sob stories necessary,” I remind her. She dips her chin to agree. “And your mother?”
“My mom stuck around after my dad passed. She was waiting on me to get married. When that didn’t happen, she moved to South Carolina. It’s the place my parents always intended to retire together.”
“Is she on the ocean?” I ask, hoping to keep things light and not backtrack to why she didn’t marry her fiancé.
“She’s not, but she’s close. I visit her twice a year. She doesn’t like to come up here anymore. Too cold in the winter.”
I laugh as I get that about our Northern weather, but I’m also looking forward to winter, when I can go outside and actually move around in the snow without some barbed wire and metal fencing caging me in.
“No siblings?” I inquire, feeling like we’re playing twenty questions.
“Only child syndrome.” She laughs. “It’s why I always want my way.”
“Oldest child here,” I tease. “I never get my way.”
Rita tips her head, giving me a sideways glance. “Why’s that? What would be your way? What would you be doing if you weren’t working for Building Buddies?”
Here comes the tricky part. “Initially, I went to school for environmental studies, think natural resources, but I’d been doing construction work most of my teenage years to help my mom out and save for college. When I returned home to make sure Nolan graduated high school, I took up an electrician apprenticeship but also worked as a volunteer fireman.”
Rita sits up again in her seat. Her eyes focus more intently on me.
“I eventually worked my way into an arson investigator position, doing small electrical jobs on the side.” There should be pride in my voice for what I eventually accomplished and the years it took to get where I was, but none of who I was or what I’d done mattered in the end. I was found guilty of a crime I did not commit because of what others thought.
“That’s how you have the skill to work for Building Buddies.” It’s not so much a question, but a clarification as Rita puts things together.
“It is.”
“And if you could do anything, what would it be?”
As much as I wish I had a solid answer, I don’t. I hadn’t thought much beyond serving the remainder of my time and my desire to leave Vermont. “I want to leave this state and forget all that’s happened here.” The statement comes out harsh, and Rita blinks at my directness.
“Not a fan of Vermont?”
“Not anymore,” I admit because it’s the State’s fault for making budget cuts to our fire safety programs that placed me in the position I’m in. Serving time. On parole. “But my brother has a complicated injury, and I’m not certain I can leave him behind.”
“More sob story?” Rita purses her lips, twisting them a bit as she considers what I’ve said. The truth is, Nolan’s been on his own for a while, and he doesn’t actually need me like he once did. It’s a bit of a relief, but I still feel guilty. I softly chuckle to dismiss explaining Nolan’s condition, and Rita shifts gears. “Do you knit?”
My laugh blurts loud and sharp. “Um, no. Sorry. Why?”
“How about hiking?”
“Uh, sure. I mean, I haven’t been on one in a while.” Hiking reminds me of my past studies in natural resources. I thought I might be a forest ranger or an environmental scientist of some type. At eighteen, I wasn’t certain what path I’d take. Then my life was decided for me with my mother’s death.
Hiking also makes me think of asking Rita if she’d like to take one with me sometime. She’s always wearing those damn boots, so I’m assuming she knows how to use them. But a date would be out of the question. This was only coffee.
Rita doesn’t say any more, taking final sips of her now-cool brew, and I feel like I’ve run out of things to say. I double-tap the table, and Rita startles at the motion. Then I lift my hand for the waitress, signaling I’m ready to pay our bill.
“I should probably get going.” The transition is awkward, but if I sit here any longer, I just might share that sob story Rita doesn’t want to hear, and it’s been nice to chat with someone who doesn’t know of my sordid past.
“Oh. Oh,” Rita says, looking over her shoulder as the waitress approaches. Twisting back to the table, she fumbles in her pocket.