It was supposed to work.
There wasn’t supposed to be graft failure.
And yet here they were.
Her throat stung.
Bree took a sip of her coffee to manage it.
“Did you get to the bottom of the box yet? I found the thing you wanted.” She pressed her toe between the slivered crack of the porch’s second step.
Anna gasped. “You found it!”
Bree smiled but also managed to shoot another eye-dagger at Chip as he passed. He wore a new hole-ridden T-shirt today and jeans covered in caulk and many colors of paint. When Bree took note of the sweat beading at the back of his neck and the little flip of his damp brown hair, her teeth clenched.
This man had woken her up at 3:13 a.m. This filthy, sweaty, disgusting man.
She turned her attention back to Anna. “If my niece wants an 1100-piece Lego Heartlake Shopping Mall set, my niece gets an 1100-piece Heartlake Shopping Mall set.” Her eyes shifted to the red Buick slowly rolling down the street. “Hey, I gotta go. The folks are here. Talk tomorrow?”
Already Bree could hear the sound of cardboard ripping open. “You bet.”
Bree hung up and took a shaky breath. Every good-bye, even when it would only be hours until the next hello, felt like another step toward the last one. Four months ago, she had said her last good-bye to Nana.
She never wanted to experience that again.
Not with Anna.
Stop. She couldn’t let her thoughts go down that path.
Bree set her phone on the porch step, jumped up, and dusted herself off. She ignored Chip’s oncoming figure as she stopped at the mailbox, waving to the car that pulled toward her house.
As if it were possible her parents could drive past her on the cul-de-sac going five miles an hour. As if they hadn’t visited three times in the last six months.
Her smile broadened as she spotted her mother’s face through the windshield.
Her entire life she had been told how uncannily they resembled each other. That was partly due to the narrow age gap between them, as Bree had been born when her mother was barely nineteen. Beyond that, they shared the same high cheekbones and the same wildly red, thick hair, though her mother kept hers short and tamed. But most of all they shared the same expression when they were genuinely excited about something—their eyes turned an even more brilliant, effervescent green. Their mouths puckered to form the same O shape. Looking at her mother right now was like looking in a mirror.
Bree bounced on her toes as the car rolled into the driveway. Her feet were nearly crushed under the weight of the rolling car as her stepfather finally put the car in park. She yanked open the passenger door.
“Happy birthday to me!”
Bree pulled her mother out of her seatbelt and into a hug. It was April 7 and her birthday was two weeks past, but for all intents and purposes, today was the day.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Bree’s mother said, wrapping her daughter in a tight hug. “And look at you—you wore your birthday sweatshirt.”
Bree opened her eyes in the hug and caught Chip’s grin as he watched them. His eyes drifted to the colorful sweatshirt covered in scribbled birthday well-wishes from family and friends, some dating all the way back to 2000. Everything in his expression said, Birthday sweatshirt?
She scrunched her nose at him, frowned, and closed her eyes again.
“Now where are the presents?” She moved to examine the back seat.
“Ah. Thirty-four years old and not a day more mature.” Bree’s stepfather stepped out of the car with open arms and an amused smile.
As Bree was moving around the car to give Dan a hug, she heard a familiar sound. She froze midstep as she saw the dog blast through the open door. He skidded to a stop on the front porch, staring at Bree like he’d reached heaven.
He began to race toward her. She started to jump back over the line and then realized: It didn’t matter anymore. There was the fresh line of soil going all the way across the yard, a solid two feet from their cars. She had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Bree sighed with relief and moved to stand next to her stepdad.
If that ignorant dog jumped over the new fence line, he’d feel a nice jolt.
Was it such a bad thing that the very idea made her smile? Giggle a little inside? Have an urge to twiddle her fingers like an evil mastermind?
She reached up with one sleeve of her birthday sweatshirt and rubbed her mirthful smile down. She would not smile. But she would watch. She would stand there, offering up no warnings to the animal whatsoever, and watch with silent glee as the dog got his due punishment.
She glanced Chip’s way. For such a devoted dog owner, Chip didn’t seem too concerned about Russell running headlong into an electrical barrier. In fact, Chip wasn’t even commanding Russell to slow down or stop. In fact . . .
Bree squinted at Chip.
Noted the way his eyes were on her at that very moment.
She looked down, noticing that the dog had not only touched the line but was now a foot beyond the line and giving no indication of slowing.
“Chip!” Bree screamed. In a single movement, she jumped, rolled across the back of the trunk, and landed on the other side. It was a Tony Stark moment born of adrenaline and terror. She could never repeat it.
“Oh, honey!” Bree’s mother exclaimed with a smile. “That was splendid!”
“Dan! Watch out!” Bree cried.
Panting, Russell skidded to a stop beside her stepfather.
“Who’s this fella?” Dan said, reaching down to pat his head.
All Bree could think about was the heart surgery Dan had the year prior. And Russell’s paws going straight through his still-tender chest like a boot through an empty cardboard box.
“Stop!” Bree cried, leaning across the hood. “Be careful! He’s—”
“Such a good boy,” Dan purred at the dog, rubbing his head and ears. “What a good boy you are.” He craned his head up to Chip. “How old is he?”
“Just over two, sir,” Chip said.
“Practically still a baby,” Dan replied, turning his attention back to the docile dog.
To Bree’s horror, Dan began to kneel. “I wouldn’t—”
But there he was, staring Russell in the face, both of them with slaphappy smiles. Her stepfather moved to rub his neck. The dog tilted his head and leaned into the rubbing. No drool to be seen anywhere.
“This can’t be the dog you were telling us about, can it?” Bree’s mother murmured. “I mean, he’s large, I’ll grant you, but he seems like nothing but a harmless teddy bear.”
There the both of them were, beaming at Russell as if they had driven two hours east just to visit him. A dog that was evil.
Bree glared.
At the dog.
Then at the owner of the dog.
“So well-mannered,” her mother added, and Bree slammed the passenger door shut.
“Ooookay then,” Bree said, holding a cardboard box full of gift bags. The metallic tissue paper flapped at her face. “Let’s take the party inside, shall we?”
Nobody moved. Her stepfather was starting some conversation with Chip about dog training while her mother slipped over to the dog to give him a rubdown too.
“Boiled eggs? You’re kidding. Did you hear that, Ginny? He says he uses boiled eggs to get him to roll over.”
“And the occasional Slim Jim,” Chip added. He floated a bright smile her direction. “Russ,” Chip said in a commanding tone, “sit.”
Yeah, right. This was going to be one of those moments when a dog owner gave an optimistic command to his dog and made you watch for fifteen minutes while the dog started licking itself and the owner grew more and more agitated and started saying, “Oh, come on, Skipper, you were just doing it yesterday. I don’t know why you are being shy. Paw, Skipper. Give. Me. Your. Pawwww.”
Russell squatted on his hind legs.
Bree’s jaw dropped.
“Go
od boy.” Chip rubbed his ears while her parents gave an amused smile. “Now. Roll over.”
Immediately the dog rolled over. It stood again, shaking out its coat and looking at him eagerly for the next command. Was it just her imagination, or was the dog’s coat shinier?
“Now watch this,” Chip said to her parents with a wink. He pointed to the dog. “Pow.”
Bree almost dropped the box as the dog staggered back three feet and crumpled.
Bree’s mother clapped and laughed. “How marvelous! Bree, honey, have you seen him do this?”
“No, Mom. Shockingly enough, I have not.”
Chip’s eyes flickered to Bree and back to her parents. His tone lowered confidentially. “Want to see the best one? I taught him this this week.”
Her parents were nodding before he finished his question.
“Russell, go find Favorite.”
Without hesitation, Russell jumped up and moved around the car. He landed squarely on the driveway and looked at Bree. He started barking.
“His favorite what?” Dan was saying, looking past her with a childlike smile. “His favorite chickens?”
“No, his favorite person.” Chip stretched out his hand with a nod. “Your daughter.”
An eruption of laughter encircled them. Bree’s mother looked like she was about to have tears in her eyes. “How absolutely precious, Bree. You’re his favorite.”
“I’m very aware,” Bree said, her voice flat. She clutched the box, staring at the three of them like they were part of his family, not hers. “Well, I’m going inside now . . .”
“Is that a new bathroom going in, I see?” her stepfather said, peering at the bed of Chip’s truck. “Taking down walls, putting in new vanities”—he fingered an orange wire formerly tucked beneath an old medicine cabinet—“looks like you’ve even got phone lines you’re pulling out of the ground. Now that’s dedication to the house and home if nothing else.”
Halfway to her porch, Bree stopped.
Turned.
“Phone line?” she said, glancing from the line in the dirt at Russell’s feet to the truck bed. “You . . . dug up . . . a phone line?”
“Well, sometimes they do get in the way of things,” Dan said, as though Chip needed the defense. “Although I suspect we have more than old phone lines zigzagged underneath our house.” He chuckled as he looked at Chip.
Underneath that chiseled five-o’clock shadow lining his jaw, she could see a smile that was tight. Too tight.
Chip cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you can never be too careful about phone lines.”
Bree narrowed her eyes. That evil, nefarious human being of a neighbor. “A phone line?”
Dan saw his stepdaughter’s pencil-slit expression and turned. “Well, we should let you get back to your work.” Dan smiled, put out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, though . . .”
“Chip,” Chip supplied, meeting his hand and shaking it. “And the pleasure was mine.”
The three started to separate—her parents looking reluctant—and Dan called over his shoulder as he took the first porch step. “Boiled eggs, you say?”
“Boiled eggs,” Chip repeated. He raised his hand. “You all have a”—he hesitated—“well, a happy birthday party it sounds like.”
Bree’s mother giggled like a schoolgirl. “You too. You know, if you get tired with all that construction, we have tea—”
“No tea,” Bree cut in. “We’re all out of tea.”
“Or coffee,” her mother added.
“All out of coffee too,” Bree said.
“Or water!” her mother said shrilly as she opened the screen door for Bree. “Everybody needs water sometimes!”
Bree hip-checked the door and it opened.
“You know,” her mother continued, “now that I think of it, we have been having trouble with our faucets. Isn’t that so, Dan—”
Bree dropped the box, pulled her parents inside, and slammed the door shut.
“All right, you two,” she said and turned the deadbolt. “Let’s have a chat.”
When she turned around, her parents sat on the couch like children trying hard to pretend they really didn’t know what happened to that broken vase. She paused, her eyes narrow.
“I know what you two are doing.”
“Now, honey—”
“Shh,” Bree said, shaking a finger at her.
“We just thought—” her mother started.
Bree frowned.
“He’s just so friendly—” she continued.
Bree shook her head.
“And really, quite convenient, him living right next door—”
Bree shook her head faster.
“And it’s not every day dashing young men move in next door, you know. Didn’t you think he was quite handsome, Dan?”
Dan nodded. “And helpful to boot.”
Her mother squeezed her hands together on her knees, sitting on the edge of the couch. “And I saw no wedding band . . .”
“Yes, and I’m sure his girlfriend thinks about that whole wedding band thing all the time,” Bree interrupted, cutting to the chase.
Her mother leaned back into the couch, her brows pressed together. “Girlfriend? Oh well, those aren’t always permanent, you know. Why, you’ve heard how Dan found me—”
“Stole you away, I did,” Dan said, squeezing her shoulder with a twinkle in his eye.
Her mother let out a chuckle. “Straight from that pancake house. With him still sitting in the booth across from me—”
Bree shook her finger at them. “Shh. Both of you. There will be no dating Chip McBride. And more to the point, there will be no plotting in this house to steal Chip McBride away from his girlfriend.”
Her mother flapped a hand. “Of course, honey. You have nothing but a heart of gold. But if you weren’t the one doing the plotting . . . and perhaps someone else just so happened to get involved . . . without your knowing . . . naturally . . .” Her mother’s voice trailed off, and to Bree’s horror, she tapped her nose and winked.
Bree threw her hands up. There would be no convincing them. “Let me get you guys a drink.”
She started moving before there could be any more winking or nose tapping.
This was the problem with being the unmarried, unsettled daughter at thirty-four.
She was twenty-four years old when they started giving her “the look” whenever they spied another single male in her presence. And at first, the list of conditions that had to be met before they gave “the look” was fairly long and rigid. Candidates had to be devoted male friends who made her laugh and clearly had a shining future ahead of them. Everyone knew the type. Med students, law students, dentists.
By her late twenties the standards lowered to charming ushers at church and nephews of esteemed coworkers at Dan’s office.
At thirty-one it was the dad of the Girl Scout cookie girl who came to the house (they bought sixteen boxes and had the father deliver them personally to Bree).
At thirty-two they’d descended to ticket-stub takers whose beards had not entirely overtaken their faces.
At thirty-three she had heard Dan ask the telethon caller from the university if he was a freshman or senior. Then, after confirming he was over eighteen, he found out exactly which Mellow Mushroom he was a server at and pledged fifty dollars. Because he had a “strong voice.”
Now, if anyone so much as looked at her, they gave her “the look.”
Not that she didn’t date. She did date. She’d dated plenty of people over the years. Loads. She’d even gone out with the Girl Scout dad once or twice.
But can you fault a girl for not settling? Honestly, while every other parent in the world challenged their daughters to stay strong, to not settle for any Joe Blow walking up their sidewalk with a bouquet of flowers, her parents were the opposite.
If she declared she met a guy across the country online the night before and they’d decided to elope, there’d be no demands to meet him. No background
checks. No serious discussions regarding the weight of marriage. What would there be?
A plane ticket pushed into her hands and a teary wave at the security gate.
Bree walked back into the living room carrying two cups of steaming not-so-out-of-stock tea.
“Ah. Wonderful,” her mother said, stepping back into the living room from the hall bathroom and taking the mug in hand. “How about you open the green one first?”
So Bree opened the presents as they jumped from topic to topic, revealing a sweater as Dan effused about the new egg beater drill he bought for his shed, three crocheted pot holders for her nonexistent cooking life while her mother talked about the new gym she just joined, and one rather stunning little black dress for all the dates her parents were scheming up with her archenemy neighbor.
All in all the gifts, and the conversation, were lovely.
Finally, with crumpled wrapping paper around Bree’s feet and the mugs dry, Bree’s mother reached inside her purse.
“We have just one more for you, dear.”
Her mother held out a simple square box wrapped in gold foil. A red bow, like the kind a child gets on a new bike, was planted on top.
Somehow, the way her mother held it out, and the way Dan beamed as though knowing something she didn’t, made Bree hesitate.
Slowly, she reached out and took it. “Y’all are making me nervous,” Bree said.
They only smiled back, which didn’t help.
She popped off the bow and pulled off the wrapping paper.
It was a nondescript white box.
She lifted the lid, then her brow rose as she looked up.
“A . . . key?”
Her mind flew through the options while she picked it up and turned it in her hands. She hadn’t seen it before, surely? And this wasn’t one of those magical “Look outside! It’s your new Mercedes!” keys reserved for teenage country club kids. No, it looked more like a house key, or a shed key.
Oh no. Surely Dan wasn’t about to say he was sharing the contents of his shed with her. Of course, she’d always sounded enthusiastic about tools for his sake, but honestly. Could anyone really care that much about tailpipe cutters?
The Cul-de-Sac War Page 11