I’m about three-thousand-dollars deep in Uber bills when I realise that this was probably not my best idea.
“Actually, maybe we should turn around,” I say, my eyes sliding over to my hastily crammed hand-luggage on the seat beside me. The fact that I brought my wrinkly childhood growly bear is confirmation enough that I’m not exactly treating this impromptu getaway as a short-term solution.
And the word ‘growly’ is literal. It’s one of those stiff-limbed vintage teddies that growls when you tip it upside down. When we hit a dip in the road a few miles back it made a sort of harrumph sound that had the driver warily glancing back at me.
But I digress.
Did I really think that running away would make me feel better? The delay in my flight from LA to Montana made the plane journey last more than three hours, and then I ended up getting five different taxis to take me up the twists and valleys that lead from there to Phoenix Falls. I glance distressed out of the window at the side of the vehicle and I try to think of something positive.
A change is as good as a rest after all, especially when it comes to getting the creative juices flowing. And I’m literally a screenwriter. I’m sure that there’s a story somewhere amidst all of this chaos.
I clear my throat to try and capture the driver’s attention but he just shoots me a disbelieving look and remains silent as he puts the car in park. Yes I did just suggest turning around one second before we reached our destination. The driver can’t believe his luck and is consequently unwilling to jeopardise this eight-hundred dollar relationship that we just formed with anything as risky as “talking” or “stating opinions”. If only the rest of his sex were as considerate, maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.
I roll my lips into my mouth, tensely quaking with what-the-hell-did-I-just-do nervous spasms, and then I finally push open the door to the backseat, clutching my travel bag like a life jacket and shutting the cab up after myself. The driver is almost as much of a wreck as I am. He thinks that he’s just been Punk’d and that I’m about to murder him in the middle of this deserted holiday village.
When he realises that this really is my destination – a semi-reconstructed cabin retreat up the mountains at the back of Phoenix Falls – he can’t get to his notepad fast enough, scribbling down his digits like his life depends on it. He hands it over to me through the rolled-down passenger window and I pluck it between two fingers, glancing down.
Name. Number. Smiley face.
I offer him a small almost-smile in return and then he begins to slowly pull away, checking for me in his rear-view every few seconds. He’s making sure that I’m not about to change my mind and have him take me back to the last drop-off point that I was at, which was approximately one billion miles away from this one and where I said goodbye to disbelieving taxi-driver number four.
The disappointment in his face when I don’t wave him back would almost be an ego-boost if the past month that had just happened to me hadn’t just happened to me. But it did. There’s no denying it. And now I’m feeling in no way gratified by any male attention.
No more men, ever.
I re-hoist my luggage and raise my chin, feeling that end-of-summer clarity in the evergreen air. The warning clouds overhead are hovering dangerously dark and stormy, but even they hold off, sensing that I could snap at any moment. Mother Nature is on my side which only re-solidifies my stance.
No more men, no more men, no more men.
I round the corner and stop short.
Five male heads turn in my direction.
So admittedly my new standpoint would be easier to embark upon if I hadn’t just pulled up to a building site mid-reno, where it’s being redeveloped by an all-male team of lumberjack handymen. Obviously this is a test from God, showing me the way through a baptism by fire.
I pray for strength and then whisper Amen.
As I begin to walk their way I spare them a glance, quickly wishing that I hadn’t. They’re what I would describe as “dangerously tall”. I readjust my trucker cap over my hair, blowing the soft baby-blonde tendrils out of my face, and I walk purposefully past the whole bunch of them, only shooting back a stare when I sense their eyes still burning into my own. Each one of them looks away with their eyebrows slightly raised. They’re unfamiliar with my kind entering their territory and not one of them knows what to do about it.
Okay, so I’m a little gratified, especially by how well-behaved they seem to be reacting. Did they know that I was coming? I mean, I barely knew that I was coming, at least not until taxi driver number one, who I must admit took the brunt of the lot.
I pull up my phone and tap through to the Messages app, purposely making my eyes go blurry as I scroll past the I’m sorry’s and the hear me out’s. He’s been texting me from other people’s phones because he evidently assumes that I’ve blocked him. Which I have. And now I’m going to have to block everyone else too.
Finally I come across the messages from my mom, the no-nonsense tycoon behind Ray Corp’s small town vacation retreats, and I tap on the rectangle to open up her instructions.
I scan through her text bubbles and then look up, scanning the cosy valley for my new hideaway.
Where are you little bungalow?
“Ma’am?”
A voice sounds out from the middle of the pack and I twist slightly to catch its owner. Deep bass, confident and casual. He sounds like a heartbreaker.
Not my problem.
“Sir?”
His cheek ticks up and his gaze steamrolls down my torso. I narrow my eyes on him.
“Can I help you with something?” he asks.
Wouldn’t you like to, I think to myself. I wait until his eyes are back on my face before I say anything. He likes what he sees and that riles me senseless.
“I’m good.”
The words I’ll bet are so obviously on the tip of his tongue that I can practically see them. I give him an I dare you expression and he shakes his head, smiling.
“You sure? You look a little lost.”
So they weren’t expecting me. I’m yet to decide if this is good or bad news.
“I’m not lost,” I tell him, lifting my chin a little higher. “I’ve been here many times.”
“Pine Hills is closed until the New Year. It’s under construction.” He taps the side of his large black truck, where the words Coleson Construction Company are printed on it in thick orange script.
I groan inwardly. This is the guy heading the reno? My mom spared me the fine print but I know the gist. Coleson Construction has already been here for the past two months, fixing up the plumbing, electrical, and external framework issues, and now the joinery team is going to be here for two more, kitting out each cabin with new flooring and bespoke furniture, handmade on-site here at Pine Hills.
I blink myself back to the here and now.
The laid-back smile on this guy’s face makes my eye twitch, but I’m a professional and I can handle this. I choose to shake off my irritation and outstretch my hand towards him.
“Mitchell Coleson? I’m Harper. Harper Ray.”
He looks down at my outstretched hand and understanding suddenly dawns on his face. So he was expecting me. Now he realises that he just softcore-flirted with the keys to his pay packet, and for the second time in the space of two minutes I’m being regarded with the cautiousness of a ticking time-bomb.
He looks at me with newly hardened features. He’s all business now.
“I’m not the man you’re looking for.”
My brow creases in confusion and I drop my hand. “Oh?”
“Mitch already left. He’s been working with the crew and I all summer, but this is his baby now. He’s the joiner, and it’s pretty much interior stuff from here on out. My work here’s done.”
Thank God.
“And you are?” I ask.
He pushes his tongue in his cheek and flashes a look to one of his co-workers. “Jason, his brother. You can call me Jace.”
I won’t be calling you anything.
“So you’re the eyes that they sent up here to keep us in check?” he asks, one big shoulder resting against the side of his truck.
Now that I know that this isn’t the man that I’m looking for I turn away from him and start scanning for my bungalow again. It’s been over a decade since I was last here so it’s hardly a surprise that I can’t quite remember its whereabouts. Pine Hills is heavenly, a series of small wooden cabins set up against a backdrop of lush encroaching forest. There’s a Nature Trail running parallel to the land for visitors who want to explore the woods more deeply, plus a little town up the mountain, a small drive away.
Despite the rolling black clouds the sky behind them is a dusty blue, and the high-climbing trees are startlingly emerald. The temperature is mild and it gives me that early-autumn feeling. I inhale deeply as a wave of nostalgia washes over me.
After a few moments of taking in the landscape my eyes finally land on the bungalow up ahead. It’s a little different to how my teenage brain remembered it. It’s one-level and it’s longer than I recalled, with two doors set near the centre. They are two attached living spaces, which means that technically I could spread my stuff across both of the halves, but I’ve travelled so light that it renders that option unnecessary.
My eyes flicker back to Jason, the construction head who has just finished his stint of demo-recon. That makes sense, considering the fact that the weather will be turning soon and the outdoors work is better executed in dry conditions. If he’s about to leave then there’s no need for him to know where I’m going to be sleeping.
But he seems to understand what’s happening right now, my thoughts unspooling directly into his, and he nods his chin over to a nearby portacabin, saying, “Everything you’ll need is up in the office – keys, blueprints.” He ticks them off on thick tan fingers. “I can show you if you’d like, and you can have the keys for the cub.”
I inconspicuously chew on my bottom lip, disinclined to accept his assistance but also aware that there’s no ‘i’ in ‘team’. Even though my mom allowed me up here to secretly salve my soul after the break-up, on the official books it looks like I’m here to supervise the Pine Hills renovation. If it isn’t me checking that Ray Corp’s plans are being brought to life it’ll be someone else, so I may as well get off on the right foot with the people who are involved.
So after a beat I manage to choke out, “That would be helpful, thank you.”
Jason’s mouth curls up at one corner as he begins leading me up to the cub, a secret look behind his eyes saying that he can read me like a book.
We walk up the wide entrance steps and he unlocks the door to the office. Then he pushes it open and steps back so that I can walk through.
I fold my arms across my chest and my luggage hits against the side of my hip. “I’m good here.”
He watches me cautiously for one moment and then nods. He looks down at the metal o-ring in his hand and begins the slow key-extraction process, a sharp white canine biting into the bottom corner of his lip, brow creased as he removes the cubbie key from the bundle. When it’s free he holds it out like a peace offering.
I extend my palm. He drops it gently inside.
He points to the back wall and I glance over to it. It’s fitted with a series of small labelled hooks, each adorned with multiple keys.
“The keys are for each of the cabins, plus all of the out-buildings and electrical boxes. Reno plans and documentation are on the table. Duplicates are in the folders over there.”
I scan the wall. I can’t read the labels from this distance. “Is there a key for the bungalows?”
“The bungalows?” He looks surprised but he doesn’t let it faze him. He walks inside the portacabin over to the back wall, unhooks two separate keys and then comes back to the doorway, leaning against the dark green frame. He dangles the keys in front of me and they jingle together.
“Two keys, one for either side.” Then, wary, he adds, “You inspecting them or something? We gave them the same pipe-work and re-wiring that we did to the cabins.”
“I’m not inspecting them. I’m staying in them,” I tell him.
His eyebrows shoot skywards. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m staying in them,” I repeat, glancing up at him a little irritated.
“You’re staying on-site?”
“Yes.” I frown. “Is that a problem or something?”
I thought that he was leaving? What’s it to him?
“Uh, not for me,” he begins, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. The curl of his bicep catches my attention and I suddenly begin to wonder what his brother Mitch looks like. Is he younger? Older? Do they look the same? Are they… built the same?
A little shiver runs through me. I can’t deny it: men do not look like this in Los Angeles. The men there are smooth, un-weathered, softened by years of privilege.
But here?
These men are hard lines and solid muscles, thickened and compacted by a lifetime of manual labour. Sandpaper grit raking up their throats and laugh lines creasing around their eyes. Sun-kissed jaws. Large calloused hands.
I do a little cough and divert my eyes.
I hear a series of engines rev to life and I turn to see that his crew are leaving for the day. Truck after truck after truck, they drive slow and safe off the site, their eyes sliding curiously our way as they depart.
Jason brings me back to the present.
“Ma’am, I’m sure that this is all legit and everything but, uh, I gotta admit that this sounds like a legal accident waiting to happen. Mitch could get in serious shit if you get injured on-site. Do you have clearance?”
“Of course I have clearance,” I say, alarmed. I have literally no idea what that even means.
Jason gives me another wary look but then decides that, being one of the only heirs to the site he’s just wrapped up on, I must have the documentation to be here mid-upheaval.
“Then you’re all set,” he says, the toe of his boot tapping an agitated little rhythm on the threshold of the portacabin. Something is bothering him. I decide not to ask.
Instead I back-step slowly down the two stairs and I point to the bungalows over my shoulder. “I’ll be making myself at home then. Have a pleasant evening.”
His brow is creasing in agony and he scrubs at it with his hand.
“Are you… are you sure that you want to stay on-site? Like, are you sure?”
Clearly he thinks that I should not be so sure. I hate how easily that triggers the anxious whir in my belly.
“Is the surveillance system back up?” I ask.
“Yeah, all the electric should be working,” he replies.
“Then I’m sure.”
He raises his hands in defeat. “Okay.” He says it like your funeral.
He must gather how guarded he’s making me feel because he half-laughs and says, “I’m sorry. The site is secure. It’s just… that’s not what I’m worried about.”
My frown deepens. “What are you worried about?”
He looks over in the direction that all the trucks just drove in. Then he shakes his head as if he’s trying to relieve himself of a thought.
“Nothing,” he says finally. He gives me a tight smile when he looks back down at me and then gestures politely to the bungalows. “Want me to carry your bags?”
Yes please is what I’m thinking. “No thank you,” is what I say instead.
“Alright then.” He glances at me for one more moment and then breathes out a deep exhale. “Lock up the cub when you’re done in there, and I… I hope you settle in nicely.”
“Bye, then.”
“Yeah, bye.”
I watch him as he trudges over to the last truck in the dirt, mounting it with a surprisingly light foot and then slipping his phone out of his pocket the second that his door is closed. I watch him shoot off a text, toss the cell, and then he straps himself in and kicks the engine to life. His eyes are almost disbelieving when they land on me for a final time, as if he can’t fathom that I’m really here, on this construction site. You and me both, buddy. If you’d asked me one month ago where I would be right now I would have said something along the lines of working on a new screenplay or looking at my diamond. Not quitting the project before it’s barely begun and fleeing Los Angeles like a runaway with a bare ring-finger.
A dull ache stirs in my chest. I’ll rub it when he leaves.
Jason offers me a careful wave and I return it with equal levels of self-preserving wariness.
Just before he’s out of sight I swear that I see another headshaking smile.
