CHAPTER 9
EVERYWHERE I GO, THERE YOU ARE
Van
I don’t have time to wallow in self-pity, unfortunately, or obliterate brain cells with alcohol, neither of which would be particularly productive. The alarm on my phone reminds me that I have an appointment with Bernie, the lawyer who dealt with my grandmother’s will.
I should’ve done this months ago, but I wasn’t in the headspace to manage it. There’s some irony in the fact that the moment I arrived to finally deal with things here, my life in Chicago turned upside down. I’d rationalized that as much as I loved Grammy Bee, she wasn’t leaving behind much. Just the cottage and a lot of junk to sort through. I’ve always loved the place, but cleaning it up wasn’t a job I had the time to take on. Now all I have is time.
I hop in the truck, the springs in the seat squealing in protest (although almost everything in this truck protests), and make a stop at the dump—again—before I drive into town. The law office is on the edge of downtown in a small outbuilding on the same piece of property as Bernie’s house. It’s actually the office for the only town lawyer, an accountant, the city planner, and an art therapist. I’m not sure what the therapist has to do with law and accounting, but there it is.
When I get there, my favorite surly neighbor happens to be coming out of the building. She’s with a guy on crutches. He’s tall and thin, with the same sandy-blond hair, his a shorter mop of curls. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s her younger brother. I never saw much of him when I stayed with Grammy Bee, but then again, I didn’t see much of Dillion either.
I pull into the spot beside her truck, purposely crowding the driver’s side door. I’m about ten minutes early for my appointment, so instead of heading inside, I cut the engine and wait.
She frowns when she sees the truck, and her eyes turn to slits when she spots the narrow gap I’ve left between our vehicles. The side mirrors are almost touching. Her tongue pokes at the almost-closed gap between her front teeth, and she knocks on the hood of my truck.
I wave.
“What the heck?” She motions toward the space between our vehicles.
I pretend I can’t hear her and tap my ear. Her brother continues around to the passenger side, not even sparing her a glance.
“You can hear me just fine, asshole!” she shouts.
I can’t help it. I grin. Man, she’s fun to piss off, and it seems to be something I excel at. Annoying her is a bright spot in my otherwise lackluster day.
Her nostrils flare, and she pushes her side mirror in so she can get between the trucks without having to do the limbo. Her face appears in the passenger-side window, eyes on fire. She makes the roll-down-the-window motion with her hand.
I slide across the bench seat and roll it down a couple of inches. She arches a brow, so I roll it down a few more, until it’s below her eye level. She’s not short, but she’s not particularly tall either, so it’s about halfway down. “I got the check, thanks for that.”
“Awesome. Do you think you could move your truck over, oh, say, about a foot?”
I ignore the question. “Did you just come from the lawyer’s office?”
Her elbows jut out, which makes me believe that she’s propped her fists on her hips. “That’s actually none of your business.”
“Or maybe you were visiting the art therapist, talking about your anger issues and such.” I tip my head, waiting for her reaction.
“I don’t have anger issues!”
“Then why are you yelling at me?”
“What is your deal? I don’t get you. This morning you were all ‘gorgeous this’ and ‘beautiful that’ and doing whatever the heck you were doing downtown, and now you’re boxing my damn truck in. Why are you such a confusing asshole?”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“Because you want to subdivide Bee’s lot. Or sell. Or build a freaking McMansion on it!”
“I’m not subdividing Bee’s lot. Or selling. I already told you that.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Why shouldn’t you? And this morning your expression said everything, so I figured I’d save that guy from getting punched in the nuts—although I’m kind of regretting that I didn’t do it myself, since he seems to think you’re interested in getting on your back for him. Or your knees.”
“Excuse me?”
“Those were his words, not mine.”
Her lip curls. “Tucker is a delusional jackass. I would do neither of those things, even if he was the last man on earth.”
At least I was right about that.
The horn blares in Dillion’s truck, and she fires the bird at the window behind her. “Just a second, Billy!” She blows out a breath. “Think you’d mind giving me some room to get into my truck?”
I roll the window down the rest of the way and poke my head out. I’m so close to her I can smell her shampoo. Her breath breaks across my cheek. It smells like cherry candy.
I meet her somewhat annoyed gaze. “Guess I’m kinda close, huh?”
“Kinda? There’s no way you could get out of the passenger side without hitting my truck!”
“I could probably manage.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
I’m having way too much fun with her, so I make a move to open the door.
“What’re you doing? You’re going to crush me!”
“Well, move out of the way and I won’t.”
“You’re impossible!”
“And you’re like one of those little windup toys, bouncing around all pissed off.”
“I am not!” She tries to cross her arms, but there isn’t enough room between her and the truck.
I grin, and she frowns, brows furrowing. “Oh my God. Are you doing this on purpose? Was this intentional?” She motions to the lack of space between our vehicles, mouth agape.
My smile widens. “Why would I do that?”
She snaps her mouth shut and points a finger at me. “You’re infuriating.”
“I know. And you’re fun to rile up.” I waggle my brows at her.
“I can’t even.” She turns around between the trucks, though it isn’t easy.
“You’re welcome for saving you from Tucker the Fucker.”
“I didn’t need saving.” She opens her door and shimmies into the driver’s seat.
“Kinda seemed like you did.”
She slams the door closed and turns the engine over. The window whirs down as she puts the truck in gear. “I can hold my own with Tucker.”
“You’re still welcome. Maybe I’ll see you later tonight. I’m planning to take a shower around eight thirty, in case you wanted to schedule your home invasion accordingly!” I shout as she drives away.
Her hand appears, the middle finger aimed at me, as she pulls out of the parking lot and back onto the road.
I don’t bother rolling the window up or locking the truck. No one is going to try to steal this hunk of junk.
I’m in a much better mood as I head into the lawyer’s office. I’m a couple of minutes late, thanks to my conversation with Dillion, but no one seems to care if you’re on time around here. Appointment times appear to be a suggestion more than anything.
Bernie is an older man who looks to be in his late sixties, possibly early seventies. He’s missing most of his hair, wears bifocals, and has huge eyebrows that remind me of caterpillars. His desk is organized chaos, stacks of manila folders arranged around it. A twelve-inch space is carved out in the middle, almost like a door or a window, so I can see him. It would annoy the crap out of me to work like that.
He plunks himself down in his faded leather chair. The arms are so worn that the leather has split and the foam padding peeks through. “I think I remember you from when you used to come visit Bee in the summers. Or was that your brother?”
“My brother never really came—maybe only for a few weeks when we were younger.” He would have spent the entire summer lounging by the pool at our house i
n Chicago if that had been an option, but it wasn’t. Bradley has always been driven by the almighty dollar, and he couldn’t stand the clutter at Grammy Bee’s, or her eccentricities. He also isn’t a fan of bugs. Or manual labor. There was a lot of both when we visited. Grammy Bee never let me sit on my ass and do nothing all summer.
“Ah, yes. Now I remember. You stayed the whole summer up until college. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I hope you’ve changed your mind and decided not to sell the property. When you’re able, anyway. Besides, getting town approval on subdividing isn’t likely to happen.”
I frown. I have to wonder if Dillion said something to him. “I’m not planning to sell, or subdivide. Can I ask where you heard that?”
His bushy brows pull together. “Um, from you? We spoke on the phone once, right after Bee’s death.”
“No, we didn’t.” Is there something in the water in this town?
Bernie looks confused but pushes on. “Sometimes people get forgetful after someone passes away. It’s not uncommon. You asked me how much land there was and what the value was. You also wanted to know whether you could parcel off the land to sell, or if it would be worth more to put a single-family dwelling up.”
“I would definitely remember that conversation. Which we didn’t have. And I’m not planning to sell.” I could never do that to Grammy.
He folds his hands on his desk and smiles patiently. “Hmm. Well, is it possible someone else might have called on your behalf? Maybe your family lawyer?”
“Maybe?” It’s possible my dad’s lawyer called. Another thought I don’t like. Especially with everything else that’s going on right now.
“Ah, well, it’s good to hear you’re staying. Let’s review everything, shall we?”
We go through the details of the will, which are straightforward. My sister and brother both received checks for $50,000 each, the value of one-third of the standing cottage. At least at the time the will was written. Things have changed in the past couple of decades, with all the renovated mansion-style cottages on the other side of the lake. Regardless, I’ve inherited everything else, which consists of the property and all its contents. A small amount is left in the bank, but most of it was cleared out by the checks to my brother and sister. By the end of the meeting, I’ve signed everything I need to get it all transferred into my name.
On my way back through town, I decide to stop at the bar. I miss socializing and friends. So far the only people I’ve spoken much to are cashiers and Dillion. Although Frankie and Chip have both reached out, it’s not the same as hitting the bar or the golf course. I’m not even particularly good at golf. I just play because my friends do.
I scan the bar, take one of the empty seats near the end of the row, and order a glass of their best whiskey—which is pretty cheap shit. It tastes like lighter fluid and smells about the same.
Two women who are most definitely locals take the seats to the right of me. I know they’re local because they’re fresh faced and natural looking, not overpolished like most of the women in Chicago. Like they’ve already added the Snapchat filter so they’re always social media–post ready. These ladies look low maintenance.
Also, they order beer.
Usually the women at the bars Frankie and I used to frequent would drink martinis or wine.
I raise my glass. “Evening, ladies.”
They arch their eyebrows in sync and look around the bar. It’s full of townies. “You should probably head next door if you’re looking for a good time, buddy,” the one closest to me says.
“My good time is right here.” I tap my glass.
The two women start talking to each other, mostly ignoring me but giving me the occasional side-eye. The TV above the bar is set to a dirt bike competition, so I focus on that while I eavesdrop.
“Tommy said he took the mailbox right out, and you know that was a steel post anchored in, like, six feet of concrete,” Woman One says.
“Do you think that’s why Darlin’ came back? Because of the accident?” Woman Two asks.
“Who knows? But Sue is fair well losin’ her damn mind over it, thinking she’s gonna try ’n’ steal her man.”
Woman Two rolls her eyes. “That man can’t keep his pants zipped to save his life. I heard Sue’s only staying with him because of the baby, and she doesn’t want to have to move back in with her parents or get government assistance.”
“Excuse me.” My mouth works before my brain does.
Both women turn to look at me.
“I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but would you two happen to know a woman named Dillion?”
Woman One’s eyes narrow. “What’s it to ya?”
“I’m her neighbor.”
That gets me some more raised eyebrows. “You have a place on the south side?”
“My grammy did. Grandma, I mean. Bee Firestone.”
“You’re Bee Firestone’s grandson?” Woman One seems to be the talker of the two. This gets me another head-to-waist visual inspection.
“Yeah. She gave me the cottage. So I’m living there now. Next door to Dillion. Who everyone apparently calls Darlin’ for whatever reason. There isn’t even an r in Dillion, so I don’t get how that even happens.”
Woman Two laughs, big and loud.
“Why is that funny?”
They look at each other. “Because Dillion is nobody’s darling.”
“And that’s funny?”
“Look, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Dillion was always determined to get her ass out of here, and she did. Worked hard to do it too,” Woman One says, slightly defensively.
“When you come from a place like this, you can try to fly all you want, but your roots always bring you back,” Woman Two says.
They clink their glasses and take another drink.
“Right. Of course.” But I don’t really get what they mean, because I’ve never lived here. Sure, I’m happy to be back, in part because it reminds me of good times and Grammy Bee, but also because it means escaping Chicago and all the crap that’s currently going down as a result of the missing money.
I don’t know what it’s like to come from a small town. I only know what it’s like to visit one. But I guess I’m learning, because here I am, sitting in the local bar, not fitting in because I’m from the city, when really, the only place I’ve ever felt comfortable is where I am right now. Not the bar, but Grammy Bee’s.
I keep sipping my drink, listening to the two women whisper-gossip about everyone in town. Apparently Tucker the Fucker has earned that title. It’s amazing how much everyone is up in everyone else’s business.
“Oh hell.” Woman One nudges Woman Two. “Speak of the devil.”
I follow their gaze across the bar. Leaning against the wall near the pool tables is Dillion’s brother.
“Has he lost weight? He looks thinner, doesn’t he?” Woman Two observes.
“Mmm. He was always lean, like a runner, but I don’t know—he’s not looking good these days.”
“Too bad, really. He’s a good-looking guy, but a real mess.”
“Didn’t Sadie McAlister go out with him for a while?”
“That’s right. I heard he got her pregnant, but she miscarried.”
“He’s had a rough go of things, eh? Makes you wonder if some of his sister’s shine is eventually going to rub off on him one of these days. Lord knows he could use it.”
They sigh and sip their beers.
I sit there for a while, listening as their conversation veers away from Dillion’s brother. I can’t imagine how hard it must be, living in a place where everyone knows about the mistakes you’ve made. It would make it impossible to live things down, or hide who you are. I watch Billy pound beer after beer. It’s not my place to intervene, especially since he doesn’t even know me.
A guy with a full-sleeved tattoo takes the seat beside mine—it’s the only empty one left—and the bartender nods to him. “The usual, Aaron?”
“You got it.” He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, sets it on the bar in front of him, and then turns to give me a nod. “You’re new around here, yeah?”
“That obvious, huh?”
He cracks a smile. “Everyone knows everyone. You’re familiar but not known, if you know what I mean.” He holds out his hand. “Aaron Saunders. I’m a local.”
“Van Firestone. I’m staying at Bee Firestone’s place.”
His grin widens. “You’re the grandson. The one she left the cottage to.”
If I was in Chicago, this conversation would be unnerving, but I’m finally figuring out small-town life. People knowing things about you is not weird here. “Uh, yup. That’s me.”
“You’re driving my friend Dillion up the wall these days.”
“You’re friends with Dillion?” I want to ask what kind of friend, but I bite back the question.
“I work with her, for her dad’s construction company.” He flips open his wallet and pulls out a ten-dollar bill. “She seems to think you’re working on Bee’s place for no reason, since you plan to sell. Or build or whatever. Gotta say, not much rattles Dee, but you sure seem to.”
“A lot of people think I’m planning to do a lot of things with Bee’s place, none of them accurate.” I kind of like the fact that I get under her skin enough that she’s talked to this guy about me.
The bartender returns with Aaron’s drink. At first I think it’s a Guinness with an excessive amount of head. But I realize it’s ice cream floating in a glass of root beer. Aaron tips his head in the direction of Dillion’s brother. “Can you do me a favor and pour me a pint of the near-beer stuff for Billy? I don’t think he needs to drink any more, judging from the state of him.”
“You got it. I was getting ready to cut him off, but the poor guy has had it rough. Don’t want to bruise the ego if I don’t have to.”
“Thanks.” The bartender takes the money and returns a minute later with a pint that Aaron delivers to Billy. He sits with him for a few minutes but then gets called to the nearby pool tables.
Aaron motions me over, and I join him and his buddies for a round of pool that turns into several hours.
Love Next Door Page 10