Page 5 of Jameson’s Salvation

He was still looking at me funny when he broke eye contact to walk to the passenger side. At least he was no longer looking at me like I was some hodunk who needed her head examined for talking to strangers, but he was still trying to figure me out. And that was okay. I had nothing to hide from him. I was who I was and I was alright with that. I was honest and hard-working and I didn’t give a shit what people thought about me beyond them being able to confirm I was both.

“Sorry about the mess,” I mumbled as Jameson swung up into the cab. “It’s been a crazy week. I was gonna clean all this out today but I ended up needing to work on a project.”

“What do you do? For work?” he asked, and was gracious enough not to comment on the empty water bottles at his feet and mound of shit in the back seat.

“A little bit of everything,” I told him and pulled farther into the yard so I could turn around.

I was pushing up in my seat with my ass off the bottom cushion as I backed my beast up, careful not to hit the five-gallon paint buckets that had been left in front of the old milking parlor.

“You know you have a backup camera, right?”

“Yeah, sure, but I never use it.”

“Why’s that?”

“My daddy taught me to drive. Old habits, I guess. When he was teachin’ me he’d read me the riot act if I didn’t look fully behind me. Admittedly, he taught me to drive when I was about seven and it was on an old Oliver tractor, but still, he’d yell if I didn’t look.”

“Never seen anyone have to stand up in their seat to back up before.”

“I’m not standing.” I smiled. “I’m just lifting my ass so I can see.”

“Right.”

I could hear the smile in Jameson’s voice and I really wanted to look over at him but I refrained. Barely. And only because I didn’t want him to think I was some sort of weirdo.

After I’d straightened and sat back in my seat, Jameson asked, “Tell me about a bit of everything.”

“Huh?”

“You said you did a little bit of everything. What does that mean?”

“Oh. Um.” I wasn’t sure why I was hesitant to explain what I did for a living. I was proud of myself. I worked seven days a week. I wasn’t rolling in it, but I made enough money to support myself and help my mom. But I certainly wasn’t what someone would call successful. Hustler was more like it. Or at least what my dad had always said, my, Kennedy, she’s always hustling. And he’d always said it with a proud smile. “I work odd jobs here and there. But in the summer, I sell my crops at the farmers market along with the honey I make. I also make candles from my beeswax and sell those in some local shops. I also make some pottery and necklaces. I sell those local, too, and at the market. During the winter, I do other stuff since the farmers market is closed, and, well, you can’t grow tomatoes and sugar corn in the winter. So, a little bit of everything. Whatever will pay the bills.”

“And the lumber and tools in the bed of your truck? Is that part of a bit of everything, too?”

“No. That’s what’s left over after I built a ramp for my mom today.”

I pulled to a stop in front of Nixon’s farmhouse and cut the engine. Jameson was staring at me. He obviously had no such hang-ups about me thinking he was weird, because he wasn’t trying to hide that he was looking.

“You built your mother a ramp?”

“Yeah,” I sighed.

Another point of irritation. Not only had I been battling it out with my mom’s insurance company about paying for a handicap ramp, and I use the word handicap with great objection considering I hated that word, but there was no denying my mom needed it. So after all of the back and forth and them delaying, I decided to build it myself. Which was not the complaint—hard work didn’t scare me and building a ramp was not rocket science. But the lumber had cost a mint, and with summer turning into fall, which obviously led to winter, I needed to bank all the money I could. Winter months could get tight. And if that wasn’t bad enough, that was when Reggie had ambushed me. I hadn’t even had a chance to clean up my tools when the pompous prick pulled up and started in.

“My mom had a stroke about nine months ago. She’s doing better but she still has some paralysis on her left side. She can’t walk down the stairs to leave the house, which means I have to go over there and carry her down. She has a friend who’s a retired nurse who comes and looks after her, but Miss Janice isn’t steady enough on her own feet anymore to help mom. So she needed a ramp. Miss Janice can either push her down in her wheelchair or my mom can use her walker.”

Jameson’s eyes narrowed and something that looked like anger flashed before he covered it up. “And why wouldn’t the insurance company pay a contractor to build it?”

“That’s a great question. One I’ve been trying to get answered for six months. My mom couldn’t wait any longer and I can’t afford to hire someone, so I did it.”

“Right.”

“It wasn’t like it was all that hard. It was like building a front porch, only it slopes at one end. I framed it up yesterday and finished it today.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t—”