Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
My sister, Hazel, must’ve read my text and, instead of getting bail money, decided to go to jail with Aunt Etta. I’m so proud of her.
Hazel’s eyes are wild, her hair is piled on her head in something resembling a greasy rat’s nest, and there’s goopy stuff across her nose that looks half–scrubbed off. She must’ve been having an even more exciting Friday night than me. I know a hair mask and pore treatment when I see them after growing up with all women.
“You’re too late, sis. You probably passed Etta on the way here,” I tell her.
Etta lives in a small house on what used to be Gran’s property. It was a way for her to look after Gran when Gran got to the point that she needed it. After Gran passed, Hazel moved into Gran’s place, taking it and Gran’s foul-mouthed parrot under her care. And when she got married, her husband, Wyatt, moved in. Basically, it means that Hazel and Etta live a few hundred yards from each other, but somehow Hazel still missed her.
“Well, what’s going on?” she asks warily. “Did hell freeze over or did a black hole into an alternate timeline open up?”
I look at Hazel in surprise. Sci-fi is not her thing, but that rolled off her tongue like she knows what she’s talking about.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s some show Wyatt’s forcing me to watch,” Hazel remarks at my look. She grins, adding, “And by forcing me, I mean he rewards me in tongue licks for every minute I watch. It’s pretty devilish if I do say so myself. I think I’m corrupting him.”
Only my sister would pop off with that as a good thing.
“I don’t want to hear about what you and Wyatt do in the bedroom. Let’s play a game and I’ll tell you what’s up.” I spin, heading for the closest empty table.
Right behind me, Hazel clarifies, “Bedroom? We don’t have a TV in the bedroom. Studies show that couples who do have fifty percent less sex. Fifty percent, Jesse! No, we watch the TV in the living room like sex-having people do.”
I shake my head, mentally singing as loud as I can so I don’t hear her.
“Wait, the living room where we all sit on the couch when we come over?”
Hazel grins, and I shudder.
“I’m bringing over a plastic sheet to sit on,” I declare. “Or sitting at the kitchen table from now on.”
“Been there, done it on that too.” She wiggles her dark eyebrows, making sure I know exactly what she’s saying.
I drop my head, pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes. I repeat the mantra I have so many times since Hazel and Wyatt got married. “She’s not my problem now. She’s not my problem now.”
But that’s not true. My family is the most important thing to me—good or bad, ugly or pretty.
I wait until Hazel is aiming at the cue ball to tell her, “You still have pore shit on your nose.”
She makes three balls on the break anyway.
Chapter 2
WREN
“Hey, Mom, sorry I’m late for dinner. Work was crazy,” I shout as I enter my parents’ home, tossing my purse to the marble-topped table in the foyer and praying it doesn’t knock over the vase of fresh flowers. Maria must’ve made something spicy tonight because it tickles my nose, even over the smell of the bouquet. My stomach growls as I click-clack as fast as I can across the tile floor, pulled toward the kitchen.
“No worries, honey.” Despite her patience, Mom’s sitting at the table with a glass of sparkling water that’s ready for a refresh, obviously waiting for me for our Monday night mother-daughter catch-up dinner. I give her shoulders a hug, and then I do the same greeting for Maria, my near–second mother who’s stirring a big pot of rice on the stove. There are several other pots, too, but they have lids, so I don’t get to sneak a peek at what she’s whipped up. And I know better than to try, because she’ll whack my hand with the wooden spoon she can wield as well as a knight with a sword.
“Smells delicious.”
“Thank you, mija. Sit down and I’ll get you and Ms. Pamela a plate.” She gestures at the table with her spoon and then opens a pot, getting a face full of steam in the process. Maria and her husband, Leo, have worked for my parents since before I was born, and have kept this family going through good and bad. Catching up with Mom might be the reason for my visit tonight, but Maria’s cooking is a close second.
“What’s happening at work?” Mom asks, genuinely curious, as I sit down beside her.
Her reputation is a lot to live up to, though I try every day. Pamela Ford has officially been “the mayor’s wife” for most of her adult life, standing steadfastly at my father’s side while raising three kids, acting as Junior League president, volunteering for the PTA, and serving a killer backhand on the tennis court. Despite her lack of “official” work, she’s supporting and understanding of what I go through as the newly minted city attorney for Cold Springs.