So now we have an accurate assessment of my new renter’s maturity level. Perfect. “She told him his behaviour was inappropriate for a garden party and asked him to put his clothes on and go home before she had the police come and collect him. Now, do you want oatmeal?”
“Can I have chocolate chips and bacon in it?” Isabelle asks.
Relieved that she’s moved on from discussing the full-bummed, built man I was just staring at, I say, “Ten chocolate chips, but only if you eat your banana slices.”
CHAPTER 13
The Glamours of Shed-Living
Leo
I have honestly never felt as ridiculous as I do at this moment. I’m in the passenger seat of Jolene-My-Parole-Officer’s car, as she drives me, along with my luggage, over to Bree’s house. As per my stupid contract, she has to approve of the accommodations before she hands over the $500 for my deposit.
Since I don’t have my first paycheck yet, I’ve had to beg Pierce for some seed money—$300 to cover the rest of the first and last month’s rent, as well as enough cash for some groceries. He lent me $400 but made me sign an I.O.U. that states I’ll pay him back with 5% interest. Prick.
Jolene, who I’ve discovered isn’t big on small talk, is, however, big on American country music from the nineties. We’re currently listening to a fellow named Garth Brookes, who apparently has many friends in low places. To be honest, it’s sort of catchy, even if it does make me desperate for whiskey and beer to chase all my troubles away. Jolene being problem numero uno.
As we turn into a residential area called Old Fort Bay, the houses shrink in size. Each one is painted a different primary or pastel colour, making the neighbourhood appear as though it was decorated by the Easter Bunny. Palm trees hover over the streets as though waving you in to a more relaxed life.
I glance at Jolene, who is tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. “So, Jolene, I was wondering if I can ask you a favour.”
“You can ask, but the answer is most likely a hard no.”
“What are the chances I could hold the money so as to avoid the embarrassment of needing you to pay my landlady?”
“Zero to none,” she says.
“Brilliant,” I mutter, staring out the window as we slow in front of my home for the next six months—a baby-blue house with an ancient rust-coloured Toyota parked out front. An elderly woman sits on the front steps eating from a baggie while she watches a young girl, who I can only presume to be Bree’s daughter, ride around the driveway on her tricycle. A man who very much resembles Jerry Garcia in a shorty robe stands on the grass watching the girl. Christ, that must be Bree’s husband which means I’m going to have to see that when I wake up each morning.
Jolene pulls to a stop and takes the key out of the ignition. Leaning forward, she peers past me out the window and snorts. “You’re certainly moving down in life, hey?”
Before I can answer, she snorts again, which turns into a cackle as she gets out of the car. Suddenly, none of this seems like a good idea. Why would I rent a place from my surly boss who clearly doesn’t want me here? I close my eyes, reminding myself this will all be worth it. In six months, I’ll have earned my way back into the luxurious world of the Davenport clan. Sixlong, horrible, soul-sucking, humiliating months.
I get out of the car and give the woman on the step and the man a quick wave. “Hello, I’m Leo, and this is my…Jolene,” I say, pointing to my parole officer, who is now leaning on the front corner of her car lighting a cigarette.
I open the trunk and remove my suitcases, feeling very much like I’m on the clock.
The little girl cycles over and tilts her head back so she can study me. “I’m Isabelle. You is tall.”
“Thanks. And you is a terrific cyclist.”
“I know,” she says with a shrug before she executes a wide turn and peddles away toward the bearded man. She points a thumb over her shoulder and tells him, “He’s our new renter man. That’s him’s friend.”
I smile at the man and take two steps up the driveway, putting down one of my bags to shake his hand. “I’m Leo. You must be Bree’s husband.”
He holds out his hand. “Jerry. I live next door actually.”
Jerry. For real?“Good to meet you.”
“My mummy doesn’t have a husband. She says men are pointless.”
“Now, Izzy, that’s girl talk.” The older woman stands and walks over to meet me, her steps much livelier than I had expected. “It’s true, but it’s also not something men generally like to know. I’m Dolores. Bacon?”
She holds out the soggy baggy filled with greasy brown strips.
“Thank you, no. I just had breakfast.”
“So? Bacon is just for fun.” She turns to Jolene and gestures toward her. “Bacon?”
