The pending tax auction, coupled with her promise to her mother to clean the barn, added a new-found sense of urgency to Sandy’s efforts. The first few weeks of summer vacation flew by, fueled by a relentless schedule from which she rarely deviated.
Sandy was up shortly after dawn, made sure the girls were set with their activities, and rarely opened the door to the barn later than 8:00 a.m. The routine was grueling, but the structure helped her stay on course. The junk—stacked high in thick identifiable fingers pointing toward the rafters—helped her determine exactly how many she had to go through each day to stay on schedule. She opened every container of every size and shape, decided what if anything was worth keeping, and dumped the rest in the trash bin outside the door. There was so much to go through that Steve ordered up two more bins, and all three (plus the ground surrounding them) were filled to capacity by the time she left each evening just before dinner time. She had gone through nearly two dozen stacks, and almost nothing had been worth saving.
And on each day, except two, Sam paid her a visit. On those days when he stayed but a few minutes, he would tell her, “I have a lot to do, and just wanted to check in on you.” On others he would pitch in and offer to help, but he talked a lot more than he worked, if he worked at all. When he didn’t appear one Monday morning, Sandy grew concerned. By the time afternoon rolled around, a certain sadness mixed with a fresh sense of hurt engulfed her. She barely slept that night, wondering whether he would ever show up again.
The next morning, when he popped his head around a heap of empty boxes with a smile and a cheery hello, she ignored him for a handful of seconds before relenting enough to put her hands on her hips, blow loose strands of hair away from her face, and demand, “Where were you yesterday?”
“I was busy,” he replied, a faint grin still tracing his face. “Did you miss me?”
“No,” she gasped, bending down to pick up a dirty box. “Too busy to help me?” she asked, tossing the filthy container in his direction.
Sam caught it without blinking an eye. “Even when I am not here, I am helping you.”
Sandy threw back the corner of a black canvas tarp to reveal an old dresser. A hard pull of the handle convinced the warped top drawer to give way against its will to reveal nothing but mice droppings and old nests made of bits of leaves and grass. “How do you figure?” she shot back, searching the next two drawers with the same empty results.
“You were thinking of me, right?” Sam answered. “Positive thoughts.”
Sandy caught the twinkle in his brown eyes. “Darn it, Tracey,” she thought. “Why do you have me thinking like this?”