long winding drive and come to a stop. It’s hauling a trailer with the car I just bought, sight unseen. A burly and disheveled guy exits his red-and-white rig. At least, I think it’s red and white, but it’s hard to tell through the dirt, not to mention the rust that’s eating at the wheel wells and edges of it like cancer.
    “Hi ya!” he says and gives a friendly wave. I give a little wave back and make my way down the broad split-log staircase to meet him in the center of the driveway, the gravel lost to the weeds long ago.
    “I’m Tucker,” he says, sticking out a meaty hand, and I shake it as he vigorously pumps mine. I look at him, trying to reconcile his email correspondence with the face.
    I’ve been raised to be socially gracious. In fact, I’m comfortable around most, but . . . the people of Alaska have proven to be an exception.
    There’s no pretense and I find I miss it. Or maybe it’s what is familiar?
    Tucker ignores my inspection of him as he takes in my great-aunt’s homestead.
    I use this opportunity to look him over, from his strange knee-height brown rubber boots to his camel-colored heavy denim pants that meet a beat-up T-shirt that says Catch More But at Sea .
    What?
    When I reach his face, I see his head is partially covered by a cap made of nubby charcoal-colored wool, pulled on haphazardly, strands of dark hair curling around the rolled brim.
    His eyes are warm when they meet mine and I blush as hegives a belly laugh at my perusal. “Like what ya see?” he asks, waggling his brows.
    Dear Lord .
    “Ah . . . I’m . . .” Oh God .
    “It’s okay.” He smiles, letting me off the hook. “I hear you’re old Milli’s niece . . .”
    I nod numbly. Don’t ask, don’t ask . .  .
    “Brooke Starr,” I say, my face heating again. I feel certifiably stupid.
    Tucker grins. “How is the old girl doing?”
    He’s asked.
    I give a small squeak and he says in a low voice, “Is she gone, then?”
    I nod again and he reaches out a large hand, the whole of it swallows my shoulder. “It’s all right, Brooke,” he says, his eyes moving to take in the vast property, the sweeping cliffs that hold jagged rocks that meet the sea. “She had a full life, y’know.”
    I breathe out a sigh of relief. I don’t fool Tucker. He studies my expression then inclines his head, not questioning me further.
    Suddenly, he grins. “I guess you want to see her.”
    Her?
    He chuckles at my expression. “Cars are always referred to as females.”
    Not by me , I think. The best I can do is think of my Scion as That Which Runs. A small giggle escapes me and Tucker glances over his shoulder with a cocked brow.
    He moves to the back of the trailer that holds the three thousand dollars’ worth of metal. With a flourish he jerks off the carcover. My eyes widen, roving over the vintage VW bus. The car does me in. The photo he sent me over the Internet looked . . . different. A caption— 1967 VW bus, needs body work —had appeared alongside an image of a gunmetal-colored vehicle.
    “What . . . how?” I stutter as I take in the huge rainbow-colored flowers over the deep cerulean blue paint, a low glitter winking as the fog departs the property and the sun edges in. I sigh.
    “Beautiful, ain’t she?” Tucker asks, running his hand over the psychedelic yawn of a paint job.
    I want to blend in, exist unnoticed among the huge influx of migrant fishing workers.
    This Scooby-Doo bus is not going to fucking blend in.
    I open my mouth to rake him over my blazing anger, but his sweet expression stops me. Tucker straightens. “What?