He nods.
Then he clears his throat. “Evelyn Storm invited us to Thanksgiving at Wildhaven Storm.”
“She did?”
“Yes. At church this past Sunday.”
“All of us?” I ask.
“Yeah, of course. They’ve got that fancy new dining hall that Bryce built now. Caison and Marcia will be there this year.” He studies my face. “It’ll be easier on your mother. She can share the cooking with Evelyn, Irene, Imma Jean, and Marcia.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be welcome,” I say quietly.
His brows lift. “Why’s that?”
“Because I’m probably the Storm sisters’ least favorite person at the moment.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He chuckles. “We kinda thought you were becoming a little more than Shelby’s favorite person.”
I shake my head. “Nah. Pretty sure Shelby hates me.”
“Hates you?”
“Yeah. She’s hated me for years, apparently. I’ve been trying to mend those fences, but I wrecked it,” I say.
Pop’s expression softens. “Son, the thinnest line that exists is the one between love and hate.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep. Hate isn’t the opposite of love. Indifference is. If you walk into a room and her eyes skim right over you, or if you get a nod and a polite but vacant smile, the deck’s stacked against you. But if you walk in and the hair stands up on the back of her neck, if her glare shoots daggers straight through you and her skin flushes with anger? Then you’ve still got a chance.”
“A chance for what?”
“To figure it out,” he says.
“Figure what out?”
He leans forward, eyes sharp. “A woman doesn’t hold on to that kind of rage for no reason. As long as she’s holding on to it, you’ve got an opportunity. An opportunity to figure out what’s got her so tied up. And if you loosen that knot so she can let it go … ooh-wee.”
I snort. “You giving me women advice now, old man?”
“I’m giving you life advice, son.” He claps my shoulder. “Life can be hard. Cruel. It’ll take everything that means anything to you. But if you’re lucky enough to have a good woman by your side—one who won’t quit on you and, more importantly, one who won’t let you quit on yourself—you’ll be the wealthiest man alive, no matter what hand you’re dealt.”
He smiles. “And you’ll always land back on your feet. Because she won’t let you end up anywhere else.”
“Not everyone can find their own Priscilla Ludlow,” I say.
“Nah, the good Lord broke the mold when he made that woman,” he says, and then his eyes come to mine. “But those Storm girls? I’d say he did a mighty fine job, fashioning those young ladies too. And a man would be damn lucky to end up with one of them by his side.”
“Caison did,” I say.
He nods. “He did. And I’d like to think I had something to do with that.”
I shake my head. “The way I heard it told, you were the villain in that story.”
