Jodi Thomas - Sunrise Crossing

Looking up, he saw the old gypsy house a quarter mile away, far enough from the lights to not be in town and close enough to not be completely outside it. His place. Nestled among the barren elm trees, the house still looked haunted, even if he had framed up the second floor and repaired the roof. The trash and tumbleweeds were gone, but no grass or flowers grew near the porches. Like him, the place didn’t quite fit in among the others in town.

Yancy had built a workshop behind the hundred-year-old crumbling remains so that he could rebuild the old house better than it had been built a century ago. The workshop looked more like a small barn, with a high roof and a loft for storing supplies. Inside, the bay was big enough to hold six cars, but he’d set up long worktables and saws he’d bought at flea markets and yard sales.

This crumbling home and five acres of dirt surrounding it might not look like much, but it was his, all his. A grandmother he’d never met had left it to him, along with enough money to pay the taxes for years. He didn’t care that he had no relative to ever send a birthday or Christmas present for the rest of his life. This was enough.

Last Christmas, the ladies at the Evening Shadows had held a fund-raiser in his barn. They’d hung quilts to cover the walls of tools and shelves, then loaded the tables with homemade sweets and crafts. He swore everyone in town had come and bought an armful, whether they needed a new tissue-box cover or reindeer coaster set or not.

He’d loved helping the ladies out, but was glad when his shop was back in order. Old Cap had taught him that there needed to be a place for everything, and Yancy believed he could have located, with his eyes closed, any tool on his walls.

From the first day he found out the place had been willed to him, Yancy had decided to start remodeling from the inside out. When he finished, the place would shine. He’d move into a real home for the first time in his life. The house might have held only sadness and hate thirty-one years ago when his mother lived here during her pregnancy, but he’d rebuild it with the love of a craftsman who’d learned his skills in prison and had dreamed of a project like this one.

The workshop door creaked a little when he opened it.

Yancy smiled. He liked the sound; it was like the place was welcoming him.

As he did every other night, he tugged off his coat, hung it on the latch and began to work. Tonight he’d sand down aged boards that would eventually be polished and grooved to fit perfectly in the upstairs rooms of the house. He’d turned the four little rooms downstairs into one open space, with a kitchen on the back wall and a long bar separating it from the living space. The bar had taken him three months and was made out of one piece of oak.

He’d bought a radio months ago, thinking that music might be nice while he worked, but most nights he forgot to turn it on. He liked the silence and the rhythm of the midnight shadows, and he liked being alone with his thoughts and dreams. Seven years ago, when he’d arrived, he’d had nothing but a few clothes that were left over from before he’d gone to prison. Now he was a rich man. He had a job he loved and he had the silence of the night in which to think.

As he began to sand the wood and carve away the stress of the day, the loneliness of his nights and the worries he always had about the tenants he cared for all slipped away as his muscles welcomed the work.

This was what he needed. A passion. A job. A goal to move toward. When he finished, he’d have pride in what he’d done, and no one could take that from him.

After a while, he heard a sound above his head. A slight movement, as if someone had shifted atop the loose boards stacked along one side of the loft.

Another sound. The creaking of the flooring.

As he had each time for a week when this had happened, he didn’t react. He simply kept working. If the invisible visitor had meant him any harm, he would have known it long before now. Maybe some frightened animal had taken shelter from the last month of winter, or maybe a drifter just wanted a warm place to rest before moving on. He’d been there in his teens. He knew how much a quiet, safe place could mean.

Yancy was lost in his work an hour later when a loose board shifted above and tumbled down.

A little squeak followed.

Yancy waited, then said calmly, “If you’re trying to kill me, you’ll need to toss down something bigger than a two-by-four.”

“Sorry,” came a whisper.

“No harm. I’ve known you were up there for a while. Want to come down and say hello?”

No answer.

“I got a thermos of hot coffee I haven’t had time to drink. You’re welcome to it.”

“You’re not calling the police?”

“Nope. Sheriff probably has his own coffee.”

Yancy thought he heard a hiccup of a laugh.

A slight woman dressed in jeans and a blue-checked flannel shirt moved down the ladder. Her long, dark braid brushed her backside as she lowered from step to step.

“I didn’t mean to spy on you,” she said, without looking at him. “The barn wasn’t locked, and I just wanted to be out of the cold a few nights ago. It smells so good in here I’ve found myself coming back.”

“It’s the fresh-cut wood. I love the smell, too.” He went back to work. “So, you walk at night also? It’s a habit of mine.”

She nodded. “I don’t usually come this close to town, but walking seems better than trying to sleep.”

“I know what you mean.” He handed her the thermos. “Coffee’s strong. It was left over from where I work, but it’s hot. Should take off the chill.”

She untwisted the lid and poured herself half a cup. “I like the sounds of the night and the way I can walk without having to speak to anyone. I can just walk and be a part of the land, the trees, the air.”

“You don’t like talking to folks?”

“Not much. I’ve just said more to you right now than I’ve said to anyone in days.”

He grinned, thinking no one at the retirement home would believe this story when he told it tomorrow. A pretty woman, about his age, with hair as black as midnight, hiding in his loft. And even stranger, she said she didn’t like to talk but yet she still talked to him.

He liked the idea that they shared a love for walking the shadowy roads and also for not having much to say. He was usually the one folks skipped talking to. “You’re welcome here anytime. I’m Yancy Grey and I’m remodeling—or probably more accurately, rebuilding—the old Stanley house.”

“I know. I can see that.”

She had a soft, easy smile, but sad eyes. Old-soul eyes, he thought, like she’d seen far more sadness than most. He remembered a few people in prison like that and had watched sad eyes go dead, even though the person looking out of them was still breathing.

“You live around here?” Yancy knew he would have remembered if he’d seen her before. At first glance she looked more like a sixteen-year-old kid, but in the light, she seemed closer to her late twenties.

“I have to go.” She backed toward the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

He saw panic in those beautiful winter-blue eyes. He forced himself not to react. One more question and he knew she’d bolt.

“No bother.” He turned back to his work. “It was nice to have the company, even if I did think you were a rabbit.”

She whispered, more to herself than to him, “How would a rabbit get up there?”

He shrugged. “How would a pretty lady? Come back anytime, Rabbit. No questions, I promise.”

She took one more glance around the shop. “I like this place. It makes me feel safe. My father had a shop like this one.”

“You are safe,” he added, knowing without asking that her father must be dead. If he’d been alive, she wouldn’t be searching for a safe place. “Drop by anytime. Only, beware—I might put you to work.”