Not on Her Own. Cynthia Reese

“Twenty feet at least, plus any extra I could get from the pitch of the roof.”

      “Whoa. What are you putting in there?”

      “My work. I’m an artist. A sculptor. I do outside sculptures for businesses and corporations.”

      “You mean, like statues and stuff?”

      “Uh…not exactly.” Penelope opened the flap of a cardboard box still waiting to be unpacked on one of the dingy Formica countertops. She pulled out a small model of her latest project. “Like this.”

      Brandon stared at it, the same befuddled expression on his face that he’d had when he’d tried to think of something to say about the kitchen. After a long moment, he blurted, “What is it?”

      Penelope slid a finger along the narrow ribbons of stainless steel. “I call it Love at Infinity. See the infinity symbol here? And how it wraps around these two vertical pieces?”

      Brandon pointed to the highly polished surface. “There? Yeah, I see the infinity symbol. And the wavy vertical lines are supposed to be, what?” He screwed up his face as he examined the piece.

      Penelope laughed at his underwhelmed expression. “You’re not a fan of abstract art, are you? Those two pieces represent man and woman.”

      “Doesn’t look much like a man or a woman to me, but…” Brandon shrugged. “I don’t know much about art. So you’ll build this bigger?”

      “Much bigger. This tall section here tops out at just under twenty feet.”

      “And people actually buy things like this?”

      Penelope chose to let his comment slide. What had she expected anyway? He was a completely different breed from the usual artsy crowd she ran with. “Yes, yes, they do. Matter of fact, the commission for this one will bring me fifty thousand dollars.”

      Brandon whistled. “That’s a lot of money for three pieces of stainless steel.”

      “Not just any three pieces of stainless steel. You have to know how to build it.”

      “And have somewhere to build it. I don’t think a pole barn would work. Not tall enough. But I’ll be thinking. Where do you plan to put the barn?”

      “Out behind the house. Maybe with big sliding doors on casters or wheels. It won’t look right with the house, but…” Penelope shrugged and set the sculpture down. “My work’s what pays for the house, and I’ve got to have a studio. So I guess I can’t complain.”

      “You know, this kind of house looks out of place in the middle of a field.”

      The comment took her by surprise, for one, that he would understand the aesthetics of a bungalow and its setting. For another, the sudden change in topic. “Well, yes, I guess so,” Penelope said. “But I couldn’t afford to be picky. Besides, I’ll plant some fast-growing trees, and in a few years, it won’t look the same.”

      She could have sworn he winced. What was so bad about trees?

      “You know…I was planning—” Brandon started, then broke off.

      Penelope waited him out. He started again. “At one point, this land belonged to my uncle. Well, to me and my uncle. Did you know that?”

      “No. No, I wasn’t aware of that.” She folded her arms and waited some more. Alarm bells sounded in her head.

      “Yeah. Murphy—your grandfather—I don’t know how to put this politely. But he and his brother-in-law hatched up a tax scheme to put a squeeze on Uncle Jake, and my uncle was forced to sell this section of his land.”

      “Really.” Didn’t sound a bit like the story Grandpa had told her. Penelope’s thoughts raced as she tried to predict where Brandon was going with this conversation.

      “Yeah. Really.” A sharp edge bit at Brandon’s words. “This land—where you’ve got your house sitting—it’s the best cropland of the whole tract…of Uncle Jake’s old tract, I mean.”

      “Uh-huh.” What was this guy’s agenda? Maybe her gut had steered her wrong after all.

      Brandon rubbed his hands together, shuffled his feet on the scratched finish of the hardwood floor.

      “I was…I came here today to see if you’d be up to making a trade. This plot of land for another. The one I had in mind is a much better site for the house. It’s got maples and sweetgums, lots of shade for the summer.”

      “But I’ve already got the—”

      “And we could, um, throw in the cost of moving the house…and maybe, the foundation. The cost of moving it shouldn’t be that much.”

      She’d been wrong. This guy was a nut, albeit a cute one. He actually thought—

      “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he asked.

      “Well, yeah. I’m inclined to that way of thinking…or that maybe there’s some sort of treasure buried here.”

      His face heated up. “Nope. No treasure. This—it’s only that I’m more than a little attached to this land. Maybe it’s just that it is such good land. Or maybe it’s because of the way my uncle lost it. I don’t know.”

      “I’m really sorry. I can’t imagine how you must feel…but I’m really happy with my land. And I don’t even want to think about moving this house again. I’ve got two months to get my sculpture built and delivered.”

      Brandon looked as though he might argue. Then his jaw tightened and he stuffed his hands in his back pockets. He stood there for a long moment before moving stiffly toward the door leading to the hall.

      “Well. Guess it was worth a shot. Though why I ever thought any granddaughter of Murphy would understand where I was coming from…”

      She heard his footsteps echo off the empty rooms, and then the front door shut with a loud thud.

       CHAPTER THREE

       “T OLD YOU that girl was moving fast. Here, have some more rice and peas.”

      Before Brandon could stop Uncle Jake, the man had dumped a clump of sticky rice and some field peas onto Brandon’s chipped stoneware plate. A cook Uncle Jake most definitely wasn’t, not that he could afford better food.

      “Yeah, well, I’ve been busy these past couple of weeks, Uncle Jake. Not only have I been working my regular nightshift, but we’re short during the day, too.” Brandon tried but failed to keep the defensive note out of his voice. If only he’d come up with the land swap idea sooner, before she’d re-roofed the place, maybe then she’d have been more receptive.

      “I know. You’re always busy. That sheriff of ours keeps you bustin’ your chops. Hardly ever see you these days.”

      Uncle Jake flopped back in his chair. After a moment of silent concentration, he attacked his own second helping of rice with gusto.

      Brandon knew that look. He’d seen it often enough since he and his mom had moved in when Brandon was a skinny ten-year-old and his brother was an even skinnier eight-year-old.

      “You’re thinking I was wasting my time, aren’t you?”

      The old man looked up from his dinner plate. “Well…folks don’t want to split up their land, especially not a woman who’s got a house set down.”

      Brandon snorted. “Not much of a house if you ask me.” But then, with eyes that would see it like a stranger would, he saw his uncle’s dining room, with its stacks of books and newspapers, its yellowed white walls and the vinyl rug curling up in one corner. Shoot, Uncle Jake took up more time repairing his pigpens than he did his own place. Since Brandon’s mom had passed away three years ago, Uncle Jake had sure let the place go. The house wasn’t much of an improvement over Penelope Langston’s bungalow.