by Louisa West
All three women were now stealing glances at the house beyond her, trying to gather clues about her life.
“I’m sure it will keep me busy,” Rosie said, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her. Prissy recovered first.
“Oh, busy’s the only way to be!” she chirped.
“Prissy’s only the busiest woman in Mosswood,” Tammy chimed in. “She’s the head of the PTA, president of our sewing circle – and,” Tammy drawled, making it clear that she’d left the best for last, “She’s married to Pastor Bishop.” Tammy sighed in a way that said she wouldn’t mind being married to the pastor herself.
“We’re all members of the congregation at Hand of God Southern Baptist,” Leanne added.
Rosie lifted her chin as she realized where this was going and jingled her keys by way of excuse. “It’s so kind of y’all to stop by like this, but I’m just on my way out.”
“Oh, we totally understand!” Prissy crowed, so thrilled to play a round of Southern Hospitality that she didn't miss a beat. “We’ll only take up a moment of your time. We’re just here to invite you to join us this Sunday,” she lowered her voice. “It would be such a nice way for you to meet everyone and introduce your little one to the other kids in town. You have a daughter if I'm not mistaken?”
She barely felt like she had time to get a word in edgewise. “Yes, Maggie.”
“Well, she is just gonna love Miss Hattie, our Sunday School teacher. All the kids do. And it’s such a relief knowing they’re making the right kinds of friends when they’re in church, isn’t it?” Prissy nodded her head sympathetically.
“Um, well—”
“Tammy, here, is the head of the choir if you’re interested, and LeeAnn runs our newsletter. We brought you a copy.” She handed over the newest edition of the Herald of Hope. Prissy and the same man were on the cover, this time washing cars.
“Look, that’s really nice—” Rosemary said, but Prissy interrupted.
“Nonsense! What kind of people would we be if we didn’t invite our new neighbor to join in fellowship with us?” She shook her head with that fake smile still on full blast. “Sunday service starts at nine, and we sure hope to see you there. And if you can’t make it, not to worry. It’s on the local radio station every Sunday.”
The local radio station, Rosie thought? Lord help me.
Prissy stepped off the porch, and the other two women followed without her having to say anything else. “Now, we’re just gonna get out of your hair and let you get back to your runnin’ around!”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Rosie called. She was more drained by those few minutes than she had been by a full day of cleaning!
Tammy didn’t get very far down the yard before she turned as though she had just remembered something. “I meant to ask,” she began, “Ms. Wallace—over at Wallace Realty—mentioned that there’s no man around the house?”
Rosie couldn’t stop her signature sarcastic eyebrow from quirking. “That’s right,” she said. “And no plans to have one join us anytime soon.”
“Oh,” Tammy corrected herself with a shy smile, “I didn’t mean that. I just meant, well, would it be alright if I sent my husband down to offer a hand with things around here? He’s real handy.”
Rosie stood up straighter at the first real friendliness any of the three women had shown her. “I’m sure I could find something for him to do.” She tilted her head as she inspected the other woman and returned her smile. “Thanks.”
Tammy smiled wider, as Prissy took a step back toward them. “Why, Tammy, you really are the sweetest thing! And she’s the best babysitter in Mosswood, even though she doesn’t have any of her own.” Prissy placed a hand on Tammy's forearm. “But never mind, dear. The good Lord blesses us all in different ways, I’m sure.”
Tammy looked as though she’d been punched in the gut, and in a way, Rosie supposed she had. Prissy's punishment for unsanctioned Christian-ing was certainly swift. She felt a profound sadness roll off the plump woman as she turned to follow Prissy to a large white SUV. The horn beeped as Prissy unlocked it and began to climb into the cab.
“You let us know if you need anything!” she called before slamming the driver's side door.
As she watched the expensive ride take off down her driveway, there were two things Rosie knew for sure. Prissy Bishop was the most influential woman in town. And, Rosie thought as she unlocked the door and went back inside, she didn’t like her one bit.
Fresh night air soothed her frayed heart as Rosie swayed on the porch swing that hung in front of Fox Cottage. The chains creaked as she pushed off with her toes, one leg curled beneath her, a glass of wine cradled in her lap. The cicadas in the trees would ramp up their song like an old car struggling to start, and then once one got going, the rest would join in, humming all together in a high-pitched buzz until they sputtered out one by one and waited for the conductor to wind them up again.
The wine was the one she had found in the cabinet, with the funky label meant to look antique. She had expected the wine to taste like straight vinegar, but it must have been well-preserved in the back of the cabinet despite the warm weather. It even felt cold in the bottle. She felt her nervous energy dulling and hoped tonight, finally, she might be able to get some decent sleep.
She was peering out into the inky blackness of the forest surrounding the cottage when she froze. The warm cozy feeling from the wine and the cicada song melted away.
A man was standing in the shadows by the magnolia tree at the end of her drive.
If it were any later in the evening or she’d had more than three sips of wine, she might have thought she imagined it. But the shadow's shoulders were too broad to be part of her imagination. As she reached to switch off the porch light to improve her night vision, the guy stepped out of the darkness. He made his way up the drive towards the house.
Ice flooded Rosie’s veins. The man was tall—really tall. Much too tall to be Randy, but he could be someone Randy sent.
Her grip on her glass slipped. It fell to the deck and smashed, and Rosie, who was barefoot, stepped back away from the glass. She looked back up at the approaching shadow.
If this dude, whoever he was, wanted trouble, then she would rather find out sooner than later. She summoned every ounce of strength she possessed and lifted her chin in defiance.
“Can I help you?” she called across the darkness between them, hearing his boots crunch on the gravel as he approached. A light chuckle drifted towards her from his direction.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be helpin’ you, darlin’.” His words slurred together, and he had such a strong Irish accent that she took a second to make out the words. “But thanks very much for the offer.”
“Well then,” she said, “that’s easy! You can help me by getting the fuck off my property.”
He stepped into view, revealed by the golden porch light spilling over him. He was tall – more than six feet, she guessed. His broad shoulders hunched as he walked, his thick arms ending in hands stuffed into his pockets. His trunk was sturdy rather than trim like a starving Hollywood actor, as though he had come by his bulk through honest labor rather than striving for fashion. He swayed as he shuffled closer to the porch.
“Such language from a lady,” he tutted. “You’ll have to be calming down the cursing when ya crowned.”
She’d been fixing to let loose a string of cuss words that would make a sailor blush when he threw her for a loop.
“Crowned?” she asked, arching an eyebrow high. Clearly, he was drinking much stronger stuff than she was.
“Aye.” He rested one boot on the bottom step of her porch, the smell of whiskey wafting up to greet her. He dipped his head, extending one hand in a theatrical gesture. “Not long now, my Queen.”
He threw his head back, his voice ringing out like a bell in the cool night air. “We'll unite our kingdoms and fulfill the prophecy at last!”
Rosie glared at him for a long mome
nt. Who was this guy? And then she remembered what Carol-Ann had said about the neighbor in the camper trailer. She stood up straighter. Oh. She would have to remember to get onto Carol-Ann for her little white lies. She had been expecting a beer-bellied old hunter type, not Beefcake O'Whiskeybreath over here.
“Prophecy. Right...” She went to take a step backward towards the door, and then remembered the broken glass on the deck. She glanced down to find a clear path, and when she looked up, he had leaped up the porch steps and was standing beside her.
“Allow me, my love,” he murmured before scooping her up in his thick, muscled arms. He swayed with the effort, and she thought he was going to topple over with her in tow.
“What—the—fuck?” Rosie barked, punctuating each word with a slap to his head. He leaned backward to prevent further attack, and she was sure they were going overboard. “Put me down!” she commanded, straining to get free of him.
“Steady now! I can’t have ya cuttin’ your pretty little feet,” he insisted.
“And I won't be molested on my own damn porch!” In desperation, Rosie snatched at the handle of the broom she’d left out earlier that day. She jabbed the end of it into his chest, making him grunt. She stumbled out of his grip and onto the deck, barely avoiding the broken glass.
“Molestin’,” he breathed, rubbing the sore spot on his meaty chest. “Nobody said anythin’ about molestin’.” He held up his hands. “I’ll behave, scout’s honor. That is,” he grinned, “unless you decide you be wantin’ me to misbehave.”
His big hands skimmed the collar of his dark green button-down shirt, and he began to undo the top buttons. His roguish grin tugged the corner of his mouth further on one side and revealed deep laugh lines around his eyes.
For the first time, she got a good look at his face. His hair was a dark, rusty red, and he had a trimmed beard to match. His nose was too big and crooked, as though it had healed on its own more than once. Rosie felt that he looked familiar somehow, but she couldn’t place him.
So, she hit him square in the face with the bristles of her broom instead.
“Ow!” he howled. Her ninja-broom skills had the desired effect—he backed up and clutched at his nose. Rosie skittered to the doormat and pressed her backside to the door, keeping him at bay by wielding her weapon.
“Shh!” she hissed again, “I have a sleeping kid inside, and if you wake her, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
He was rubbing the bridge of his nose, looking at her with a hurt expression. “I think ya broke my nose!”
“It was crooked enough to begin with,” she fired back. “I doubt anyone’ll notice.”
“Hey!”
Rosie shrugged a shoulder and tightened her grip on the broomstick so that she could wave it menacingly.
The man held up both hands and took a begrudging step backward. “Lemme ess-plain,” he said, his words running together. “You’re me crafty mistress.”
Rosie blinked. Having conversations with drunk Irishmen had never been on her list of things to do for fun. “Say what now?”
“A mistress of the craft!” he corrected himself, holding up a finger to show that he remembered.
“The only thing that I’m the mistress of,” Rosie warned, “is kicking your sorry ass. Now shoo!” She swatted him with the broom again. He stepped back to avoid the swipe and grinned when he was successful. But then he lost his balance, tumbling backward down the porch steps. He reached for the railing to save himself and only just managed to stay on his feet.
“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed with a wolfish grin, “I like me a woman with a bitta fire to ‘er.”
“Oh, barf,” she shot back.
Rosie narrowed her eyes as he turned and began the walk across the lawn in the direction he had come from. She intended to watch him until he was no longer in sight—just to make sure that he actually left—but he seemed to melt into the shadows. Unnerved, she fumbled behind her back for the door handle and let herself back into the house, locking the door and deadlock once she was safe.
That was her neighbor? Great.
Chapter 3
Another day, another pilgrimage into town. Now that everything felt more familiar, Rosie was able to pay attention to details about the town that she’d missed. There was a cute as heck little hardware store, Wood & Wax, behind and to the right of Granny’s. With the state of the cottage, she could tell she was likely to become one of their best customers. She wondered if they had any kind of rewards program so that she could save a few bucks here and there.
She noticed the unmistakable scent of fresh doughnuts on the light breeze that wafted up Main Street from the river. It seemed to be coming straight from the Sheriff’s Department. Maggie, a veritable bloodhound for anything even remotely resembling junk food, sniffed the air experimentally as they stepped into the Go-Go Mart.
“Wanna go choose the cereal you’d like, Pumpkin?” Rosie asked before Maggie could get distracted by the magazine rack again. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Okay!” Maggie darted for the cereal aisle as Ben stepped out of a door to the left of the counter. The movement caught Rosie’s eye. She glanced past him to see the closet-like room with a desk housing an ancient computer, shelves, and mountains of paperwork.
“Well, howdy Miss Rosie,” he said with a smile, slipping his thumbs into his belt loops as he approached her. “What can I do ya for?”
“Hi Ben,” Rosie said, returning his smile. She reached into the pocket of her jeans, fiddling with the piece of paper she had torn off the Kwik Kleen noticeboard. She didn’t know why she’d brought it with her. It wasn’t like he was going to want proof of his advertisement. “I—uh. I found a want ad at the laundromat, and I wondered if you were still looking for someone?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Sure, we’re still looking. Do you have any experience?”
Rosie felt her heart sink. For over 22 years, she’d been little more than Randy’s cook and housemaid. “The ad said no experience necessary,” she mumbled.
“That's right,” Ben said. “I’m just curious is all.”
She needed this job. At the rate the stupid washing machines at the Kwik Kleen were chewing through her change, soon she’d be out of luck.
But more than needing the money, Rosie felt like she wanted to work there. It would feel good to be gainfully employed, earning her own money, and building a life without relying on Randy’s whims to see her through. She took a breath.
“Look.” She took a breath and then plunged into the unknown. “I’ma be real with you,” she said to the guy. “I need this job. I’m new in town, and I got a daughter to raise and rent to pay. What that means is that I will work hard for you. I will be on time, and I will be reliable. I won’t ditch shifts, and I’m willing to work any extra shifts you feel like slingin’ my way.” She smiled again, but this time it was matter-of-fact.
The guy looked at her as though weighing his options. Finally, he nodded. “Fair enough. You’re hired.”
A deadweight lifted from her shoulders. “Really?!” She grinned – her first, fully-fledged Mosswood smile. “When can I start?”
To Rosie, the dusty highway shoulder she and Maggie walked down might as well have been clouds. She couldn’t believe her luck – managing to get a job on her fifth day in town was almost too good to be true. But she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, she chose to take it as a sign that things were finally starting to turn around for her and Maggie.
Maggie babbled happily about the heat, the smell of grass, and anything else her butterfly-like brain settled on. The rumble of a truck coming up behind them prompted her to guide them further onto the shoulder, lest Maggie fail to notice at all.
But the vehicle didn’t pass them and chug on out of town. Rosie heard the gears shifting down and turned to look over her shoulder as a battered red pickup crawled beside them. A thick forearm with a sleeve rolled up to the elbow was parked in the open window. As t
he truck drew level with them, she could see that it was her new neighbor behind the wheel.
Here we go, she thought.
“Fancy meetin’ you here,” he smiled down at the pair of them. Rosie sighed. The last thing she needed was to have to try and explain to Maggie how she knew the wild-haired Irishman.
“Hi!” her gregarious youngster piped up. Rosie side-eyed her, and Maggie moved closer to her mom, peering up at the truck.
“Hello,” Rosie finally conceded, taking a breath as though to ready herself for a repeat of his antics on her porch the other night.
He tapped his fingers on the peeling paint of the door, a knotted leather bracelet jiggling around his wrist. “Headin’ home?”
Rosie shrugged a shoulder, her eyebrow rising. Where the heck else would they be going? “Yep,” she said, feeling more awkward by the minute.
“We’re headed the same way, and the day’s not gonna get any cooler. I can give you a lift if ya like.”
She hesitated, torn between the allure of escaping the heat of the asphalt and having to put up with more of this guy’s antics. Her mind was made up for her by Maggie, who uttered a soft “Please, Mom?” behind her. “The milk’s getting warm.”
Dagnabbit.
“That’s very neighborly of you,” Rosie said. Accepting would give her the perfect opportunity to chat with him about the other night. If that meant they got the milk home sooner, then all the better. “Thanks.”
“Not a bother,” he replied with a smile. He leaned across the bench seat in the truck to open the passenger side door for them from the inside.
Rosie walked Maggie around the front of the car and bent to help her daughter up before thinking better of it. She climbed up herself so that she was sitting next to the stranger and then reached down to give Maggie a hand.
“Don’t forget ya seatbelts,” he said.
The inside of the truck smelled like leather soap and fresh coffee, which gave Rosie a hankering for a cup herself. It roared up the highway, made the turn at the sugar mill, and began the steady climb into the woods. Fields gave way to lean juvenile pines, then a mature pine forest with sparse undergrowth. The road wound through the woods until the drive opened out into the small clearing where Fox Cottage sat.