White Picket Fence

Chapter One

It was unseasonably cold for May, and River felt himself shivering harshly as he stepped off the bus. The street that met him was unexpectedly beautiful, lines of trees arranged in an evenly-spaced collage down the block, scattered leaves from last fall dotting the pavement with color. Behind them were classic single-family houses with classic white fences and well-tended yards and plastic playground equipment.

River double-checked the address that he'd scrawled on a crumpled receipt, and then made his way down the block. He counted the houses until he'd reached a dead end, and blinked up at the shallow hill that stretched up in front of him. A set of stone stairs led to a beautiful two-story house made of dark wood. It wasn't as tidy and well-kept as the other houses on the block-instead, tall trees cast shadows across the lawn and a single swing made of aged wood hung from one of those branches.

Nobody answered the door when River knocked. He was about to try and find a back door when up the driveway, around the side of the house, there was a clank of metal on metal and a voice muttered a curse. River followed the sound, ducking under a set of wind chimes and climbing off the porch.

At the end of the driveway was a garage, where a big silver Chevy was parked. A pair of jean-clad legs stuck out from underneath the vehicle, and a handful of tools was lying on the pavement beside them.

River cleared his throat. "Um," he said. "Excuse me, are you Joel Harris?"

There was a sound of wheels rolling against stone, and then a man emerged from underneath the car. He set aside a wrench on the ground and pushed himself up, reaching over to grab a cloth from the roof of the car and then using it to wipe down his hands. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and bearded and broad-shouldered, his button-down shirt untucked over a white t-shirt, his jeans bearing grease stains, his work boots worn with use.

"That's me," the man said, his voice disarmingly deep. He tossed aside the cloth, and it landed with a thump back on the roof of the car. "Sorry-I didn't hear you come up. You must be River."

River nodded. He stepped forward to shake Joel's hand. His palm was rough and calloused. "It's okay," River said. "It's my fault. I'm early."

Joel smiled briefly at that. "I was hoping the kids would be home when you got here, so you could meet them," he said. "But they won't be back for another twenty minutes. I suppose we can talk about the position until they get here."

Joel led him inside the house and River took a seat in the dining room. Inside it was warm and the house, while spacious, had a cluttered feeling to it, probably a result of raising a family. Toys and books and coats and shoes were scattered in the wrong places, textbooks and workbooks stacked on one side of the dining room table, framed photos hanging a little crooked on the walls and above the fireplace.

It wasn't unclean, just a little messy, comfortably lived-in. River liked the feeling.

"I hope green tea is all right," Joel said. He set a mug in front of River on the table. "I haven't had a chance to go shopping lately. It was either this or a mango-flavored tea that nobody seems to like."

"Green is perfect." River curled his hands around the mug to warm them. His skin hadn't quite recovered from the winter yet, no matter how much lotion he slathered on them, and he could feel the tiny cracks in the skin as they responded to the heat. "What were you working on, back in the garage? Did your car break down?"

Joel shook his head. "Just making some adjustments," he said. "I run a home construction and repair service, but I work on cars in my spare time."

"Harris Homes?" River said, smiling. "I saw your offices on the way here."