Page 12 of Something Tattered
Yes, a tent.
Chapter 6
It was nearly nightfall, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. I glanced around, taking in the neighboring campsites. On them, I saw pop-up campers, oversized recreational vehicles, and colorful tents, many that were large enough to sleep eight people.
It was a Friday night, which no doubt explained the fact that the beachfront campground was utterly packed. I'd actually camped here before, exactly one time, thanks to a friend in junior high, whose parents were, as she'd put it, the outdoorsy type.
At the memory, I felt myself smile. Back then, I didn't have a worry in the world. I'd had two parents, loads of security, and a house that was every kid's dream.
My smile faded as a sad fact hit home. At the time, I'd been way too naïve to appreciate any of it. Just three years afterward, both of my parents were gone, along with any real security.
Pushing that depressing thought aside, I zoomed in on the small tent in front of me. Driving through the campground to get here, I'd seen cheerful-looking campfires, surrounded by families and retirees, all enjoying the final remnants of what had been a mild summer.
But at the painter's campsite, there was no campfire, no friends gathered to roast marshmallows, and no happy chatter or kids laughing.
There was nothing at all.
Except the tent.
I stared down at the thing, wondering if the painter – the guy named Joel Bishop – was inside right now. And if he was, what then?
Should I knock, or…?
Behind me, a male voice said, "You looking for someone?"
Startled, I whirled around, and there he was – the painter, standing within arm's reach. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was tight. I craned my neck to look up at him. He was wearing the same clothes as before – tattered jeans and a dark T-shirt.
I tried for a friendly smile. "Uh, hi. Remember me?"
He didn't smile back. "What are you doing here?"
My own smile faltered. "I guess I'll take that as a 'yes'?"
"Take it any way you want."
Okay, I knew that our last encounter had been totally awful, and I also realized that he had every reason to be angry. But for some reason, this wasn't what I'd expected.
"Just so you know," I said, "that whole painting thing, I had nothing to do with it."
He still wasn't smiling. "Right."
"You think I did?"
"I think you're not answering my question."
As I stared up at him, I considered everything that I'd gone through, just to make it out here. I'd postponed birthday plans. I'd made half-a-dozen phone calls to find out where he was staying. And then, on my way out the door, I'd gotten into a final, raging argument with Derek, who'd lingered at my place just long enough to tell me how stupid I was being.
On top of all that, there had been the sticky issue of the check itself, which was now safely tucked into the front pocket of my jeans. During my final argument with Derek, he'd flat-out demanded that I return it.Notto the painter. To Derek himself.
And then, when I'd refused to hand it over? He'd threatened to put a stop-payment on it, to make it absolutely worthless no matter what I did.
In the end, I'd actually gone over his head to keep that from happening. Yes, I'd called his dad, which was especially awkward, considering that Derek's dad had known nothing about the check, or what it was supposed to be paying for.
The whole thing had stunk to high heaven, and now, I was dealing with this guy's attitude on top of all that? It's not that I blamed the guy for being angry. It's just that, well, in my happy thoughts of making things right, I hadn't considered that I'd be dealing withhishostility, too.
I gave him a pleading look. "Look, I know that you're mad, but just listen. I'm here to make things right."
He looked unimpressed. "Is that so?"
