Sandbridge Box Set

Chapter 3-2

A cheesy-all-the-way turned out to be a cheeseburger topped with a fried egg and served with onion and mustard relish on an extremely soft bun. There was also a bowl of some sort of bean soup. Scooter assured him it was “chili,” but it had no meat that Andy could see. It also had a square of cheese folded into the bottom of the bowl, and more of that onion relish on top. Both the chili and the burger oozed grease like a leaky engine.

Andy hadn’t eaten for at least twenty-four hours, and he had mustered up the bravado to claim to be hard to break, but he really wasn’t sure this was…edible.

Scooter grinned at Andy knowingly and then bit into his own burger with gusto.

Well, as long as an ambulance was going to have to come out for one person, Andy might as well share the ride. He took a somewhat more delicate bite, hyper-aware of the way the cook—Jason—was watching, those tree-trunk arms folded across that massive chest. Andy was trying not to think about the way he’d almost bolted when Jason had come out of the kitchen looking like Nick’s bigger, bodybuilder brother, jaw ticking with immediate dislike of Andy. At least Jason hadn’t talked like Nick, all smooth charm and honeyed poison.

Then the taste of the burger hit Andy’s mouth and he forgot about Jason entirely. “Jesus f**k,” he swore when he’d managed to swallow that bite. He took another bite. It shouldn’t have been good. It really, really shouldn’t. But the bread soaked up the grease and the onion and mustard added the perfect bite to the egg and the rich taste of the burger chased it all down. “Where has this been all my life?” His stomach loudly demanded more, reminded suddenly of how long it had been since his last meal.

“South of the Mason-Dixon,” Jason answered, easily enough, giving Andy a less stern sort of smile. Jason slid a glass of milk across the bar’s surface to Scooter that on second glance was tinted yellow. “What do you want to drink, Andy?” Jason inquired.

Scooter took a long swig of his drink and wiped a milk-moustache off his mouth with the back of one hand. “This,” he said, indicating his glass, “you do not want. I don’t know anybody who didn’t grow up on buttermilk who can actually drink it.”

Andy blinked. “I thought buttermilk was just for, y’know. Pancakes and biscuits.”

“And pie,” Kat piped up. “My Jason makes a wonderful buttermilk pie.”

“I’ll…have to try that sometime,” Andy said diplomatically, though he couldn’t imagine what the hell any kind of milk had to do with pie. “Just a Coke,” he answered Jason. “I’m not picky.”

Jason cracked open an actual glass bottle of Coke, using his thumb to pop the cap.

Andy took it from him with a careful smile of thanks. Maybe Jason would warm up to him eventually, or at least turn out to be less of an asshole than Nick. And he was—dating? Married to?—Ekaterina, which meant they’d leave the building at night. So they wouldn’t be around when Andy was asleep and vulnerable.

The Coke tasted better than any soda had a right to; Andy guessed he was still a little dehydrated. And the sweet carbonation matched well with the grease bomb of the burger. Both were disappearing fast.

The temporary dishwasher ducked out of the kitchen wearing a broad, light-up-the-room sort of smile. He was a handsome black man with a close-shaved head and excessively neat facial hair, and Andy had already forgotten his name, damn it. “Hey, Scooter, baby doll, sweetheart—”

“D’ante, what do you want?” D’ante, that was the name!

“Lemme borrow your truck? I need to pick up Jody from little league and mine’s in the shop. Hope they can fix it, I do not need another car payment.”

“Yep,” Scooter said, tossing him the keys easily. “Say hi to your sister.” He brushed crumbs off his tee and stood up. “Let’s get that door back on before it rains again, yeah? Finish the dishes before you go, Captain!” he yelled after D’ante.

Andy hurriedly gulped down the last spoonful of…it wasn’t chili like any Andy had ever had, but it was good anyway. “Captain?” he asked once he’d finished swallowing, following Scooter across the floor.

“Our D’ante was in the Air Force. Came home after his wingman got shot down. He’s had a tough time of it, but he’s coming out the other side of the clouds now, I think.” He led Andy around the side of the building. Near the door lay an assortment of tools, including a crowbar and several strips of plywood with long nails sticking out of them. “We get a lot of storms out this way, hurricanes every year or so. Plywood’s the second largest business around here, aside from tourists. Pry them nails out and we’ll put the boards back in storage when we’re done. Make sure not to leave nails in the sand. Lotsa people around here walk around in flip-flops, or barefoot. There should be a coffee can around here you can put them in.” He gestured to a claw hammer in the tool pile.

Working with his hands was soothing. Carpentry wasn’t Andy’s primary skill, but it was still putting pieces together so they worked right, or better than they had before. It was soothing to drop into that mindset, a simpler thought process that didn’t have to worry about whether someone was going to get mad at him, or what the emotional fallout was going to be. It was numbers and shapes and angles, the clean ache of muscles put to work.

The door was old, blue like the roof, and had a hand-painted centerboard with a flower wreath around cursive letters. STAHL FAMILY. “My ma made this door,” Scooter said, touching the flowers with fond fingers, “and Dad painted it. They built this place up from nothing themselves. People keep tellin’ me I should modernize, but it…just wouldn’t seem right.” He visibly shook off the momentary nostalgia. “The door pulled right off the hinges, so I think a little wood glue on the doorframe should give it some more support.” He scowled a little. “Someone left the door open during the storm—probably Jeff—otherwise it shouldn’t have happened.”

Longer screws would do the job just as well, but Scooter’s toolkit didn’t seem to have any random spares floating around in it. Andy spread some glue under the new hinges and reached for the screwdriver to fasten them on. “My dad’s business is nothing but modern,” he said, watching the way the screws twisted into the wood, checking for buckling and warping. “He wanted me to take it over, but that would’ve meant dealing with him for another twenty, thirty years. Maybe old-fashioned is better.” He wiped a bit of excess glue off from the edge of the hinge with his thumb, and didn’t let himself wonder why he was talking about his dad, of all people, to a man he’d only known for a few hours.

This talking thing was apparently contagious.

“I’d give up a leg to have my folks back,” Scooter said wistfully. “Lost Ma to cancer five years ago. Dad passed last year. Stroke. They were my rock. But I understand that not everyone’s that lucky.”

“Yeah,” Andy agreed. “Sorry.” He focused on the hinges. They were simpler than people. They held, or they didn’t; they were quiet, or they needed oil. This door didn’t even need measuring; there were dents where the old hinges had been, in both the door and the frame. Andy measured anyway, because it was always best to be certain.