“Of course I do. But that doesn’t mean I want you to stay there twenty-four hours a day.”
“I’m not home that often, but I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to get that I like things the way they are?”
“Because I know you. And you don’t,” she said, crossing her legs and arching her back.
The band finally finished whatever country song they were massacring and sauntered off the stage to minimal clapping and a few apathetic wolf-whistles. I strained my neck, looking around and hoping another band wasn’t going to take their place. The emcee, with his ridiculous bolo tie, jogged back to themicrophone and held up his hands, motioning for the crowd to cease their lackluster applause.
“We’re going to take a fifteen-minute break, folks. Then we’ll be back with Mrs. Johnson’s class from the local elementary school singing their rendition of ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’.”
I cringed, wincing like the sun’s rays had directly pierced my eyeballs, as Mom patted my shoulder and laughed. The irritation I felt melted as I turned to face her, taking in the laugh lines around her mouth and the twinkling of her eyes. Her happiness was palpable, and I owed it to her to stop with the attitude and enjoy the afternoon.
If my mood change made her forget about our current conversation, then all the better for me. Regardless of what she thought, things werefinethe way they were.
“Can I interest you in another shandy and a walk over to the pumpkin patch?”
She arched an eyebrow and stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder and smiling. I followed, stepping down two risers and then turning and offering her my hand. We stayed clear of the sand mountain, and I basked in the comfortable noise around us, taking a deep breath as we got farther away from the crowd.
The beer tent was blissfully empty and provided relief from the sun as I tapped my fingers on my thigh, waiting for Mom to choose. When she ordered the same thing, I rolled my eyes but smiled, passing a twenty over and sticking a five into the tip jar.
“I won’t be placated with beer and pumpkins,” she said as I dug the koozie out of my back pocket and slipped the plastic cup into it.
I punched my fist against my thigh and groaned. “I’m not placating you.”
“Perhaps not, but you’re so accustomed to the way things are that you’ve gotten complacent. It’s no way to live.”
“I—I know,” I said, dropping my head to my chest and watching as my hat fell to the ground. “Can we talk about something else, please?”
Mom retrieved it, handing it back and shaking her head before turning toward the children running through the pumpkin patch. “Of course we can. I’m going to need at least four large pumpkins for my fall decorations, and I’ve made a list of all the supplies for the pups. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something, so why don’t we get the pumpkins and head over to the pet store?”
“Okay. I’m sure I have some things from when Malibu was younger.”
“Superb,” she said, threading her arm with mine and motioning to a pumpkin that would certainly make my back ache in the morning. “I knew I could count on you.”
Chapter 2
Itilted my headand watched from the back porch as he adjusted strands of twinkle lights strung around a large picnic table, his tattoos peeking out above his collar and beneath his sleeves.
Did the tattoos cover his back? What about his chest? Did they snake around his torso and down toward his thighs? Of all the things I could have wondered about on this dreary Wednesday morning, tattoos should have been the last thing on my mind.
I gripped the certified letter that had arrived yesterday, creasing the sides as I tore my eyes away from the elusive neighbor and reread the words that had occupied my thoughts since I’d ripped it open.
Inheritance.
Heir.
Estranged.
My second cup of coffee did little to alleviate the anxiety that had taken root in my belly as I mulled over my life—all while pretending I wasn’t stealing glances at the man across the yard.
I wondered why he had a permanent scowl across his sharp features. Or why he’d shown up at the condo that shared a large backyard with my dad’s, only to sulk around the yard, taking over an hour to complete some mundane task that would have taken the average person five minutes. His constant muttering carried across the space, a low, gravelly voice that would normally have my panties wet if he didn’t exude the personality of a dirty dishrag.
It would have made my life easier to only wonder about the small, stupid things I’d observed from the porch, but nothing about my life was easy these days. Perhaps that’s why I pushed aside the drama and spent my time obsessing over tattoos on a man who’d maybe spoken three words to me since I moved in.
It wasn’t that I had anything against the ink. I just failed to see the appeal of permanent marks on your body. Sure, that cute little butterfly looked fabulous on your lower back when you were twenty. But fast-forward thirty years, and the poor thingwas now a droopy buzzard with sad eyes and muted colors—not that my non-inked body was anything to write home about.
I tugged the elastic from the top of my head, shaking my hair as it fell over my eyes and obstructed the view of Mr. Personality next door.
The certified letter felt like a sick joke. It was too good to be true, right? Some unknown relative from some faraway country left me a ridiculous amount of money, and I only found out they existed via a piece of mail that arrived less than a week after I left my cheating husband and moved in with my dad.
