Page 23 of Existential
My hand twitches over the box in my pocket as we cover the last yards to the start of the driveway, eager for a hit to ease this sense of change that’s stirring within me. I feel relaxed, almost content in the moment, and that’s a sensation I haven’t had the pleasure of knowing for months.
“Horizontal, or diagonal?” Our traveller sets the barrow down a few yards from the start.
“You propositionin’ me gorgeous?” I suppress a chuckle.
“The rake lines,” she drawls. “Which way do you prefer them?”
“Whatever tickles your fancy. They’ll be messed up within days.” I ease onto one of the huge rocks that sit behind the gates, and watch her eye up the job ahead of her. “The prospects usually just flick the dirt back over the top from where it piles up at the sides.”
“Ah. So I’m giving the prospects a break then?” She bends to pick up a few decent sized sticks out of the tracks, and tosses them into the barrow with a smirk. “Why not just leave the driveway how it is?”
“The smooth surface gets pretty damn slippery in the rain, even after a dewy morning. The dirt spread over the top gives it grip.”
“You should seal the damn thing if that’s the case.”
I rub my forefinger and thumb at her.
“You telling me that a bunch of men who operate on the wrong side of the law like you do, don’t have some magical stash of laundered money somewhere?”
“Did you see the inside of that place?” I gesture to the house. “It wasn’t cheap.”
“Yeah,” she utters, starting with the rake. “I did.”
I watch her for a while, how she struggles to use the tool that’s too large for her tiny frame. She battles on, swearing under her breath when the tines catch the dirt, or snags a hidden stone. Damn it. My father raised me better than to sit idle while somebody struggles with a task I could handle. Her eyes widen as I step up and gesture for the rake.
“Hand it over. You pick up the debris, I’ll rake.”
“Are you sure?”
“Would I offer if I wasn’t?” Her cute hesitation forces a smile from God only knows where. This girl …
“Dagne.” Her tiny hand is thrust toward me.
I take it. “Nice to meet you.” Winning. “Origin?”
“My grandfather was Norwegian. My mother wanted to carry our ancestry, mostly to impress him, so she gave me a traditional Norse name.” She holds the handle of the rake out, and I take it.
“It’s different; I like it.”
“Yeah, well, so is Josiah.”
“More common than you’d think.” I begin to rake, focusing on the line rather than the unmistakably quickened beat of my heart. I don’t want to be reminded how alive I am, not when people I love aren’t.
“So …” Her word lingers between us, testing the waters. “What is it you need from me?”
Straight into business.“Where did you plan on going when you left?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
“You have a preference?”
She dumps the handful of leaves and twigs into the barrow and eyes me carefully. “Not really.”
“What if I offered to pay expenses as long as you went where I needed you to?”
“I’d say you’d piqued my interest.”
“I’ve got a message I need to get out.” I hesitate in my work, dragging my grip around the handle. “Think you can deliver it?”