Bookshops & Bonedust (Legends & Lattes, #0)(15)

She figured she’d be waiting for Pitts to show, but he was already at Fern’s shop. His wagon was parked to the side of the thoroughfare, and he sat on the boardwalk with his hands dangling between his knees. Four planks lay beside him, along with a saw, a mallet, and a couple of other tools.

He hoisted himself to his feet as she approached.

“Hey, thanks,” she called as she set her crutch against the boardwalk rail and held her balance against the post.

“Ought to be what you need. Got things to do, so I’ll come by in a few hours to get my tools.” He leaned toward her and earnestly added, “Don’t leave ’em out, mind.”

“Of course not.”

He looked from her to the stack of supplies and back. “Brought extra. Just in case.”

“I’m pretty sure I can manage.”

Pitts shrugged. “Guess the worst that happens is there’s a new hole.” Then he stepped into the traces and trundled off.

“It’s just a gods-damned board or two,” muttered Viv. She thought about poking her head in to greet Fern, but then figured she might as well get on with it.

Pitts had also provided a wooden box of long iron nails, a steel pry bar, and a charcoal pencil.

Viv eased down to her butt on the boardwalk and hefted the top plank, then slid it alongside the rotten board. Too long.

“Not that complicated,” scoffed Viv, marking the plank with the pencil.

Taking the saw in hand, she arranged herself awkwardly with her bandaged leg kicked out and her torso twisted to try to get the right angle. With one hand on the board, she set to cutting. Unfortunately, the other end slithered around with every backstroke, and the saw’s teeth hitched and hung. Swearing under her breath, she muscled the sawblade back and forth, ripping down through the board until the end canted away. She snapped it off with her fingers, leaving a ragged spine of wood projecting.

Staring at the lopsided cut and the fringe of splinters around the edge, Viv sighed and looked at the remaining planks, which suddenly seemed too few.

“Well, shit.”



* * *



It took another two boards to get a properly clean cut, which involved a very uncomfortable and awkward arrangement of her legs to keep things steady. By then she’d figured out how to make sure, smooth strokes. She decided that the end result wasn’t too embarrassing.

Ripping out the old board was simple, at least. She popped it off easily with a little muscle applied to the metal pry bar.

Hammering in the nails was trivial too. Too much so. She delivered sharp, accurate strokes, with nary a bruised thumb, smiling as she did so. This was a language in which every muscle of her arm was fluent.

On the final stroke, she brought the mallet down so hard, a crack shot from the nail almost to the center of the entire plank. She swore so loudly that the door flew open behind her.

“What in the faithless fuck?” cried Fern. Potroast yapped anxiously behind her.

Viv glanced up guiltily. “Uh, just … doing some repairs?”

Fern stared at her open-mouthed, taking in the powdering of sawdust, the boards tossed into the street, and the ruined, half-installed plank.

“I … why … ?” The rattkin seemed at a loss for words.

“The rotten plank I told you about. You remember? I almost put my foot through it. Well … I did put my crutch through it first, and …” Viv looked at the hammer, then squinted back at her. “I’ve almost got it?”

Fern closed her mouth, seized the clasp of her cloak like she wanted to crush it, then shut the door on Potroast and walked in the direction of the beach without another word.



* * *



After some careful and nervous resizing of the last whole plank, Viv kept a handle on her strength as she nailed it in place. She held her breath on the final strokes as she knocked the nailheads flush.

When she pulled herself to her feet, she considered her handiwork with satisfaction. The fresh wood stood out, but in time it ought to weather enough to match. Another year, and you’d never know. Gathering her crutch, she stumped over and set her full weight on the plank. Not so much as a creak.

By the time she’d swept away the sawdust, organized the tools, and arranged the junk wood in the street, Pitts was rolling back up to the shop.

He examined the wreckage of Viv’s first attempts and the finished product, and she almost expected him to laugh or shake his head, but he simply began loading the wood and his tools onto the cart.

“So, what do I owe you?” she asked.

“What do I owe you?” came a high voice from behind her. Fern had approached silently, with a long loaf of bread cradled in the crook of her arm, her red cloak fluttering in the breeze.

“Wood was just scrap,” said Pitts, without turning around.

Somehow, Viv didn’t believe him.

Apparently, Fern didn’t either. “Come on up here, Pitts. You’re not getting away without some damn lunch.” She fixed Viv with a glare that seemed entirely unwarranted. “And neither are you.”



* * *



Potroast only had eyes for the fresh loaf of bread as Fern led the way inside. Viv followed, feeling awkward about it, but not as awkward as Pitts looked when he tentatively ducked under the doorframe, flinching as though the shelves might topple over on him in an avalanche of paper.