Page 12 of Stealing Home

“Easy for you to say.”

Not really. He’d once watched a wall of fire consume an entire hillside and everything he owned in under fifteen minutes. Rain had a long way to go before it impressed him.

He watched her walk to the front door to put her dog inside before he hoisted himself onto the tailgate and pulled a battered aluminum storage clipboard from the compartment built into the side of the truck. It had been his grandfather’s for as long as Gavin could remember. The metal was dull with age, peppered with scratches that told the story of decades spent bouncing around truck beds and falling from half-framed walls. One corner bore a small dent where he’d dropped it on concrete when he was ten, but the latch still opened with the same familiar stiffness it always had. Inside were a stack of blank invoices, a carpenter’s pencil, and the extra measuring tape his grandfather had insisted belonged inside. His grandfather had carried it to thousands of job sites before passing it down to Gavin, who’d never found a good enough reason to replace it. There were lighter, sleeker clipboards out there, but this one had been on job sites long before he had, and every morning it felt like bringing a little piece of his grandfather along for the ride.

The final invoice took less than three minutes to write up. The woman insisted on paying him an extra hundred dollars. He tried to refuse, but she refused harder.

“It’s emergency rates,” she argued.

“It’s hardly an emergency yet.” Gavin shook his head.

“It is today.”

Gavin sighed and smiled at her. “Fine.”

She grinned triumphantly. “My neighbor already asked for your number. He should be calling you soon.”

“I appreciate it,” he said. He tipped his head politely. “Stay inside if the weather gets bad. Don’t be a hero.”

“I will.”

“And bring in anything loose in the backyard.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted him smartly, then jogged back to her house, laughing all the way to the front door.

Southern California was so weird.

His truck took two tries to start, and when the engine finally caught, it settled into the familiar uneven rumble he’d long ago learned to distinguish from a problem that actually needed fixing. He rested a hand on the steering wheel for a moment, listening. Another few months, maybe. A year if he got lucky. He’d already rebuilt the suspension, replaced the alternator, water pump, starter, radiator, and more belts and hoses than he could remember. Sooner or later, he would have to admit it was time for a new truck.

By the time he merged onto the highway, the dashboard clock read six-twelve. He still had estimates to write, invoices to send, and at least three voicemails to return. His phone buzzed again, and he groaned before he tapped the button on the steering wheel.

“Gavin Carter.”

“Oh thank God.” The voice on the other end of the line was laced with early stages of panic.

“How can I help you?” Gavin tapped a thumb on the steering wheel.

“My neighbor gave me your number. The lady with the yellow house. My name is Leonard Davis.”

“She said you might call,” Gavin replied.

Before he could continue, the man rushed into an explanation about loose fencing, a leaning gate, and his elderly golden retriever, who was still a master of escape. Gavin listened quietly to Mr. Davis’s concerns that any potential flooding could wash away his fence.

“I can probably fix it,” he said when Mr. Davis finished.

“Probably?”

The man’s skepticism grated, and Gavin inhaled quietly. “I haven’t seen it yet, and I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep.”

“Oh.”

“I can stop by tomorrow morning to take a look at it. Does ten work for you?”

“That would be great,” Mr. Davis replied. He rattled off his address. “You’re the sixth contractor I called and the only one who answered.”

“Storm’s keeping everyone busy.”

“I guess.” Mr. Davis didn’t sound like he believed that. “Well, I appreciate you fitting me in. You’re a lifesaver.”