Free Those Cassabaw Days by Cindy Miles Page B

his head toward the door. “I’m gonna get back to it, then.” He swaggered out of the kitchen and in the next second he was off the porch and halfway across the yard, heading back to the dock. No further words. No further glances.
    Emily opened the window and just stared as Matt set his emergency kit into the aluminum boat and went about the task of inspecting the lumber on the dock. The sun seeped through the early-morning sky now, a haze of gilded ginger and rose streaking the heavens over the Back River and Morgan’s Creek. Matt climbed on and off the dock, disappearing beneath the water’s surface, pulling himself back up as he examined the timber in dire need of repair. She just stood there, propped against the kitchen sink, watching. It was an easy task, that—watching Matt Malone. Everything he did seemed effortless. Fluid. As if each movement was well thought out and executed precisely. It was exquisite to watch...as well as painful.
    Her phone chirped. The caller ID made her pause, then she answered.
    “Trent,” she said, surprised.
    “Hey, Emily-girl,” he answered. His deep voice resonated through the phone. “How are you? Did you make the drive okay?”
    “I did,” she responded. Her gaze stayed on Matt.
    “Good, good,” he said. “So how are things?”
    Confusion webbed her brain. “Fine—Trent, why are you calling me?”
    He sighed into the phone; heavy, almost burdened. “You’ve been on my mind so much lately,” he confessed. “I...just wanted to make sure you made it all right.”
    An engine roared up the road, drawing Emily’s attention to the lane.
    “I’ve got to go, Trent,” she said hurriedly. “The movers are here.”
    “All right, then,” he said softly. “I’ll talk to you later.”
    “No, Trent—”
    He’d already hung up. Heaving a gusty sigh, she slid the phone into her pocket, pushed Trent’s unexpected phone call to the back of her mind and watched the moving van as it ambled up the dirt path between the azalea bushes. As she stepped outside they were just coming to a stop close to the front porch steps. The driver and passenger exited, slamming the doors behind them. The driver had an electronic clipboard.
    “Eh, Emily Quinn?” he said, and took an easy step toward her. “We’re here to deliver your possessions. If you’ll sign right here.”
    Emily crossed her arms over her chest and smiled at the big guy. “I will be happy to,” she said, “after everything’s inside, nice and unbroken-like.”
    The driver’s coworker barked out a laugh. He was tall and lanky, with a wide friendly smile. “No problem, sweetheart. We’ll be like a couple of ballerinas with your stuff.” He winked. “We might look clumsy but we move like feathery butterflies.”
    Emily couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, this I’ve gotta see. Let’s get started.”
    The guys moved quickly and carefully, and over the next hour and a half had all of Emily’s belongings unloaded from the van and placed in her specified rooms in the river house. The one skinny guy made sure to do a few pirouettes to show off his nimble ballet butterfly moves, and she laughed every time. Emily didn’t have much furniture; the estate attorney had already informed her that Aunt Cora had left a few old pieces in the house, most of it left by Emily’s parents.
    Only a few special items that she’d not wanted to part with had come along: an old pie safe refurbished and painted in a washed turquoise. Her brand-new pillow-top mattress set and the energy-efficient front-loading washer and dryer that she’d just purchased last month. A late nineteenth-century gentleman’s desk she’d restored and had painted sea green with aged white trim, and a high-backed cream leather office chair to match. A nineteenth-century highboy chest of drawers, a hall tree and butcher-block kitchen table and chairs handmade by the Amish, as well as several antique lamps. Also her grandmother’s Depression-era collection of