Page 61 of The Homewreckers
“We could ride into Savannah,” he said. “My hotel has a rooftop bar with a great view of the river. And plenty of normal-colored cocktails.”
“I don’t think so,” Hattie said. “It’s thirty minutes to downtown from here, then I’d still have to drive back to Thunderbolt, and I’ve got a seven o’clock call time tomorrow.”
“You could take a Lyft. Or maybe we could just have a quiet drink at your place? Thunderbolt? Every time I pass through it on the way out here I wonder why it’s named that.”
“Oh no,” Hattie said, instinctively drawing away. Her place? A kiss was one thing; inviting him back to her home, and possibly her bed, if she was reading him right, was taking things entirely too fast.
Trae smelled delicious, like a dangerous combination of sandalwood and leather and bergamot, and it would be so easy to allow herself to be seduced by him. But not tonight.
“Just take me back to Chatham Avenue so I can pick up my truck, please. I really do have to get home. Ribsy’s been cooped up in the house all day. I promised him a walk when I get home. And like I said, it’s an early day for me tomorrow.”
“My call time’s not until nine,” Trae said, backing the car out of the lot, then turning onto Butler Avenue.
“That’s because you’re a man. All you have to do to get camera ready is comb your hair and make sure your fly is zipped. I, on the other hand, have to submit to Lisa’s flatiron and contouring brushes. And let’s not even talk about wardrobe.”
“We both know that’s not accurate,” he said grumpily. “How about a raincheck?”
“We’ll see,” Hattie said.
He glanced over at her. “Is that southern-lady speak for ‘we should just be friends’?”
She yawned widely. “No, it’s Hattie saying I’ve been on my feet for fourteen hours today, and right now, I just want to go home, shower, and pass out.”
They rode the next few blocks in silence. Trae swung the Lexus onto Chatham Avenue and slowed as he approached the driveway.
They were still rolling down the driveway toward the house when Hattie pointed her nose in the air and began sniffing. “Do you smell that? Something burning?”
“Maybe someone’s grilling?”
She rolled the window down. “Definitely not.”
“Was any of the crew burning trash today?” Trae asked.
“No. Everyone’s gone home for the night.” She pointed to a plume of white smoke spiraling from the rear of the house. “Stop right here.” She was out of the car and running, even before Trae had put the Lexus in park. “Call nine-one-one,” she yelled over her shoulder.
Orange flames shot out of the top of the dumpster, and now the white smoke had turned black and oily. Panicked, she ran to the edge of the porch to look for the hose the workers usually used to clean up with, but the intense heat drove her back.
Eyes stinging, choking from the fumes of smoke, she could only stand helplessly by, watching as the flames from the dumpster, whichhad been pulled close to the house, licked at the newly stripped wooden siding.
She heard the blare of the fire engines approaching, and turned to see Trae racing toward her. “Hattie, get away from here,” he yelled, tugging at her arm, but she was frozen in place, unable to look away. “Come on,” he insisted. “It’s not safe.” He pointed toward the flashing red lights reflecting off the front of the house.
A moment later, a tanker engine rolled slowly toward them, and one of the firemen, dressed in protective gear, hopped out of the cab and approached.
“Is there anyone in the house?” he called.
“No, not that we know of,” Hattie said. “It’s under construction.”
“What’s in there?” he asked, pointing at the dumpster. “Any chemicals?”
Coughing violently, Hattie nodded. “Painters have been working back here,” she said, between gasps. “And construction debris. The roofers have been throwing the old shingles and tar paper in there.”
Three more firemen emerged from the truck and began laying hose.
“You two need to clear this area,” the fireman said. “And move those vehicles.”
A crowd of rubberneckers had already gathered at the entrance of the driveway. Half a dozen cars were pulled alongside the shoulder of the road. Bicyclists clustered together, chatting and pointing. A pickup truck was parked on the other side of Chatham Avenue, with gawkers piled into the truck bed. A bare-chested teenager had positioned himself in the middle of the driveway, cell phone held in the air to video the conflagration.
Hattie beeped furiously at the kid, who turned and flipped her off before slowly ambling out of the way. She drove past and parked on the shoulder a few yards away from the nearest car. Trae parked the Lexus behind her, got out, and joined her in the front seat of the truck.
