Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(78)
He bowed his head, the lids of his happy eyes lowering, lending his gaze a more serious look. “I’m real good at it,” he said, “fixing things what’ve been broken.” For a moment she was captivated by his tender black eyes, so dark that she couldn’t be sure where the pupil and iris met. For a moment, she felt as if he had plumbed the depths of her soul, uncovering every hurt, every loss, every crack in her foundation. Without laying a finger on her, he had touched her, brushing up against an old wound. This was much like her first meeting with Tinker Poole, the one she’d almost managed to forget, or at least convince herself that she’d forgotten.
She stepped back, angered, clutching her shopping to her chest. He looked at her with such familiarity, spoke to her as if they’d known each other all their lives. How dare he?
He read the language of her body. “Please,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve said something . . .” He took two steps back. “Done something to offend you.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I sure didn’t mean to upset you.”
His voice soothed her. She felt her shoulders relax. “It’s nothing. It’s fine.” She remembered herself, that she was out here in the guise of Mother Jilo. It wouldn’t be suitable for folk to see her crumbling before this ridiculous—no, that wasn’t fair—this unusual man, this kind man. This inconvenient man. She raised her chin and pulled back her shoulders. “Mother Jilo, she gotta be getting on now.” She paused, for a moment letting her act fall away. “I wish you well with your business.”
She stepped around him, feeling his eyes on her shoulders, willing her back.
“You got far to go?” He came jogging up along her side. “I’m just asking, ’cause I got my truck out behind the shop. Be glad to run you home. That sack looks might heavy and all.”
“Thank you,” Jilo said, still moving. “Mother Jilo, she fine. She don’t need your help.”
“Listen,” he said, reaching out for her, but pulling back before he could lay hands on her. “I’m doing this all wrong. I know I’m doing this all wrong. And I’m sorry. I don’t do this all the time. Chase after women, I mean. Especially a woman who’s looking at me like she just wants me to go away.” He shifted from foot to foot, nervous, maybe embarrassed, too. “Do you want me to? Just go away?”
Jilo looked the poor man over. Her head said she should tell him to take off. But she hesitated, and in so doing, the moment for her to make a quick, decisive break slipped past her. Even if she told him to go away now, he’d know, deep down, just as she knew, deep down, that a part of her wanted him to stay right where he was. She held the bag out to him. “Don’t think this is more than a ride home,” she said as he pulled himself taller, tilting his head to the side and smiling. Jilo liked his smile. He took the bag from her. “Where’s that truck of yours?”
“So what is this ‘Mother Jilo’ bit?” Tinker asked, casting a cautious look her way as they drove south.
“Business,” Jilo said, not willing to offer more.
“Business,” Tinker echoed her. “All right, I respect that,” he said, his tone telling her he knew better than to push for more. His truck, an ancient Ford held together by not much more than baling wire and a good man’s faith, lumbered down West Broad toward West Gaston. Jilo kept her eyes fixed forward, but in truth her peripheral vision was focused on Tinker. The truck lurched forward and jerked, coughing out—Jilo felt certain without looking back—a plume of black smoke.
“She a good truck,” Tinker said, his tone wavering between pride and apology. “Took a bit to fix her up, but I picked her up for almost nothing from my friend Henry.”
Jilo couldn’t resist turning toward him as she made the connection between the name and the jalopy. “Henry Cook?”
Tinker looked at her, then let out a surprised laugh. “Yes,” he said, turning back to the road, “Henry Cook. You know him?”
“ ’Course. He used to court my sister Poppy. Years ago. Back when I was little girl.” She turned her focus to the storefronts they were lumbering past. “Didn’t end well, I reckon. Don’t know why. I was too young at the time, and well, it doesn’t seem worthwhile digging up old bones to ask.”
“Old Henry’s married now anyway.”
“So’s Poppy,” she said, happy to be able to say so, although she had never yet met her brother-in-law, Isaiah.
“Of course she is,” Tinker said, sounding so sure of himself Jilo turned back. He was looking at her rather than the road. “She’s a beautiful woman.”
“You’ve never seen her.”
“No, ma’am, I have not, but I’ve seen her sister.” He flashed her a big smile, and Jilo was surprised to feel the blood rush to her cheeks. Though she tried to fight the impulse, she found herself returning his smile.
She forced herself to look away. She was making a fool out of herself. She should just tell him to pull over. Let her out. She could walk the rest of the way home.
“I got a bit of a confession to make,” he said, interrupting her attempt to decide whether to give him the shove off now or in a location a bit closer to home. Folding her arms over her chest, she refused to look at him. She did not care to hear any revelations. “That night, after I saw you on the bus. I was supposed to go home, but I didn’t. I stayed on for a week, riding that darned bus back and forth every day, just hoping you’d get back on it. I talked to everyone who’d answer me, asking if any of them recognized you from my description. But no one did. So, I went on home. Tried to get settled. Tried to forget I’d ever laid eyes on you.”