Page 14 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

Just that fast my maiden name popped into my head when I needed to erase it for good. No mistakes allowed or I could end up back in that institution. My cousin had been sent to “boarding school” in California. Not the first of our set to disappear for around nine months.

How had I missed the pattern of women being shuttled away when they became a problem?

I clutched Libby’s arm harder and walked faster along the pavement, past an eighteen-wheeler and the forklift.

“Ladies, you’d best stand back,” a deep voice echoed from inside the eighteen-wheeler’s cargo hold as his steps thundered along the metal truck bed.

Another man called to us from the forklift as he leaped down. “Stay right there while we calm those fellas down.”

The first guy emerged from the cargo hold and the two men converged, advancing toward the fight like the lead cops inThe Mod Squad, except without Peggy Lipton. While I wasn’t at all interested in auditioning for that Peggy role, I couldn’t help but admire the view.

Both were around my age and wore paper mill uniform shirts with reflective vests. Forklift Guy had a head full of loose blond curls and looked like something straight out of a college fraternity. Truck Fellow, with his short Afro, had a long-legged stride that broadcast calm and confidence.

How long had it been since I’d allowed myself to look at a man other than Phillip? The Eloise part of me shouted a warning not to notice anyone who wasn’t my husband. In spite of the whole “free love movement,” married women weren’t supposed to gawk at other men.

The Winnie part of me, however, insisted there was no harm in looking. Only looking. The last thing I needed or wanted was a man inmy life. Experience told me the outcome would be worse than mixing bleach and ammonia.

Distance would protect me from the fumes.

Libby and I skirted the eighteen-wheeler, continuing our trek toward the exit gate leading to Main Street, me half dragging her as she cowered at every shout. With my peripheral vision, I kept track of the altercation being broken up by theMod Squadduo talking everyone down.

Forklift Guy’s voice rode the muggy breeze. “If you two intend to start this up again, you need to wait until you’re off my father’s property.”

The owner of the paper mill had his son working on the loading dock? Surprising. And intriguing. Making me curious to know more about these two guys.

But nowLibbywas draggingme. Eager to leave work? Or the argument? Either way, she wanted no part of taking in how the two men calmed and dispersed the crowd with just their words. That kind of energy was mesmerizing after so long living a life full of tension and walking on eggshells.

As I reached the gate, a lean brown hand pushed it open for us. Libby clutched my elbow tighter.

I turned to say thanks and found the truck guy working the latch.

“It sticks sometimes,” he said, his deep voice even warmer up close. “You may want to clear out of here quickly in case they resume their disagreement over a lady friend.”

“Thank you.” I read the last name stitched on his shirt. Mr. Davis. Related to Annette? Although Davis was a common surname around here. “That was an impressive job of crowd control, Mr. Davis.”

His smile creased dimples into his cheeks. “Mr. Davis was my daddy and grandpa. Just call me Russell.”

2025

Bailey Rae lined jars of fresh spices along the counter, separating the unopened ones from the others. The sealed containers she could sell. The others would go with her to Myrtle Beach for cooking in the food truck.

The dark walls of the farmhouse-cabin were closing in on her, and she looked forward to the open skies of a seaside home. Sorting and pricing went slower today without help. According to Keith, Libby had been even more disoriented than usual since the episode with Gia and her daughter at the market. He was keeping his mother close to home for a while, with Thea and June’s assistance.

Reaching into a cabinet, she pulled down jars of canned green beans, checking the dates on each. Maybe she should donate some to the local food bank, let it feed those who needed it more, like with the wild pig—

Skeeter bolted to his feet seconds before a knock sounded outside the mudroom, and she scratched the hound behind the ears. He made a fine security system.

His nails clicked along the hardwood floors as he walked beside her through the kitchen and into the living room. Already the space looked sparser without all the clutter, each sale at the market and trip to the dump ridding her of another tie to the town.

Opening the cabin door, Bailey Rae found ...

“Good morning, Officer Perez. Are you here to give me another ticket for harming Mother Nature?”

He didn’t smile. “Not unless you’ve started a personal compost pile in the woods for all the clutter on this porch.”

The implied criticism stung. She’d been up until two in the morning boxing linens to donate and placing them outside to load in the truck later.

“That would be so noticeable, even a satellite could register the pile. But no worries, Officer, they’re all going to charity, not illegal dumpingin the forest.” She waved Skeeter outside to stretch his legs, joining Martin on the planked porch. An old ceiling fan wobbled overhead, barely stirring the muggy morning air. “So whatdoesbring you out this way?”

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