by L. B. Dunbar
www.lbdunbar.com
Copyright © 2014 Laura Dunbar
As Sound Advice
Copyright © 2020 Laura Dunbar
L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.
https://www.lbdunbar.com/
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
Cover Design: Shannon Passmore - Shanoff Designs
Cover Image: Regina Wamba
Editor: Kimberly Dallaire
Editor: Melissa Shank
Editor: Rebecca Kimbel - The Writing Refinery
Editor: Jenny Sims - Editing4Indies
Proofread: Karen Fischer
Table of Contents
Other Books by L.B. Dunbar
Dedication
Rule 1
Rule 2
Rule 3
Rule 4
Rule 5
Rule 6
Rule 7
Rule 8
Rule 9
Rule 10
Rule 11
Rule 12
Rule 13
Rule 14
Rule 15
Rule 16
Rule 17
Rule 18
Rule 19
Rule 20
Rule 21
Rule 22
Rule 23
Rule 24
Epilogue
More by L.B. Dunbar
Keep in touch with L.B. Dunbar
Excerpt of Read With Your Heart
Playlist
(L)ittle (B)lessings of Gratitude
About the Author
Other Books by L.B. Dunbar
Silver Fox Former Rock Stars
After Care
Midlife Crisis
Restored Dreams
Second Chance
Wine&Dine
The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge
Silver Brewer
Silver Player
Silver Mayor
Silver Biker
Collision novellas
Collide
Caught – a short story
Smartypants Romance (an imprint of Penny Reid)
Love in Due Time
Love in Deed
Love in a Pickle (2021)
Standalone over 40 Romance
The Sex Education of M.E.
The Heart Collection
Speak from the Heart
Read with your Heart
Look with your Heart
Fight from the Heart
View with your Heart
Spin-off Standalone
The History in Us
The Legendary Rock Star Series
The Legend of Arturo King
The Story of Lansing Lotte
The Quest of Perkins Vale
The Truth of Tristan Lyons
The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance
The Island Duet
Redemption Island
Return to the Island
Paradise Stories
Abel
Cain
Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore
Hades
Solis
Heph
Dedication
For those who ignore negative advice,
take risks, and speak from the heart…
and the state of Michigan.
Nana’s Rules to Live By
Rule 1
Sometimes life gets a little dirty.
[Emily]
I hate weeds.
I mean, really what is their purpose, and why have they invaded my grandmother’s garden like an apocalypse?
When I arrived yesterday, finding my nana very confused and slightly disheveled on her front porch, guilt consumed me like these pesky plants taking over Nana’s flower bed.
Has it really been five years since I’ve paid this woman a visit?
As I flip the calendar in my head backward, I find that it has been that long. In my pursuit for career above all else, I’d been lacking in diligence toward the person most important to me—Nana. Next to my older sister, Grace, of course.
However, I haven’t yet become who I wanted to be in my thirty-four years. I haven’t reached that pinnacle point in my career. I also haven’t found love.
I’m just not marriage material, as a boyfriend of only three months once told me.
He married the next girl he dated.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
As I yank yet another questionable plant with variegated leaves and a prickly stem, I catch a glimpse of Nana out of the corner of my eye. She loves this town, a sleepy tourist place on Lake Michigan. I didn’t grow up here, and for a few years, Nana lived with Grace and me after our mother died. Nana and Grandpa decided to move downstate so as not to uproot us, but the second I graduated from high school, they’d sold our home. Once I left the state of Michigan for college, my eyes never once looked in the rearview mirror. I only faced forward for a career in writing. Journalism, to be specific. I would be the next great columnist, similar to but not quite the same as Nana.
She’d been an award-winning writer on advice, specifically on matters of manners and behaviors in etiquette.
When I’d arrived yesterday, her appearance had been anything but presentable as she stood on her front porch in a housecoat and curlers. She would never still be dressed in her robe and nightgown so late in the day, nor be standing on the front porch of all places in said clothing—heavens no.
Then there was the way she stared at me, or rather through me, like she didn’t know who I was, and for a moment, she didn’t. It was evident my nana did not recall who I was until I introduced myself.
Nana, it’s me. Emily.
How could she not recognize me? I realize it has been a few years since I visited, but we spoke often on the phone. I hadn’t detected a hint to her . . . confusion. My grandmother was practically a second mother, replacing my own who had died when I was only twelve. How could Nana have forgotten me? And furthermore, why had I neglected her? I should have been here sooner.
Fortunately, Nana snapped out of her confusion over who I was rather quickly, but then she started mentioning my grandfather, John.
“John forgot to put out the porch furniture.”
“John hadn’t cut the grass or tended the garden.”
“John wanted his circa-1920s radio fixed.”
The only problem with this list was my grandfather was dead. He died a decade or so ago, and Nana seemed to have forgotten this fact.
How could she forget the love of her life was no longer alive?
She’d locked herself out of the house but told the neighbor John did it.
Oh my.
That action prompted this visit.
Again, I gaze at my grandmother sitting in her backyard, her eyelids drooping in the heat of the day. July is one of the better months to visit here. Tourism is vital for this town’s economy. I was hoping for time at the beach myself, but I can see I have my work cut out for me. Being here entails more than a weekend visit. The unkept yard. The slanted garage.
The untidiness of the house. My grandmother has never lacked in her ability to clean, organize, and maintain. She’s always been a pillar of efficiency, only what I’ve found upon this visit proves her skills have been declining. How long has she been like this? And why hadn’t I come sooner?
I tug at another plant.
“That’s a daisy, honey. It stays.” Nana’s scratchy voice startles me. I thought she’d dozed off for a nap.
“Nana, I think you need a break. How about some lemonade?” I’m sweating worse than Millennium Park’s fountain as I stand from my spot in the grass. The flower bed runs the length of the garage, curls around the property’s back edge that runs the expanse of the lot to the opposite corner and ends behind an old playhouse. My knees have grass stains. My nails are broken. As yard work was not on the itinerary when I packed, I’ve cut off an old pair of my grandfather’s pants and topped it with a former T-shirt of his—a white undershirt now colloquially referred to as a wife beater. What a horrible name for a piece of clothing. The pants are bunched awkwardly around my waist by a too-long belt and the tank is too loose. It’s not an attractive outfit. Dirt covers me everywhere.
I swipe at my front, only smearing more dirt across my chest. For some reason, my eyes drift to the house behind Nana’s. They are having their roof repaired, and one man on the shingles attracts my attention.
Jess Carter.
I’d met him yesterday when Nana put up a fuss about my grandfather’s radio. Surprisingly, this small town has a radio repair shop called Sound Advice. Cute name. I was able to find the location easily enough, and I dropped off the ancient electronic device. The entire process was nothing of significance, except for the way I was treated by the owner of the shop.
Cold. Distant. Rude.
And now he’s on the roof behind Nana’s house.
All I did was wave at his daughter, or the little girl I assume is his. A cute little blonde with waves of sun-bleached hair wearing a sweet floral dress. She was playing with a toy tea set at a miniature plastic kitchen in the corner of the entrance area. When I said I was from Chicago, the aura in the shop shifted. He scooped up his child and tucked her into his office as if I was some potential criminal or kidnapper.
Whatever.
I told myself I wouldn’t look up at that roof again once I noticed him earlier, but I can’t seem to fight the pull.
His sweaty back, glistening in the heat of the sun. Muscles etched and tense, the strength evident. His arms display just as much power as he hammers at the replacement shingles. And then there’s what appears to be a signature look for him—a short, straw-blond ponytail and bandana on his forehead. He’s a cross between who Brett Michaels used to be and who Chris Hemsworth still is. Both as hot as this day.
His sharp, denim blue eyes cut me with a glance yesterday, and I don’t need to see them today to recall he doesn’t like something about me. I don’t know why I’m even looking at him, as I prefer businessmen to tradesmen. A crisp suit and a smart tie are my thing. Not low-slung jeans, missing shirts, and that damn bandana.
No matter. I don’t have time for men or commitment.
“But aren’t you lonely for the real thing?” My sister sometimes asks me this after I tell her about another one-night stand or short-term relationship. She knows I am, but my career comes first. It’s my lover, my passion, and my soul mate.
With that thought, I remember my purpose. I need to set things back in order here and then get home. My home. Bright lights, big city. Chicago.
“Nana, let’s go inside for that lemonade and get you out of the sun.”
+ + +
Within twenty minutes, Nana is dozing in the warmth of her screened-in porch. The wrought-iron couch with faded cushions sits under three large windows, and the sunlight’s warmth makes this the perfect spot for a catnap.
I might kill for a nap myself, having not slept well last night in the old double bed I once shared with my sister. The room is a throwback to a time long gone. The four-poster bed. The three-drawer maple dresser. The chest of dolls. I had to throw a T-shirt over the china babies to settle my heart rate and hope to sleep despite them watching me. The room held not only antique furniture but years of memories, like a timeline of my life, captured in photographs. Silver frames and wooden stands held image after image of Grace and me as kids. Glancing over them, I recalled the one person missing from them: my mother. Her death was over twenty years ago, yet I still ache from her passing.
Shaking away my thoughts, I return my focus to the yard and sense someone watching me. I glance up at the roofers who haven’t seemed to pay me any attention. I’m just a haggard-looking creature fighting the weeds in this overgrown garden. My once-tight ponytail now hangs loose, and lax tendrils escape the band as I struggle with my mission. I swipe at my forehead with my wrist and feel the sensation of eyes on me again.
As I pitch forward and reach for the next victim of vegetation removal, I spy two blue eyes the size of miniature saucers through the scraggly bushes lining the back of Nana’s property. Tilting my head this way and that, I see my observer is none other than the child I waved at yesterday.
Despite her father’s ire, I wave at her again.
She runs away.
Well, that’s that. You’re even scaring the children, Emily. I push back the hair sticking to the side of my face and lean forward to pull the next weed in question.
Only, I feel eyes fall on me again and the distinct sound of hammering has stopped.
Bracing a hand against my forehead, I look up at the man peering down at me, blinding me like Helios, the Greek god of the sun. However, his eyes are not directed at me, but on the child returned to the edge of the bushes opposite me.
“Hello,” I call out.
She doesn’t respond, and for a second, I decide that’s a good thing. She shouldn’t speak to strangers, only the longer she looks at me, the more unsettled I become, and I crane my neck toward the playhouse.
“Would you like to play in the playhouse? Do you know my nana and her rules?”
The child with blond braids and another pretty dress of yellow stares back at me. Without a word from her, I continue.
“If you bring my nana a handful of flowers, you can play in her playhouse.” I nod in the direction of the old two-story but child-sized home built by my grandfather for Grace and me. It looks just as dilapidated as the rest of this place with a missing shutter and the white paint chipping in all kinds of places.
When I turn back for the little girl, I see her eyes match that of her father’s. Sharp. Denim. Intense. Yet there is a hesitation in hers that isn’t present in his glare. She wants to come over to my yard for that playhouse.
“I’m Emily. Emily Post of Chicago,” I announce as I had yesterday in her father’s shop. “You’re right not to speak to strangers. But now that I’ve told you my name, you only need to tell me yours and we won’t exactly be strangers anymore.”
She stares at me on my knees in the grass, hands covered in dirt and wearing a sweaty shirt to match.
Real smooth, Emily. You’re a kidnapper in the making. I’m ready to give up my suggestion when she drops to her knees and starts for the underbelly of the bushes.
My eyes instantly snap up to the man walking his way to the edge of the roofline like he’d be willing to jump in order to prevent his daughter from coming into Nana’s yard.
I wave at him as if he hadn’t seen me before.
“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you. She can play in the playhouse while I work, or maybe I’ll put her to work,” I tease as her blond head pops out from under the bushes and she makes her way into the garden like a giant rabbit.
“I’m Emily. Emily Po—”
“I know who you are,” he calls down to me, like a god speaking to a peasant.
Well. Fine.
“You can see her from there.” There’s a question in my tone. He’ll be able to watch her, to ensure the weed-whacking woman doesn’t make off with his
kid.
As his child slowly stands before me, those matching eyes of his meeting mine, I’d guess her to be around five or six. I smile and hold out my hand, reintroducing myself.
She only stares at the offering.
Shrugging, I decide it’s equally smart not to touch a stranger, and I dismiss the thoughts wiggling into my head of all the strangers I’ve gone to bed with too quickly or dated on a whim.
“You can go in the playhouse if you wish, or maybe you’d like to help me. I think the plants who survived my pillage could use a drink of water.”
Again, the child stares at me like I have two heads or am speaking in an unknown tongue.
Okay then.
“If you’ll grab the hose and tug it back here, I’ll turn on the water.”
I’d already assessed the rusty spigot at the front of the garage. I turn my back on the yard as the child passes me with the rubber tubing in her hands, lugging it like it’s the weight of a fire hose.
“Nice work,” I mutter as I round the corner of the garage and reach for the spigot. My hands slip over the rusted metal, and I grunt and groan, hoping the energy in my voice will budge this thing. I raise a foot, bracing it on the paint-cracked siding, and attempt to twist again.
“I just . . . need . . . a little more . . .” An arm reaches around me, and I drop my foot, twisting as I step back and slam into a wall of chest. My hands brace against him, sweat-laden and smelling like sunshine, sunscreen, and all man. My fingers have a mind of their own, and they coast down his pecs and trail over his abs before I come to my senses and pull my hand back.
What the hell was that?
An electrical current ricochets between us, but the connection drops as soon as I release his skin. Holy God, that was intense—and kind of nice—but it would be totally inappropriate to attempt again. That is, to touch him as I just did, with more of an exploratory stroke than simply catching myself against him.
“What are you doing?” I snap as if I wasn’t the one just touching him. Placing one hand on my hip, he leans around me, and with the flick of a wrist, turns the spigot. Despite the rush in my ears of my heart racing, I hear the water release into the hose.