Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
“Tulsa’s home. I figure she needs some food for a bit,” I tell her, grabbing the last few bags.
“Honey, that’s enough to last her a few weeks, let alone days. You’re a good man, Ledger Sinclair.” She pats my arm. I look at the back of my truck—paper towels, toilet paper, coffee, creamer, breakfast items, stuff to make sandwiches, because as far back as I can remember, Tulsa has always loved a good turkey and provolone sandwich with chips inside it, pickles stacked high in between. And then there are a few things she can make for dinner—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, the fixings for salads.
“Thank you, Mrs. Marble. I suppose you’re going to call my momma and let her know Tulsa is back in town and you just so happened to see me at the grocery store?” She’s one of the town busybodies, older in age, a widow herself. You’ve got to love small town living—everyone knows you, and there’s no going somewhere without bumping into someone.
“You’d be right about that. I’ll also be telling her how well raised you are.” It’s then I notice she’s pushing her own cart full of groceries. With my truck loaded with everything for Tulsa, I close the door and walk her toward her car.
“That’s a good thing, I suppose. Let me help you load your groceries.” It won’t take more than a few minutes, and I know she struggles with lifting the gallons of water she buys especially for her inside cat.
“You’re a dear. Now tell me, are you going to let Tulsa leave Orange Blossom again?” She holds on to my bicep as we walk the few cars down from mine until we arrive at hers.
“Noticed that, did you?” We stop in the middle of the path, me looking down at her as a sly smile alights her face.
“I see everything. You’re not answering my question, young man.” She opens the trunk to her car. I evade the subject for as long as I can until I’ve packed the few bags and jugs of water in her trunk, closing it when I’m done. Mrs. Marble is still standing there, keys in her hand, waiting for my response.
“Nope, I’m not letting her go. Montgomery might be rolling over in his grave or cussing me up a storm. I sent her off for her own good. She needed to get out of this town. Everyone would have only questioned her to death, driving her crazy. Mom may not have agreed with sticking to Mont’s last will and testament, but I had to do it. Not just for Tulsa but for myself, too,” I admit. Shit, the feelings I was having for her were not something I’d allow myself to navigate. The temptation, though, it had me worried about myself, and no way was I fucking around with her while she was not only underage, but she was also grieving. I’m an asshole, but not that much of one.
“Like I said, you’re a good man, Ledger. Thank you for loading my groceries. Go get to your girl. Something tells me she’ll need a meal here before too long.” I dip my head, kiss her cheek, and squeeze her hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Marble. I’ll see you around.” I leave her to get settled in the car. She’s right. Tulsa is probably starving, if she’s awake. Both she and her brother could sleep well into the day, not waking up until noon if they could get away with it. Tulsa was always the napper, though, on the lounge outside by the pool, in her window seat in her room after reading a magazine on some kind of home design, or in the living room on the couch while watching television.
I’m in my truck, seatbelt buckled and turning over the engine when my cell phone starts ringing. I look at the dash. It’s Ella, my secretary. I hit the end button on my steering wheel. She’s going to learn when I say I’m unavailable for the remainder of the day, that’s exactly what I mean. Damn, we’ve had this conversation a few times now. On the trips to Alabama, she’d call me over something mundane that my foreman could have answered, and now who the fuck knows what she wants. I tune it out, all of it, and turn the radio on, getting lost in the music as I make the trek back to Tulsa’s. A fifteen-minute ride along the near empty highway doesn’t take a lot of time. I will say as I pull onto the road that leads to my house and Tulsa’s, I kind of expected a phone call from my mother. Not receiving one has my hackles raised. You never know when a mother hen comes out to shake her tail feathers. My mom lives closer to town. I bought my house in my early twenties when it came up for sale before shit went sideways and I lost my best friend. Mom oftentimes questioned what I was doing after that happened but never gave unsolicited advice, only asked if I was sure that was what I should be doing. I drive past my long driveway, head to the Williams, and turn in. After a few winding curves, trees overhanging the dirt driveway, I’m parking beside her Tahoe. At least she didn’t get up and leave the house; that’s a plus in my book. I put my Ford F-250 diesel in park; I need it to pull the trailers when I’m on a jobsite. I don’t bother to bring my phone, keys in one hand to unlock the front door to the house and opening the back door of my truck to grab as many bags of groceries I can to take care of it in one trip. I can come back and grab the nonperishable stuff later. My main focus is on getting inside and checking on Tulsa. A few moments of intense juggling of opening the screen door, sliding the key into the deadbolt, pushing the bags in before my body so they don’t get stuck between the two doors, and I’m inside. The heel of my foot closes it. Only the quiet greets me, so I move toward the kitchen to put the bags of food on the counter, sorting through what goes in the fridge. Tulsa will no doubt sort through it and organize it the way she wants. The girl and her organization skills is one that still boggles my brain.