The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“Aunt Faye’s been having a lot of garage sales for the last month,” I say instead. “She’s sold some stuff to locals and another batch to an antique store in Dickinson. Have you been by it?”

“No, I haven’t had time yet. I haven’t even checked out your uncle’s cat sanctuary. Sounds like a cool place; everybody’s always buzzing about it. Gram’s infatuated.”

I smile. “It’s a hell of an addition to this town. So is Bruce.”

“Bruce?”

“The main man who started it all with his razor-sharp smile. I’m sure Uncle Grady never expected to find out a five-hundred-pound Bengal tiger was his personal matchmaker, but he’s not complaining.” I want to keep the conversation light. “He’s a big pussy cat, even though his size can scare the living crap out of a person. I should know. I wound up locked in a horse trailer with him once.”

“What? No, you didn’t!” she tosses back.

“Did. I’m not kidding.”

“How?”

“Oh, it’s a long story,” I tease. “Isn’t it time for you to bed down and get some beauty sleep?”

Not what I should be asking. I can’t help it.

“I’m not tired. Tell me.”

I grin, leaning back against the headboard as one of the most insane days of my life comes flitting back.

“It all started when Willow—Grady’s wife, now—needed to find a new home for Bruce. Lord knows we couldn’t keep a contraband cat hidden away in his barn forever with these shady pricks looking for him, so I volunteered to give her and Bruce a ride to the new place in Wyoming...”

I continue with the story, not even exaggerating the antics because I don’t need to. Her soft laughter keeps me going to the end.

“Okay. Now I have to meet Bruce and Willow,” she croons.

“We will. Pick a day and I’ll take you out there,” I say. “Thelma can come along, too, if she’s up to a little walking before it gets too cold.”

“Ugh, that’s the problem. She’ll say she’s ready whether her legs are or not,” Shelly says. “I’m amazed how well she’s doing, though. The hardest part is making sure she listens and rests.”

My gut knots, wondering if Thelma’s speedy recovery means she’ll leave sooner rather than later.

“That’s what you’re here for. Fuck knows Marty wouldn’t be able to handle her on his own,” I joke.

“No way. I do worry that she’ll try to overdo it sooner or later,” she says with a laugh. “I had to pry her away from whipping up a big batch of strawberry shortcakes for the guests this morning. Besides the fact that she shouldn’t be messing around in the kitchen yet, I knew it’d involve a trip to the store—and racing Granny Coffey for the best berries. She’s terrible with that.”

I chuckle. The longstanding rivalry between the two feistiest old ladies in town over produce is legendary.

“I’ll bet she appreciates your help. She talked about you coming home for several weeks before you showed up and nothing else,” I tell her.

“She misses you stopping by for coffee in the mornings,” Shel says quietly.

I pause.

“Yeah, I—” I stop, unsure how far I should take this, even if I can’t stay away forever. “I’ll remedy that. I’ll see her this week.”

“Tomorrow? She’ll be cooped up and bummed out she’s missing church. She’d love the extra company.”

I smile at the hope in her voice, and then frown because I sense something else. She sounds cautious, cagey, and I’m not sure why.

Is it fear? Concern? Worry?

“Is everything else okay, Shelly?” I ask point blank.

“Yep!”