Chapter 2: Seafoam and Swing Sets
The smell of the hardware store was a familiar comfort to Eleanor: sawdust, metal, the sharp chemical tang of fertilizers. It was Tuesday, her day for errands. The surf club chatter felt distant here, replaced by the squeak of trolley wheels and the low mutter of old men debating rivet sizes. She stood in the paint aisle, holding two swatches of blue against a scrap of fabric from their sunroom curtains. Cerulean or Coastal Mist? She was biting her lip, lost in the decision.
“Now that’s a serious face.”
The voice, deep and warm, came from behind her left shoulder. She turned, the swatches fluttering. Dave stood there, a half-smile on his face, holding a can of turps and a pack of sandpaper. He looked entirely at home here, his worn work boots planted on the scuffed linoleum.
“Oh! Dave, hi.” She laughed, a little flustered. “Trying to match a fabric. It’s hopeless.”
“Nah, never hopeless.” He moved alongside her, his shoulder not quite touching hers. He set his items down on a shelf and took the swatches from her fingers. His calloused hands were surprisingly gentle. “See, this one’s too cold.” He held up Cerulean. “Makes you think of a hospital, not a sunroom. This one…” He lifted Coastal Mist, then paused, his eyes shifting from the card to her face, a slow, considering look. “Actually, hold on.”
He reached past her, his tanned forearm brushing her sleeve. He pulled a different swatch from the display. “Try this.”
It was a soft, muted green-blue. Seafoam.
“It’s got more life to it,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “Warmer. Reminds me of that dress you had on the other night. The color suited you.”
A flush crept up Eleanor’s neck. It was just a compliment. A nice one. Friendly. “Oh, that old thing? I’ve had it for years.”
“Some things age well,” he said, holding her gaze for a second too long before looking back at the swatch. His finger tapped it. “This is your color. Trust me.”
She took it from him, their fingers brushing. A brief, electric contact she dismissed instantly. “Seafoam. Okay. You’re probably right. You’re the expert.”
“On paint? Yeah, fair bit.” He grinned, leaning back against the shelf. The fluorescent light caught the silver in his stubble. “What brings you out on a Tuesday? Geoff letting you off the leash?”
The phrasing was odd, but his tone was so affable she shrugged it off. “Just the usual. And I need to pick up a new bolt for the kids’ swing set. The one at the side of the house. It’s rusted right through, the whole thing’s lopsided.”
Dave’s expression shifted into one of professional concern. “Rusted through? That’s no good. Safety hazard. Which joint is it?”
“The main one on the A-frame, I think. Geoff’s been meaning to get to it, but you know how it is with work…”
“Say no more.” Dave pushed off from the shelf. “I’ve got my ute outside. I’ll follow you back, have a squiz. Won’t take five minutes to diagnose. Probably got the right bolt in my kit.”
“Oh, Dave, you don’t have to do that,” she said, but the protest was weak. It was a safety hazard. And Geoff was so busy.
“What are neighbors for?” He said it easily, already steering his trolley towards the checkouts. His hand found the small of her back, a light, guiding pressure that propelled her forward. It was the same spot. The gesture felt strangely continuous, as if the conversation at the surf club had never ended. “C’mon. Get your paint. I’ll wait for you out front.”
An hour later, Geoff turned his sedan onto their quiet street. It had been a long day of back-to-back client meetings, his mind crowded with figures and timelines. All he wanted was a beer on the back deck with Ellie, listening to her talk about her day. The thought was a balm.
He saw the ute first. A big, diesel Toyota, parked carelessly half on his lawn. Dave’s. The tailgate was down. A large, weathered toolbox sat open on the grass, gleaming with organized rows of sockets and drivers.
The knot that had loosely formed in his gut at the surf club pulled taut, instantly, viciously.
He parked behind the ute and got out. The sound of laughter floated from the side yard. Eleanor’s, clear and light. A deeper rumble in response.
He walked around the corner, his briefcase heavy in his hand.
The scene was domestic, almost picturesque. The late afternoon sun slanted through the old gum tree, dappling the lawn. The green A-frame swing set stood in the centre. Dave was on his knees, a shiny new bolt already fitted. Eleanor stood beside him, holding a wrench she clearly had no idea how to use.
“See, the old one was shear-threaded,” Dave was saying, his voice a patient, instructive murmur. “Just from the constant lateral stress. Kid’s swinging builds up a surprising amount of force.”
“I had no idea,” Eleanor said, fascinated.
“Most people don’t.” Dave stood up in one fluid, powerful motion. He was sweaty, his t-shirt sticking to his chest. He took the wrench from her gently. “Here, feel the difference.” He guided her hand to the new bolt head, his own large, grimy hand enveloping hers completely. “Solid. No give.”
Geoff watched, frozen in the gateway. He felt like a ghost in his own garden.
Dave gave her hand a little pat before releasing it. Then he grabbed the swing seat. “Now, the real test. Hop on.”
Eleanor giggled. “What, me?”
“Gotta test the load. C’mon.” His smile was irresistible, a boyish challenge.
She sat on the swing, her sundress fanning out. Dave moved behind her. “Alright,” he said, his hands taking hold of the chains, right above her shoulders. His fingers were close to her neck. “Here we go.”
He pulled her back, his biceps corded. For a suspended moment, she was leaning back, her weight entirely in his control, looking up at him, smiling. He released.
She swung forward with a small, delighted gasp. Dave watched her, his hands now on his hips, a satisfied master craftsman surveying his work. The swing arced back. As it came forward again, he stepped into its path, not to stop it, but to grab the chains, slowing her gently. His body was close, too close, framing hers.
“Stable as a rock,” he declared, his voice low and intimate in the space between them.
That’s when he saw Geoff. His expression didn’t change, just widened into a more inclusive, easy grin. “Speak of the devil! Mate, you’re home. Just sorting out this death trap for you.”
Eleanor dragged her feet in the grass, stopping the swing. Her face was flushed with pleasure and fresh air. “Geoff! Dave fixed it. It was completely buggered, he said it could have come down any time.”
Geoff made himself walk forward. The grass felt spongy, unreal. “Yeah. I was meaning to get to that. Thanks, Dave.” The words tasted like aluminium.
“All good, brother. Saw Ellie at the hardware store, she mentioned it. Couldn’t have you two living with a hazard like that.” He started gathering his tools, the moment broken, his task complete. “Right, better let you get on with your evening.”
He packed his toolbox with efficient clangs. Eleanor was a flurry of gratitude. “Can I at least get you a beer? A cup of tea?”
“Nah, you’re sweet. Got another job to look at.” He slammed the tailgate shut. His eyes met Geoff’s over the roof of the ute. The friendly crinkle was there, but the gaze underneath was steady, assessing. A quick, invisible scan. “You’re a lucky man, Geoff. Have a good one.”
The ute rumbled to life and pulled away, leaving tyre marks on the lawn.
Silence seeped back in, filled only by the distant shush of the sea. Eleanor looped her arm through Geoff’s, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Wasn’t that nice of him? He just dropped everything.”
Geoff looked at the swing. It hung perfectly still, perfectly level. A testament to competent, masculine care. A problem he hadn’t solved, silently rectified in his own backyard.
“Yeah,” he said, his arm stiff around her. “Real nice.”
He stared at the fresh, clean bolt head gleaming in the setting sun. It looked like a brand. A mark of possession. Dave hadn’t just fixed the swing. He’d demonstrated a need. He’d shown Eleanor, in the most practical way possible, that Geoff’s ‘meaning to’ wasn’t good enough. That execution was what mattered. And he’d done it all while smelling of sweat and hard work, his hands on the chains that held her.
The knot in Geoff’s stomach wasn’t jealousy anymore. It was colder. Clearer. It was the understanding that the siege wasn’t metaphorical. It was here. It had already begun, and the first wall – the simple, rusty bolt of domestic neglect – had already been breached.
The silence in the kitchen that night was a thin, brittle thing. Geoff stared into his gin and tonic, the ice cubes mostly melted. The clink of Eleanor loading the dishwasher was the only sound.
“He really is so handy, isn’t he?” Eleanor said, wiping down the bench with a cheerful swipe. “Dave, I mean.”
Geoff took a slow drink. The gin was cheap, sour on his tongue.
“Like today,” she continued, voice bright with narrative pleasure. “He knew exactly what shear-threading was. Just glanced at that old bolt and diagnosed it. And he had the right replacement in his truck! That big toolbox of his is like a magic chest. He said he always carries spare hardware because you never know when you’ll need it.”
She said it with admiration, a tribute to practical competence. Geoff watched a droplet of condensation track down his glass.
“I offered him money for the bolt and his time, you know,” she said, folding the tea towel neatly. “He just waved me off. Laughed. Said, ‘What’s a neighborhood for, Ellie?’” She repeated the nickname with a soft smile, unaware of the proprietary chill it sent down Geoff’s spine. “He’s just that kind of bloke. Sees a problem and fixes it. No fuss.”
Geoff finally found his voice. It came out flat. “I could have fixed it.”
“Oh, I know, love.” She came over, kissed the top of his head, her hand warm on his shoulder. The scent of her laundry detergent was suddenly cloying. “But you’re so busy. And it was just so easy for him. He was already there.”
He made sure he was already there, Geoff thought but did not say. The image was scalding: Dave’s toolbox, open and displayed on his lawn like a conquering knight’s standard.
Eleanor moved to the window, looking out at the now-stable swing set silhouetted in the dusk. “It’s a real skill, that. To just know how things work. To have the right tool and the confidence to use it.” She turned back, her expression softening with a memory. “Remember that leak under the sink last year? You were on the phone with the plumber for ages, waiting days for an appointment. Dave probably would’ve had it sorted in ten minutes.”
The comparison was idle, harmless in her mind. A simple observation of fact. To Geoff, it was a precise surgical cut. It laid his own capable, provider’s love—a love that paid bills and planned holidays and remembered anniversaries—bare against something raw and physically potent. A love that fixed things now.
He finished his drink, the glass empty of everything but wet ice. The tonic water had lost all its fizz.
“Yeah,” he said, standing up. The chair legs scraped the tiles. “Handy.”
He walked out to the back deck, into the cool salt air. He gripped the wooden railing, its grain rough under his palms. From here, he could see the swing set. It looked different now. Not a testament to childhood fun, but a monument. A trophy installed by a more capable hand.
Down the street, a diesel engine rumbled to life. It idled for a moment before fading into the night. Geoff didn’t need to see it to know the shape of the ute. The sound alone was enough. It was the sound of the siege engine rolling back to its camp, ready for the next sortie.
The wall was breached. The invader was inside, and he was being praised for the quality of his repairs.