No. The neighborhood. He’d stick with a nice, safe topic.
The neighborhood.
He opened his mouth as a rumble down the street drew his attention away.
And there was his opener.
“That’ll be my dumpster,” Chip said, grinning. “Funny to see you again. Becca?”
Whatever level her frown had been at before, it was now a ten. “Bree.”
“Right. Bree.”
At a honk, Chip turned his attention to the roll-off truck now in view and his friend Andy behind the wheel.
Bree. It was important to remember his neighbors’ names. Bree.
He began striding toward the road, arms waving above his head.
Andy was a man of labor, a man like him. Except he lived on a houseboat on Holston River, and his main Saturday-night entertainment was sharing Cheetos with the fish.
His forehead carried the permanent ripple of four waves stacked upon one another, racing toward the shore of his receding hairline. And when he was disgruntled, the one closest to his eyebrows grew like a tsunami threatening to spill onto his heavy, brooding lashes. As the truck approached, he could see Andy had miraculously managed to grow a fifth wave across his forehead.
The truck squealed, shuddered, and gave a huff as the air brakes released in front of his house. Andy threw the door open. All five-feet-two of the man slid onto the pavement. What Andy lacked in height, he compensated for with the size of other objects. His phone, for example, was as big as a laptop. Sleeveless shirts were always six inches on the long side. And trucks, company or otherwise, were of the type to take over a four-lane road.
This one was no different.
Out of the corner of his eye, Chip noticed Bree checking the time on her phone.
“Ain’t no way we can drop this here, Chip.” Andy slung his head up and down the street. “Ain’t no way. This road’s too narrow—”
“I’ll admit it’s a bit on the slim side,” Chip replied.
“All these parked cars everywhere—”
“There are a few cars.”
“Power lines are hanging down like they never recovered from the 2011 tornado.”
“I only see that one line hanging by about five feet—”
“The front yard’s too muddy,” Andy forged on. “We’re going to tear the yard up . . .”
Bree started toward her house.
Chip waited while Andy laid out a string of doomsday possibilities. But when he started to worry about disrupting chickens’ egg-laying production, Chip stepped in.
“Now, come on, Andy. It’s not going to be all that bad. Do you see any chickens around here?” Chip waved his hand around the neighborhood. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about hitting a coop and having a mass breakout.”
“I’ll be darned if I don’t see one,” Andy replied, nodding over Chip’s shoulder. Sure enough, a weather-beaten, mint-green coop stood in Bree’s front yard beside a couple of overgrown bushes. Red shutters, a weathervane with a rusted rooster tipping his nose east in the breeze, and a large chicken-wire run. Several beady eyes flashed his way with unblinking eeriness, as though the brood smelled the Chick-fil-A wrapper in his truck.
Bree stood watching from the porch of the two-story, white-vinyl Craftsman in need of a good pressure washing. The front steps were lined with pots of a variety of shapes and sizes, all void of life in the March frost. In the yard a bright yellow box held the cursive words hand painted down the side: Our Little Free Library. Two cats cat-walked along the balcony of the front porch, tails flicked high.
Right. So roughly the opposite taste, in every possible way, of Ashleigh.
Wind chimes tinkled from Bree’s porch, and she opened her screen door and stepped inside.
He turned back to Andy and resisted putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not asking you to turn the corner on the driveway. Just drop the dumpster on the front yard. I’ll need it emptied in two days anyway.”
“Front yard?” Andy said. Chip rubbed the spittle off his neck. “What front yard? You got less space than a median here, Chip.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we can do it. I know I said I’d help you out here, but this just isn’t possible. You’re just going to have to use your truck—”
“This’ll work,” Chip cut in. “C’mon.”
No need to mention to Andy that his other work truck, which until that morning had been his only work truck, was currently at the Deadmore Street job. Or that as of this moment, his business’s bank account was about three hundred dollars from going in the red. “I gotta start demo right away, Andy. This is my new residence. As in, my home. Right now.”
The waves on Andy’s forehead rose. His short, fat finger shot toward the house. “You’re living in that? Now?”
Incredible. It was the first time in thirty years Andy’s bushy brows rose enough to reveal he had baby-blue eyes.
Chip swung his body back to face his new palace. “It’s not so bad.”
As if on cue, an owl shot out of the chimney—or rather, the tarp currently covering a hole in the roof that would one day become the chimney.
“It’s going to need some work, I admit—” Chip began.
A gust of wind blew and the drooping roof over his front porch let out a weary creak.
“But I only need a few weeks to whip her into shape.”
A second later the one nail holding up the shutter on the left-hand window gave and the whole thing clattered to the ground. God and His angels were conspiring against him. Chip shut his mouth to prevent the house from collapsing.
“Does your father—” Andy began.
Chip raised his brow.
Andy shut his mouth too.
There were three disadvantages to growing up in a town where everyone knew you. First, they also knew your father. Second, they could still recall you as a fifth grader, which killed any authoritative tone you might try to pull off as an adult. Third, they felt the right to pause on occasion to give you detailed instructions on how to run your life.
“C’mon,” Chip repeated, only a whisper of pleading in his voice. “Let’s do this.”
Andy sighed, glanced up and down the road again, and gave a short nod. A second later, he disappeared into his truck.
Chip turned at the sound of a screen door slamming and saw the fairy woman back on her porch, locking her front door.
Andy began rolling toward him, his truck’s massive tires overtaking the small road. He crawled past a parked Suburban, sparing inches between the truck and the sleek body of the huge vehicle. Stopping ten yards before the house, exhaust running, Andy waited for Chip’s signal.
Chip beckoned Andy on.
The ground began to rumble as the brake lights turned off and the truck, with dumpster attached, moved backward.
“Watch the car.” Chip signaled to move around the Suburban and Andy corrected, pulling forward into Bree’s front yard.
Bree stiffened, watching the front of the large vehicle roll onto her grass.
“He’s just gotta get the truck aligned,” Chip called out to her. “Should take just a moment.”
Andy rolled the window down and strained his neck out to look up and back. Chip could already see he was going to have to move farther into her yard to overcorrect the steering wheel, avoid the power line drooping like low-hanging fruit, and dodge the two parked cars and mailboxes.
Chip feigned a smile in her direction.
Turned his head back to Andy as he waved him on.
Flicked his eyes toward the tires, now farther into Bree’s yard.
Felt his stomach tighten with each inch of grass flattened underneath Andy’s massive tires.
Hurry up, Andy, Chip thought. Get in and get out.
Much longer and this was going to get worse. Much longer and—
Chip’s jaw flexed as he watched the front tire sink like a horse losing its step midcanter. It was but an inch, maybe two, but he saw the distinctive dip.
Oh no.
> No. No. No.
Andy hung his head out the window and spotted the damage, then let loose a round of curses. The mother across the street covered her toddlers’ ears as she rushed them inside.
Chip winced. “Andy. Andy!” he called, striding forward as the grass around the tire started to fill with water.
Andy’s hand slapped the side of the door. “It’s that bleepity bleep car in my way. If they could’ve just bleep bleepity bleep parked like a normal person . . . And I told you I couldn’t do it, Chip. If you had just listened to me!”
Andy fiddled with his jacket pocket in search of a cigarette and waved another hand toward everything from the power line to “all those bleepity blue jays” as he began defending his superb driving skills. Meanwhile, Chip inspected the damage. He guessed this little mistake would cost upwards of fifteen hundred dollars to fix.
“I know it’s not your fault, Andy. Nobody here’s blaming you.”
Andy took a deep drag from his cigarette.
Chip took advantage of the momentary silence and launched into what he hoped would be a soothing monologue. “It’s going to be okay—”
Andy’s mouth moved around his cigarette as he spoke. “Like bleep it is. I don’t have money to throw at this. And you definitely don’t have this kind of money.”
As Chip was about to interject, a firm and painful tap on the shoulder cut him short.
He turned.
The green-faced nymph was inches away from his face as she had been just hours before. Only instead of a potted fern, she now gripped what appeared to be a bowlful of nuts.
Something was different about her eyes right then. Perhaps it was the fire dancing in them, but they flashed so green they reminded him of the cool, frosted pines he’d biked past on the mountains that morning. She was like one branch in particular, which had slapped him unexpectedly around mile seven. He could still feel the sting on his cheek.
“I need you to move your truck.”
“I, uh, sure. Absolutely.” Chip slapped the back of the dumpster and called up, “You go on, Andy. I’ll handle things from here.”
Andy escaped only too readily, the truck rumbling down the hill in such haste Chip feared he would break something else along the way.
Chip turned around. “I’m so sorry about this—”
But his words faltered.
She was nowhere in sight.
The ignition of the Subaru sounded and he turned in time to catch the flash of the woman’s red braid whipping around her as she looked back over her shoulder.
Her car bounced as it avoided the mailbox and reversed onto the road before she pushed the gearshift into drive. She paused in front of him. Rolled down the window.
He inhaled and took a step toward her. Ready to explain. Ready to apologize. Ready to listen.
“Don’t drown the chickens.”
Before he could reply, her Subaru sputtered off down the road.
Don’t drown the chickens.
Don’t. Drown. The chickens.
He straightened. Well, at the very least he could avoid that.
His oxfords—his one and only pair of oxfords—dragged with each soggy step as he went to his truck and reached over the side of the bed for his channel locks, then made his way toward her meter box. His mind raced, but oddly enough, his thoughts didn’t linger on the cash he’d need to cover the cost of this mess. His mind rested on her.
On those intriguing eyes.
He wondered which version of the woman he’d just met—the carefree fairy in the stairway or the tense, distant neighbor—would be the one to whom he’d have to say, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to be without water for several days.”
Chapter 3
Bree
“Our precious home is flooding, dear.”
Bree slipped the words into Evie’s ears as she picked up a flute of champagne and moved around a group of small-talkers. She maneuvered through a sea of sequins and tuxedo shoulders jutting out at every turn. As crowded as the room was, nothing but space existed between the tip of her head and the glass globes and antique chandeliers of the vaulted ceiling high above. The Barter would stand for nothing less than holding their Annual Spring Gala at the Martha Washington Inn.
Holding the bowl of nuts like a football, she squeezed around another couple and snaked through the narrow labyrinth toward the food table. People of all sorts were at the Barter galas, and from one sniff, Bree could tell which side of the fence they played on. Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion, Chanel No. 5, Soir de Paris, Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue—these were the scents of the standard patrons, the ones who enthusiastically supported the nation’s oldest live-performance theatre.
Her side, the actors’ side, smelled like either Bath & Body Works Tropical Passionfruit body spray or essential oil of a gumbo tree. Like Cinderella, the actors slipped into a pumpkin-turned-carriage for several Barter-sponsored events per year and mingled with sponsors who talked about vacation homes in Tuscany. Actors responded shrilly with, “Well, who doesn’t?” and laughed at the patrons’ jokes, ever mindful of how many crab cakes were left on the tray.
The patrons smiled indulgently at their prized actors’ eccentricities. The actors smiled back at their patrons who were rich enough to get away with eccentric behaviors of their own.
These fundraising events were sprinkled throughout the year, but the Barter’s Spring Gala was the biggest of all. And this was Bree’s first.
Bree slid her bowl of nuts between a platter of smoked salmon and what appeared to be some sort of edible intestine. As she did so, the unmistakably overpowering scent of tea tree oil came from behind her.
Ah. Evie.
“My house is what now?” With cat liner up to her temples, Evie stood with both hands on her hips—or rather on her skirt, which as of yesterday had been the patchwork quilt draped across their sofa.
Right.
Bree had lived in the house with Evie for six months, had equal ownership in the house inherited from Bree’s grandmother, and yet her grandmother’s former caretaker couldn’t once admit the house was theirs equally. Not once.
Honestly, just because Evie lived in the house for five years with Nana she thought she owned the place.
Bree scanned the food options and picked up a cherry tomato with cheese on a toothpick. “Well, I’m no professional, but I’d say a truck broke the water line. Do you think this is swiss?”
Evie clutched the quilt skirt at her thighs and, with some effort, moved herself closer. “Did they fix it?”
“No idea.”
“Is the water stopped?”
“Not a clue.”
“Who was there looking at it?”
“Some man.” Bree would not say his name. She would not admit out loud that she had remembered his name when he had so flippantly looked her in the eye with that quizzical do-I-know-you? expression and said that horrible word, “Becca?”
Evie took a step toward her. “What kind of man?”
“Well, after a surprising turn of events, I’d say a terrible-human-being kind of man.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you helpful in any way at all?”
Bree pointed her toothpick toward the ceiling. “I told him not to drown your chickens.”
Evie’s eyes dropped to Bree’s dress. “And what happened to my dress?”
Bree glanced down to her skirt, where the coffee stains had most definitely dried. Oops. “Oh. I’ll, uh, throw this in the wash the second I get home.”
Evie glared.
Bree lifted a finger, trying to remember Evie’s previous lectures. “But only after putting dish soap on to spot-clean—”
“Vinegar. And you’ll do no such thing. When you get home, hand it over to me.”
Evie huffed with Scarlett O’Hara indignity before lifting her piles of skirt and turning. With some difficulty and a rigid jab, she pushed the side door open. “Spot-clean with dish soap,” she muttered. “Leave it to me to sort everything out . . .”
>
“Bye, honey!” Bree called, watching Evie and the perma-stormy cloud above her head disappear. “I’ll miss you too!”
“Sort out what?” Stephen, the stage manager, slid up to the cheese tray, his gaze focused on the lobster toasts.
Bree picked up another toothpick of cheese and tomato. “Oh, just a little hiccup at the house. You know, town water supply streaming in. Gallons of water flooding the yard. Same old, same old.”
“Well, good for you two,” Stephen said, shoveling a fifth lobster toast onto his plate. “I admire the dedication you have to making your living situation work.”
And by living situation he meant the fact that after her stepgrandmother’s funeral, the family discovered Nana’s beloved live-in caretaker was to inherit 30 percent of Nana’s home. Another 30 percent went to Bree, and the remaining 40 percent (plus most of the furnishings) went to Bree’s stepfather. At the writing of the will, Bree and her parents lived three hours away in Gatlinburg. Nana had clearly assumed the three would either sell the home and split the profit or let Evie buy them out. Most shocking of all was that Nana had imagined Bree could ever let Nana’s place—her special place—go. The second the will was read to Bree, she stood up and declared, “I’ll take it.”
Almost as quickly, Evie said the same thing.
So here they were, four months later.
At a stalemate.
“Now as for your act tonight,” Stephen said, shifting to face Bree. The thin, bald man settled into his sternest frown and dropped his voice an octave. “If I catch you breaking character to make googly eyes with someone in the audience again, you’re out. You understand? This isn’t some high-school musical production here. If you can’t act like a professional, you won’t stand up there.”
Bree swallowed. She wanted to defend herself against his accusation. She wanted to say, Hey now, I do more than just “stand up there.” I lounge too.
The Cul-de-Sac War Page 3