CHAPTER NINE
I have no idea why Riley wore what she wore for this job. I hate it. I hate it because the fabric falls perfectly on her small frame — inch-wide straps hanging from sun-kissed shoulders, the rise and fall of her body evident from the way the dress lies against her skin, the way the seat belt separates her breasts and gravity causes the dress to sway downward between her knees. In the morning sun, her blonde hair shines like gossamer. Her profile is beautiful. She has a small nose and ripe-looking lips that are somewhere between pink and red.
If I saw Riley in a bar, I’d definitely talk to her. If she weren’t my boss’s daughter, I’d definitely try to take her home.
But she is my boss’s daughter.
And if I saw her in a bar and took her home, that would sink my chances of rising at Life of Riley. It might even end everything for me at the company, and leave me with three years down the drain.
But still, I can’t stop peeking over at her.
I loved what happened with her face when she laughed a moment ago. Her smile is wide, white, and all teeth. It should look odd, but it doesn’t. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. And when she laughed, that wide smile split in the middle and her blue-green eyes narrowed to slits. It was such an innocent, almost helpless exhalation of emotion. A tiny moment of bliss. I’d done that to her to her, and I wanted to do it again.
I look over now. She’s so small behind the wheel of the huge truck. I should probably be driving, but I can’t make myself stop gawking at how she looks over there. There’s something primal at play, watching her handle the largeness and boldness of it all, juxtaposed with how young and sweet the outfit makes her look. As if she were shooting a gun in that pretty little dress, or cranking a giant machine.
But she catches me looking again, and I remind myself to keep my eyes forward. She’s off limits — there’s no point in thinking anything other than the most professional thoughts.
Which is why I’m so annoyed that she wore what she did. There are sure to be dicey places in the land we’re about to check out, but it’s summertime in Inferno Falls, and that means there will be a lot of tall grass, too. She’s going to walk through that grass, and I’m going to look over at her and see this perfect vision of feminine purity: the girl in a dress walking a meadow. Maybe there will be little wildflowers. And maybe she’ll pick some and slip them behind her ear. Maybe she’ll gather enough for a bouquet, and I’ll have to watch her walk toward me, toward the truck, flowers clasped in front of her, her legs long, hair flowing, smile full of youthful wonder.
I don’t want to see that.
I want her in jeans.
Baggy jeans.
Dirty jeans.
Maybe smelly jeans.
I want her in a big, stained work shirt. I want her hair in a ratty mess. I want her feet in clodhoppers. I want to see her picking her nose, wiping wax from her ear, throwing up drunk. I want to be repulsed. But then the truck is stopping, and I look over to see her turning to step out. I catch the swish of fabric. The shift that brings her hem up too high. The long, graceful swing of toned legs. The turn of her head, swinging hair, her face turning as she exits with another one of her big smiles.
I sit in the cab for an extra second. The door closes, but instead of waiting for me, Riley is already moving into the undeveloped property, and I have to watch the dress move on her body.
I get out. I nearly step into a puddle, ruining my good pair of shoes. And that’s when I realize that I should have done as Margo suggested. I should have worn old jeans and boots and a T-shirt, but for some reason I couldn’t. Same as how I couldn’t let Riley pick me up at the Regency and see where I live.
I tell myself I did those things because impressing Riley is the same as impressing Mason, and that seeming pro in front of her will raise my standing with her father.
I almost believe it.
In front of me, she turns. “I know this place.”
I look around. I definitely don’t.
“Reed Creek is over that way.” She points. “My friends and I used to explore it. Follow the water. See where it went.”
She starts to walk away. I think she might be headed somewhere, but she’s just craning around for a better look. This land is on a hill, but it’s not a remarkable hill in itself. It strikes me as the perfect kind of land to develop. Done right, building here will enhance the look of this place rather than appear as a blight. As I’ve moved up at Life of Riley, that’s been a goal of mine: to improve what needs improving, but leave things as they are if best left alone. Over and over, I’ve seen wonderful bits of land filled with ugly houses, so I don’t want to do the same. If I get the vice presidency and find myself in charge of Land Acquisition, I’ll be specific about our chosen sites. This property, for instance, is near Reed Creek, land that I’d never dare disturb. It’s beautiful down there. This? It’s just sort of nothing.
“I know Reed.”
“But this land?” Riley looks around then points in the opposite direction. “We used to play horses out here.”
I don’t know what that means, and I must look it because she laughs.
“My friend Eva and me. She lived just there — ” She points a third time. “And so when I went to her place, a lot of times we ended up here. Well, not here, but down there, just past that ridge. How far does this land go?”
I tell her I don’t know. I’m not a surveyor. If I get the job, I’ll probably try to learn a bit more, and I’m sure there’s a GPS thing they use, but for now I use the transits as telescopes. There are surely boundary pins out there somewhere, but I don’t plan on stumbling through the grass to find them. I’ll ballpark it. If the company and seller are serious, and if I end up being the man in charge, I’ll return with a crew and do this better, more accurately.
“Probably off of the land Dad’s looking to buy, then,” she says. “Down there somewhere. And Eva, she was really into horses. There’s this old abandoned barn down there. Charming, not creepy. And so she put signs in it, naming her invisible horses. One room was the tack room. Where her bridles and lines and halters and stuff would hang one day.”
“My sister used to want a horse,” I say. But I feel dumb. I’m just making noise. This is Riley’s story, and I know almost nothing about horses beyond their having four legs. But Bridget used to pretend, although without the benefit of a genuine barn. The so-called home we shared as siblings was in the armpit of a city.
“I wish I had a sister,” Riley says.
“She’s not really my sister,” I blurt, though I have no idea why.
Riley looks at me.
“She’s my foster sister.”
And I really don’t know why I said that. I went all the way to Hill of Beans so Riley wouldn’t see my apartment. I parked my beloved but beat-up truck on the street so she wouldn’t see that, either. And now I’ve said the F-word, blowing it all. Because who has “foster” in their history other than poor people?
Maybe she’ll assume I’m doing better now. That I overcame a rough past. But no, I can see on her face that she already knows. Someone told her. And I feel exposed, as if I’m a phony and she’s seeing right through me.
But instead of commenting, Riley turns back to look across the land. I don’t know why, but the gentle way her dress billows as she spins works to break my heart.
She laughs, still looking away. “I guess it never dawned on me until now.”
“What?” I ask.
“Do you know Ticket to Ride?”
I shake my head. Then I realize she can’t see me, so I say, “No.”
“Riding stables,” she says. “It’s across the valley. Not here at all. But Eva owns it. I never made the connection to that old memory. She’s older than me, and she bought Ticket to Ride just before I left for school.” Riley looks toward me, and there’s that smile again. “I guess she got her wish to have horses after all.”
I’m a little uncomfortable, so I walk back to the truck, grab a scope, and start looking around. Riley comes over even though I’d rather she stay where she was. Her proximity makes me uneasy. She’s radiating something that makes my skin prickle like a panic response. My chest feels full, but my head is spinning.
“Are we going to walk it?”
“I am. You can come with if you want. Or stay here.” As much as I find myself wanting to be near her, I hope she’ll choose the latter.
“Oh. Okay.”
“In a bit. I want to just peek around a little first. Try and imagine this place with houses.”
“Sure.”
I’m looking through one of the scopes when I see her from the corner of my eye. I turn to her.
“Is this place … ” I pause, not knowing how to say this other than in the most ridiculous but honest way. “Is it sentimental for you?” I finish.
She snaps out of whatever is holding her. She smiles right at me, and something sighs inside. “Oh, no. The barn was down the hill, and it was knocked down years ago. I don’t know that we ever came up anywhere near this far. It’s just that … ”
“What?”
“The creek,” she says. “I haven’t been back to the creek since I’ve been home.”
Part of me is relieved because the development plans definitely doesn’t include anything on the creek. I’m sure I’m not the only blossoming land developer with a conscience, but I might be the only one with this odd, nostalgic feeling for land. I don’t like it when places that carry old memories are bulldozed without thought. I’m even bothered by knocking down trees because you never know who might have climbed them, built forts in their branches, or hidden behind them during hide ‘n’ seek. If I had my way, I’d try to acquire land that wasn’t already wooded, and build around existing trees whenever possible. My crews would hate me for making their jobs harder, but we’d save on landscaping and have ambiance that few new communities could ever hope to offer.
I hold the scope up to my eye again when I notice her starting to walk away.
“Where are you going?”
“I want to see the creek.”
I let her walk a few more steps before turning to follow, knowing it’s the wrong direction if I’m here to survey the land for the company, knowing I should move away from Riley rather than toward her, knowing that heading somewhere quieter with her is a terrible idea.
But I’m hardly thinking.
Her dress sways in front of me like a metronome. I follow like a man in a trance.