Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Speaking of Anneliese,” I say. “I’ve run into her a couple of times this week.”
Lynnette leans back, crossing her legs. “You don’t say?”
“Saw her at a bar and then again at a bookshop.” I decide not to mention the fact that I showed up at her doorstep last Sunday, because I have a feeling Lynnette would rip me a new one. It was a dick move, but there’s no easy way to drop that kind of bombshell on someone. I’ve always been the kind to rip off the Band-Aid. Drawing things out only causes unnecessary suffering. “She’s dead set on fixing up the house.”
“I’m sure it reminds her of your brother. She’s probably still grieving.”
“She can grieve anywhere she wants—just not there,” I say. “And I don’t know how much grief has to do with it. Sounds like Donovan made off with her money.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She didn’t elaborate. Something about an account that was only in his name.” It doesn’t feel right to go into detail, to air her dirty laundry like small-town gossip.
“Good Lord.” Lynnette clucks her tongue. “Well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a little heart.”
I learned a long time ago that being soft gets you nowhere in this world.
“Anyway.” I take a bite of cake.
“How’s the Pine Grove Motel treating you so far?” Lynnette asks with a twinkle in her eye.
I fork another bite rather than answer her.
She laughs. “That’s what I thought. Wish I had some space for you. My sister’s staying until Lord only knows when because now that she’s retired, she’s got all the time in the world. I told you she’s retired now, right? She takes the opportunity to remind me every chance she gets. Maybe one of these days I’ll get to know what it’s like to be retired. Then again, I don’t know what I’d do with myself with all that free time. Anyway, Bryce gets back next month. I could put you in his room, but it’d be temporary.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
Lynnette slants her gaze. “You just have shit timing, is all I’m trying to say.”
I was thinking about finding a short-term rental, but the only places that will rent to someone with no job are the kind of places that make the Pine Grove Motel look like a Sandals all-inclusive resort.
“It’d be nice if I could stay at my own damn house,” I say.
Lynnette pitches forward, shrugging. “Well . . . why don’t you?”
I sniff a laugh and almost choke on my cake. “Highly doubt Anneliese would be on board with that. I may or may not have told her I plan to burn the place down.”
She swats the air. “Just can’t help yourself, can you?”
If there’s anything I hate in this world, it’s liars.
I’m honest to a fault.
“You told me the other day you did a lot of construction work overseas,” she says. “Why don’t you . . . I don’t know . . . offer to help her fix the place up in exchange for a room there?”
“Work for free so I can stay in a house that’s legally mine . . .”
“I’m not saying the situation isn’t screwed seven ways from Sunday, but you need a place to stay, and I’m sure she could use some help cleaning the place up, and maybe—just maybe—by the time it’s over, you’ll finally pull your head out of your ass and realize you’re better off selling it than burning it to the ground.”
I’ve daydreamed about watching that place go up in flames more times than I care to admit.
I lean back in my chair, pull in a long breath, and give it some thought.
She may be onto something.
NINE
ANNELIESE
heimat (n.) a place that you call home
“What are you doing here?” I answer the door Friday night to the man who’s beginning to become a regular fixture in my life.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced again. I’d have called, but I don’t have your number.” Lachlan’s gaze skims past me and into the darkness of the house.
I’ve only been home thirty minutes—long enough to throw on some shabby, paper-thin pajamas, wrap my hair into a messy bun, and warm up some leftovers. I was about to uncork a bottle of red and cue a movie on Netflix when I heard the knock on the door.
I pull the baggy neckline of my shirt over my exposed shoulder, suddenly grossly aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.
“Can I help you?” I ask, repeating the words I’ve said a couple of hundred times this week at the bookshop. I thought remodeling a house was a lot of work . . . it’s nothing compared to retail. I don’t know how Flo does it—standing on her feet for hours on end, forcing smiles to placate grumpy patrons, essentially being stuck in a twenty-foot-by-thirty-foot room all day that smells like paper and the passing of time.