Kitabı oku: «Everything She's Ever Wanted», sayfa 2
Something must have shown in his face; she gathered the board and players back in the box, got up to return the game to the bedroom she used whenever it was his turn for “parenting time,” a new term for visitation rights. That was another thing he wished were different. Now that Hallie was older, he wanted her to visit on her own. Not when he asked, or when the system deemed it correct, or when arguments sent her running.
Squatting by the fire, he replaced the disintegrating logs. Spruce sap sweetened the room.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, honey?”
She stood just beyond the coffee table, a slim, shy figure, hands burrowed in baggy denim overalls. His throat tightened.
“Mom doesn’t want me dating.”
The fight. “I see.”
Her eyes, full of need for him to understand. “It’s not fair. She started dating when she was thirteen and I’m— I’m already fifteen.”
“Barely four months, Hal.”
“Still fifteen,” she persisted, those eyes growing more determined. “I’m older and more mature than a lot of my friends and they’ve been seeing guys since they were like twelve.”
Seth hung the iron poker on the hearth and rose. “Want some hot chocolate?”
“No. I want to talk about this.”
The topic had him itching to pace. He wanted to help her— God, he wanted to help her. But how? He said, “We can talk while it’s brewing,” and returned to the kitchen, where he set the milk on the stove to warm. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hallie crouch beside Roach, stretched out in the mudroom doorway. As she stroked his broad head, the dog thumped its stubbed tail on the linoleum, and watched her every move with guarded eyes.
The sight prompted a memory of the Quinlan woman the moment Seth had removed the groceries from her cold arms on the shoulder of the highway. Caution: it flashed across her face before she climbed the ladder into the cab and again when he took her keys for her truck at the back door of the shop.
In the months after he’d found Roach hiding under his front porch, he often speculated on the animal’s past. Why had the dog slunk on its belly to sniff his hand, then crawled quick as a light-affected bug back into its dark cavern?
Tonight, Seth wondered what lurked in the lady’s past that had her on a speedy retreat into that little hovel of a shop. And how long would it take to coax her out…
She’s not a stray, Seth. You can’t cure her ills.
Nor did he want to. Last thing he needed to do was worry over some woman he happened to offer a ride. Irritated with his thoughts, he said briskly, “Milk’s ready.”
In the pantry, he found packages of marshmallows and Oreos, put them between the mugs on the old oak table. Easing into one of the four chairs, he said, “So, who’s the boy you wanna date?”
“I didn’t say there was a boy.”
Seth lifted his eyebrows.
“Okay,” she said, with a sheepish smile. “There’s this guy… Tristan.” She shook a few marshmallows into her mug. “He’s really cute and wants to go to the matinee tomorrow. It’s not that big a deal, but Mom wants to come, too.” Hallie raised her head. “Can you imagine what everyone would think?”
He could. Kids, ten and up, whispering for months about how Hallie Tucker was chaperoned by her mother—her mercurial, wild mother—to an afternoon movie. Yeah, he could imagine, big time. And while he wasn’t crazy about the idea of Hallie alone with a boy, he was less enthused about Melody tagging along.
In a skirt the size of a belt.
Moody lips scored in ho-red.
Give-it-to-me stilettoes hiking her petite frame.
“She won’t even listen,” Hallie continued. “All she keeps saying is, ‘I was a teenager once, too.’ Like she’s the queen diva on puberty or something.”
No surprise there. The woman had been born snapping gum. Still did, if Seth had anything to say about it. Which he didn’t.
Tread carefully, man. You don’t want Hallie storming off, believing you won’t come through for her. Damn. He stood between a rock and a hard place. “How ’bout if I talk to your mother?”
“She won’t listen to you. She doesn’t listen to anybody.”
“Maybe she will this time.”
“She won’t. It’s either her way or the highway.” Across the table, Hallie observed their reflections in the night window. “I hate her.”
“You don’t mean that, honey.”
“Yes, I do. She’s getting so weird. I hear kids giggling behind her back whenever she comes to the school. The way she acts, the way she does her hair, the way she dresses. Since she got those implants last spring, she only buys tops that show—”
“Hallie.”
“It’s true! Like she’s so ho—ot.”
“Hallie.”
“I don’t care.” She turned away, but he caught the hurt. “It’s like we’re in a contest or some dumb beauty challenge. It’s totally stupid.”
“She’s your mother, babe.”
“Yeah, well, I wished she wasn’t. The way men look at her, it’s like she’s a…a bar tramp.” Her bottom lip quaked.
A vice gripped his chest.
There was nothing more to say. She was right; they both knew it. “Drink your chocolate,” he told her.
Chapter Two
Coffee mug in hand, Breena stepped onto the front porch of Earth’s Goodness at eight-thirty the next morning. The wind from the night before had faded and, under a soft sun, the quiet spice of fall crisped the air. She didn’t miss Frisco. Didn’t miss the snarl of traffic, the bitter smog, her joyless marriage.
She’d make it in this Oregon town, yes, she would. The next twelve months would prove it in ways the last thirty-five years in California hadn’t. If worse came to worst, Misty River was still a good place to hole up until she mended her heart.
The sound of a motor turned her head. Her Blazer, the sun glinting off its maroon roof, stopped in front of the shop. A young man climbed from the driver’s side.
“G’morning,” she called.
He gave a short wave and came around the hood as she went down the steps. They met at the gate. “You people work fast.” The name Tristan and The Garage Center were stitched in orange above the left pocket of his jade coveralls.
“Yep.” Under a Red Sox ball cap, the boy—no more than eighteen—grinned. “Bill opens at seven.”
Breena studied the truck. “Does he always deliver?”
“It’s policy,” Tristan said with pride, “if we can’t give the owner a courtesy vehicle.”
Possibly it was more Seth Tucker’s policy, but she wasn’t about to argue the fact. She took the clipboard the boy offered. “What was wrong with it?”
“Busted fanbelt.”
She checked the total at the bottom of the page and her mouth opened, then closed. In the city, the tow alone would cost triple. “Did Mr. Tucker have anything to do with this?”
“Uh…which Mr. Tucker?”
“Seth. Seth Tucker.” She held out the form, pointed to the low figure. “Did he have anything to do with this?”
“Don’t think so, ma’am.” Tristan’s forehead scrunched. “Bill’s the one did the tallying. Is there a mistake?”
None. None at all. “I haven’t had such—” Generosity? Decency? “—a nice surprise in a while.”
The teenager spruced his shoulders. “Glad we were of service.”
“Would you like to come in while I write out a check?”
“Hey, sure.” A wide grin.
Inside, she offered him coffee. He declined the brew but chose one of her home-baked sugar cookies sitting in a pretty clothed basket beside the till. One of her alms to the store.
“Nice place,” he called when she hurried to the back room for her checkbook.
“This your first time here?”
“Yep. Never had the need before.”
She signed the order copy and the check while Tristan remained rooted to the welcome mat as if walking across the floor in workboots would sully the varnish on the planks. She returned his clipboard. “Can I give you a lift back to the shop?”
“Nah. We’re just around the corner a ways. I’ll jog.”
Just around the corner. In a town of a thousand, a forty-minute walk encompassed the entire municipality. Friends and neighbors, greeting each other at every corner.
They stepped back into the sunshine.
“It was nice meeting you Miss—”
“Hey, there, Tristan.”
The boy turned. His smile faded. “Hi, Mr. Owens.”
Pot belly leading the way, Delwood Owens swaggered across the street. “Truck’s all fixed, I see.” Pursing his lips, he sized up the vehicle. Eyed Breena. “Saw Seth bring you home last night.”
What else is new? Old turd likely had an astronomy telescope on his bedroom balcony. “Yes,” she said. “He did.”
“Know him well, do you?”
She clamped her tongue.
Owens went on, “Upstandin’ citizen, Seth is. Damn hard worker. Has a wife.”
A wife. Of course he has a wife.
“Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea, know what I mean?”
“No, Mr. Owens, I don’t know what you mean.” He knew she lived in the rear rooms of the shop, had seen her coming and going for over three weeks. If he wanted to mark her as Misty River’s streetwalker, she’d deal with it. But he had no right to smear Seth in the process. “My truck broke down and Seth was the gentleman who saw me home safely. That’s all.”
Owens thrust out thick lips. “Wanted to make sure you knew.”
Liar. You thought I’d gasp and sputter at your news.
So Seth Tucker had given her a ride home. So he had a wife. He and every man on the planet did not interest her. In the least. “Would you excuse me, I have a shop to open. Take care, Tristan.” Careful of the walkway’s heaves and gouges, she headed for the porch.
“Um, Miss?” Behind her, the gate creaked. “You forgot your keys.” Tristan trotted back up the walk.
“Oh.” She felt like an idiot.
Owens walked around her truck, the veritable car dealer he was. Tristan glowered at the man. “Don’t pay him no mind, ma’am,” he murmured. “He used to be Seth’s father-in-law. Guess he figures he’s still got a say in his life.”
Used to be. “Thanks, Tristan. Seth seems like an honorable man. He doesn’t need to be humiliated by gossip because of me.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Never, ma’am. You’re like—you’re a lady.” He blushed. “And the gossip, well, it’s ’cause you’re new and—-and sort of a hottie. For an older woman. I mean…” Deeper blushing. “Oh, hell.”
“An old hottie, huh?”
“Sorry. Junk tends to come out of my mouth.”
“No,” she said, grinning. “I like it.”
“You do?”
“Hey, I’d rather be an old hottie than an old hag.” She patted his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Tristan.”
“Same here, Ms. Quinlan.” He secured the cap on his head, nodded. “You take care now.”
“I will.”
Humming, she went up the porch steps. The morning held favor after all.
With a Cape Cod roofline, the small house Delwood Owens had bought for his daughter when she’d married Seth—then had rented out when she moved to Eugene—appeared the same. Tiny yard, overgrown shrubs, flowers that needed winterizing. Melody was no gardener. That chore she’d left up to Seth in those early years.
Turning the pickup into the driveway Saturday morning, he said to Hallie, “Looks like your mother’s home.” Under the yellow maple guarding the left corner of the house, Melody had parked her sleek silver Mazda Miata. Delwood still came through when his daughter wanted new wheels. Too bad he didn’t hire her a gardener.
Hallie grunted. “Usually she doesn’t get home before lunch the next day when she’s with Roy-Dean.”
Anger sucked away his breath. Melody would consider Hallie old enough to stay alone for a night and half a day, but not old enough to go to a movie with a boy her own age.
He climbed out of the truck. “Want me to come in?”
Her head jerked around in surprise. The last time he’d stepped inside this house had been shortly after their divorce, when Melody complained about the living room TV going wonky and begged him to fix it after he dropped Hallie off.
“That’s okay.” She slipped from the seat. “I can handle it.”
He believed she could. She’d been “handling” it since she’d been five, since he’d moved out, since Melody had relocated them to Eugene. The anger dissipated and guilt claimed its stake.
“You should go, Dad,” Hallie said when he simply stood between the two vehicles, mulling over his conscience. “Mom’ll be anxious. She always is after visits. It’ll be worse this time because I went without her permission.”
Anxious? He wanted to ask what that meant, but Hallie headed up the drive, toward the backyard. She disappeared around the corner of the house, to the rear entrance.
For a moment, he debated whether to leave or follow. With visitations, he always stopped at the curb to pick up or drop Hallie off, the chronic delivery man, then drove away with his heart bumping along behind.
Yesterday, she’d changed that. Yesterday hadn’t been a court-assigned day. Hallie had come on her own.
Anxious. The word spurred him into the small rear yard.
For the first time since his divorce, he saw what years could do to a plot of ground. The old pine that had towered above the single-car garage in his day was gone, a two-foot stump in its place. Along the back, the wooden fence tipped and heeled in a patch of fireweed. Once the place had been home—small-scaled, but neat and tidy and wholesome.
The ideal place to raise a little girl.
Dispirited, Seth turned from the deterioration and started for his truck.
The back door squeaked. Melody stepped barefoot onto the cracked cement stoop. She hooked the screen with one hip, then let it whap closed.
Had he caught her in the guise of sleep? Or…in the guise?
A faded red robe matching her dyed hair skimmed the base of her butt. He wondered if she wore underwear. Knowing his ex, he figured not. Where was Roy-Dean, boy wonder? Behind the door? Ready to stumble out, frown matching hers on his Brad Pitt face?
Melody plucked a lighter and cigarette from one big pocket; lit up. Seth’s brows jammed together. Lunn’s influence?
“Well, now.” Her mouth spoke clouds of smoke. “Look what the puppy hauled home. Fixing to leave already?”
“’Lo, Mel.”
She jacked an elbow on her folded arm, gusted a blue ring. His stomach clenched.
“Whaddya want?”
He thought of the Quinlan woman. Gentle, easy on the eyes. Damned easy. A thousand-light-year gap separated her from this woman who’d once been his wife. Tough as a pavement compactor, that was Melody. A toughness, he knew, that in the past few years had begun stifling Hallie. “When’d you start smoking?”
“A while ago. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“What affects my daughter is my business.”
“Don’t worry.” Melody cocked a hip, levered the robe higher. “I don’t smoke inside. Kid won’t let me.” She eyed him. “So. What is it you want?” she repeated.
His pulse kicked hard. Some role models they were for their child. Him a taciturn father who worked 24/7; her a… What had Hallie said? A bar tramp? He wouldn’t go that far, but in this second he half agreed with his daughter.
“Am I making you anxious, Mel?” he asked, vocalizing Hallie’s term.
“You?” She laughed, but her hand shook when she brought the cigarette to her lips. “Why on earth would I be anxious?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Maybe because last winter when you forgot to give Hallie lunch money for a week,” he enunciated forgot, “I meant what I said.”
Melody scoffed. “Right. You’d take me to court and get back those custody rights you signed away ten years ago.”
“Not by choice.” Your old man took me to the cleaners.
“Whatever.”
“It would be a different story this time, Mel. I’m not scraping the bottom of the bucket anymore.”
“No, but you’re still working forever and a day. The judge would put her in foster care before he’d give her to you.”
He let the words settle and brand. Melody was good at branding. Foster care. Where he’d spent three long, lonely years bouncing around, after his mother burned his father to death in the shed behind his family’s home. He’d had enough of foster care and social workers to last ten lifetimes. They’d have to kill him before he’d let one near Hallie or have her humiliated by a court battle that could see her carted off to some unknown pair deemed “caring and responsible” by The System.
“You know damned well,” his ex was saying, “she’s better off with me than in one of those places.”
He did know. That was the crux of this whole situation. Had been for years. But he also knew her words were a lot of hot air. If Hallie moved anywhere, it would be into his house. He’d see to that.
“Anyway, if Hallie’d told me,” Melody went on, “you know I would’ve left her the money.”
His jaw ached from clenching. “Actually I don’t. But I do know this. Leaving our daughter alone overnight is wrong. She’s not all grown-up. If you can’t be there for her, I will.”
“Big talk from a guy who’s never home himself. Least I work a nine to five most days.”
Only because your daddy bought you Cut ’n’ Class hair salon.
He ignored his thumping blood, zeroed in on the reason he’d come to this door. “Hallie wants to go to a movie this afternoon without a chaperone. I don’t see it as a problem.”
“Sure you don’t. You’re a man. Men think—”
“Jeez, Mel, it’s an afternoon movie, not an orgy. What can it hurt?”
Melody flicked ashes into the flower bed beside the stoop. “Orgy. Now there’s a word and a half. For your information, a helluva lot can hurt if that boy starts pawing her.”
“No one’s going to paw her. They’ll go to the movie, watch it and she’ll come home. End of story.”
“Ha. I was fifteen once. I know what goes on in those back rows, in the dark.”
“Don’t judge our daughter by your standards.”
“Oh, aren’t we all righteous? Like you never copped a feel in the back of a theater, you and those bad boy brothers of yours.”
Not at fifteen. He’d been too busy working his ass off after school. Trying to sweeten the B in his hive of marks. As for Jon and Luke, they’d been men in their twenties and gone from home. What they did with women was their business.
He set his hands on his hips, let out a deep breath. “Cut her some slack, Mel. She’s a normal teenage girl, a good girl. She won’t get in trouble at the damn movie.”
Melody tilted her head, squinted against a stream of smoke. “Did she tell you how old this guy is?” She smirked at his silence. “Didn’t think so. He’s a senior. Seventeen. A MacAllister.” As if that said it all.
The MacAllisters of Trailer Trash Park.
Fifteen years ago, Delwood Owens had swept Seth into the same backyard barrel.
Melody went on. “He part-times at the Garage Center. You still want her to go alone?”
Dammit. If he didn’t support Hallie, he’d lose his one skimpy chance of truly bonding with her. If he disagreed with Melody, whatever connection still existed between mother and daughter would be shot.
He said, “Why not let her go, if she promises to be home within half hour of it finishing? That’s roughly three hours, Mel. You can trust her for three hours in the middle of the day in a public place, for Pete’s sake.”
“In a dark public place. With a man. At eighteen, I was—”
Pregnant. And she’d never forgiven him for it. Not for “messing up” her life. For damn sure, not for squashing her big dreams of becoming a model.
Seth pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. What if I made a point of meeting the boy first?”
“You’d do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” If it’ll help my child.
“Fine.” She stuck her head back inside, yelled, “Hallie, get out here.”
The girl had obviously hovered within inches of the door; she appeared at once.
Melody exhaled smoke. “I’ve decided to have your father check this Tristan out first. Then I’ll decide if you can go to the movie.” She turned to Seth. “Can you be back here…” A glance at Hallie. “What time’s the movie, one-thirty?”
Hallie stared at Seth as if he’d dumped a load of fish at her feet. “You’re checking Tristan out like he’s a piece of—of machinery? That’s so lame! Never mind, okay? I’m not going.” With a whack, the inside door shut in their faces.
Melody sighed. “Well. Seems we’ve solved the problem.”
Seth wanted to rush after his daughter, hold her, protect her from the harsh gusts of reality. She’d come to him. Eager for his help, for his trust.
And he’d fouled up. I’m sorry!
To Melody he said, “There never was a problem.”
“No?”
“No.”
She snorted, arced the half-smoked cigarette onto the cement driveway, several feet from where he stood. “Shows how much you know, or care, about your daughter.”
He studied the woman who had borne his child. Aging like a sour apple. “I may not know her the way you do, but I care. More than you could ever imagine.” He walked away. His heart flayed his ribs.
“Wait a minute.” She hurried down the drive after him. “Where you going?”
“To work.”
“Aren’t you coming back?”
“No.”
“But what about that boy? What am I supposed to do if he shows up this afternoon?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“Oh, isn’t this like you,” she sneered. “Always running off when the going gets tough.”
Hand on the door handle of the truck, Seth paused. “Tough? You don’t know the meaning of the word. I busted my back to make a home for you. What did it get me? Ten years of hell. Ten years of seeing my little girl wait on a curb so I could drop her off a day later. Well, things are about to change, Mel. Hallie’s old enough to make her own choices now, and I’m not the poor schmuck you divorced.”
Her mouth turned ugly. “You jerk. This isn’t finished, you know, not by a long shot.”
“Oh, it’s finished, all right. It was finished the day our daughter was born and you and your daddy decided a construction man wasn’t good enough for the family.”
Heart hurting for his child, he climbed into the cab and drove off, leaving his ex-wife glaring after him, in a robe showing enough leg to make a racehorse jealous.
Hallie curled on her bed and hugged Sunny, her favorite fuzzy bear, to her chest. The furry little creature had been a gift from her dad when she was born. Love-tattered, missing an eye, Sunny held a treasured place on her bed, in her heart. This minute, he hid her tears, muffled her sobs.
If she hadn’t opened the window…hadn’t been so impatient to hear her dad’s voice one more time, his boot heels smacking the cement driveway, his truck door slamming…
Last night, it’d taken every ounce of courage to walk to his place, to seek his help. She wasn’t used to asking for help. Once he’d lived in this very house and laughed and teased and tugged her pigtails. She’d ridden his shoulders out to his truck where he’d swung her down, cuddled his hard, lean face into her neck, blown raspberries. Every day. Before he drove off to work.
Then he moved out, into another house.
She used to cry at night until she fell asleep.
She used to blame herself for his leaving.
She’d believed she’d done something wrong.
Now she knew the truth, why his trips to Eugene had waned. Once she’d thought it was his work and the long drives. It was finished the day our daughter was born…
Confusion swirled in her mind. She tried, truly tried to be the worthy daughter, doing all she could to please her parents. Getting straight A’s, joining the school jazz band, babysitting for her own money. She knew her dad was proud; he’d told her so. And her mom was proud—sort of—the way Hallie cleaned the house, mowed the grass, did the laundry, got groceries. She didn’t tell her dad about the chores, though. Somehow, she didn’t think that would please him the way it did her mom.
Her mom. What was up with her lately? She’d always been a little eccentric, but since returning to Misty River she was living in a time warp or something, wanting to be Hallie’s age again. Acting sillier than some of the eighth grade girls.
Last week, she’d said she was getting a lip stud. A lip stud. Her mother. Gross!
Even the jewelry wouldn’t be so bad, if her mom would just lay off the questions and not ask about everything. Like Hallie wanted to hop onto any old back seat and get preggers. Not!
The only good thing about her mom seeing Roy-Dean Lunn was that she had loosened her choke hold a bit. Not because Melody believed in Hallie, but because Roy-Dean wanted her mom to himself.
The freedom should have felt great, except she felt more lonely than ever. And now her dad, saying that it was finished when she was born…
She burrowed her hot face into Sunny’s furry curves. Her dad had cared! Last night. Years ago.
You were little. What did you know then?
She shivered under the drafty window.
Daddy.
The name fluttered like a butterfly around her heart.
Seth drove straight to the Garage Center. He greeted Bill and asked for Tristan. Twenty seconds later, a tall blond teen—-wiping his hands on a rag—came through the door.
“You Tristan?” Seth asked.
“Yeah,” the boy said carefully.
“Let’s go outside for a minute.” Seth strode through the door and headed for the rear of his pickup. There, he grabbed the tailgate with both hands and sized up the kid dressed head to toe in green coveralls. “I’m Seth Tucker. Understand you want to take my daughter out to a movie this afternoon.”
The boy had stopped a few feet away. Good. Showed the kid had some wits.
“I know who you are, Mr. Tucker. And, yeah, I’d like to take Hallie to a movie.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, almost eighteen.”
“She’s fifteen. Barely.”
“I’d never hurt her.”
“That’s what they all say.”
The boy aligned his shoulders. “I have a sister Hallie’s age. Anyone touched a hair on her head, I’d kill ’em.”
Seth scrutinized the boy’s brown eyes. “We’re not talking about your sister.”
The kid didn’t waver. “I know.”
“Good.”
“Mr. Tucker, I don’t—”
Seth stepped away from the truck. “You have her home within a half hour of the movie ending.”
Visibly relieved, the boy nodded. “Yessir.”
“Don’t want her mother getting upset.”
“Or you, sir.”
Kid was no slouch. “Or me,” he agreed and walked to the truck’s door. Tristan hadn’t moved. “Better get back to work, son, before Bill takes our gab session off your pay.”
He drove to work, whistling.
“When a woman stares into her cup without taking a sip, I’d say she’s got a purse full of man trouble.”
Breena raised her head, smiled at the owner of Kat’s Kafé.”
“Hey, Kat.”
The elderly waitress replaced Breena’s tepid coffee with steaming black. “Guy has a downright immoral heart, yes?”
“Shows that much, huh?”
“Honey, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve carried the same purse.”
“You? But you’re…”
“A granny? Doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of man ache. Ought to be man-iac, if you ask me.”
Breena laughed. “From a woman who understands.”
“You got it. Birds of a feather and all. Anything else I can get you, hon?”
“Yes. A contractor.”
“Planning to build something?”
Breena pushed aside her half-eaten toast. “I’m trying to win over Aunt Paige and get her to fix the shop’s walkway.”
“You go, girl,” Kat said, gray curls bouncing. “I’ve been nagging her about it for the last five years.”
Breena didn’t doubt it. Kat made sun-catchers in her spare time for Earth’s Goodness. A special bond existed between the waitress and Aunt Paige.
“There are some in this town,” Kat bent to Breena’s level, voice soft, “who’d love to see that little place torn down. They think it’s dozer bait and a fire hazard.”
Delwood Owens. Breena had heard him heckle Paige about retiring, about selling the house to a “real resident.” The old toad. Wait until he learned of her stake in the place.
Still, the walkway was a mess. Someone could get hurt, someone like Delwood Owens. Breena pictured pudgy legs flying, wide rump landing hard. She could envision the headlines in the Misty River Times: Shop Owner Takes Chev Olds Owner For A Loop.
She said, “The place is not going anywhere, Kat. So if you know a good contractor, one who won’t rip Paige off, I’d appreciate it.”
“Leave it with me.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” A pat to Breena’s shoulder and she was gone.
No, it’s not, but I’m glad you are. Twenty-eight days ago, the waitress had served Breena her first Misty River breakfast and had since spread her ample goodwill wing over her whenever Paige wasn’t available.
Sipping her coffee, Breena admired the world outside the window. Wednesday’s dawn crept across the thick timber range west of the river. Several dusty, work-worn pickups were angle parked in front of the café. First Street, she realized, sponsored a variety of local merchants. At this hour, traffic was spotty. Ah, such a prize, this sleepy-eyed ambience of Misty River.
She’d recognized its goodness that initial morning, after falling into bed at the Sleep Inn Motel, exhausted from the weighty war of Leo’s betrayal. And discovering he’d filched a portion of their accounts the day after she’d kicked him out….
How stupid she’d been.
For seven years, she’d loved him. And for seven months hated him. Now, shame ate her because, God forgive her stupidity, she hadn’t detected the nuances of those nonspeaking, nonsharing, nonneeding moments. While warding off the failings of others— Joan of Arc wielding the sword and shield of therapy—she hadn’t the sharpness or cleverness or astuteness to see the ashes of her own marriage.
Dr. Breena Quinlan, Crackerjack Counselor.
How callow she’d been.
Thank goodness for the trust fund her dad had opened on her eighteenth birthday, money to which she’d added over the years.
Money Leo couldn’t touch.
Forty-three thousand dollars.
Enough to keep the howlers at bay.
Enough to put a portion into another business.
And, quite possibly, into her dream of rambling roses around a deep porch. Of baked bread. Of homegrown vegetables.
Her rose-colored bubble dream—-the one of a loving man and sweet-faced children—-Breena had waved goodbye to long ago.
