Before the house empties, Daryl returns to the room with a cup of my ginger tea and a packet of dry crackers. “Here. I think this will help with your sickness.”
And as he rests the mug on the nightstand and smiles before he leaves, my heart swells to epic proportions in my chest. No one has ever brought me tea in bed. He just did something I never expected from a man. He anticipated my needs and met them without me asking. I didn’t even know this was a thing I could hope for or expect. But here I am, lying in my foster brother’s bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets that smell of them, sipping tea and nibbling crackers and feeling so much better because of how good they are to me.
When I get in the shower, I feel a pang about having to wash the triplets off me, but after I’m done shampooing my tangled bed-hair and smoothing lotion all over my body, I feel ready for the day.
I know what I need to do. It’s been rattling in the back of my head since I spoke to Uncle Walter yesterday. I’m jumping in my car and heading down to see if I can meet with Tristan Copeland, the developer.
It doesn’t take me long to find the office Walter mentioned. It’s right at the end of Main Street, a shop with frosted windows and a small sign on the door that reads Copeland’s. I sit in my car, pondering on how to approach the conversation. All I’m planning to do is some research. I want to know exactly what offer he made to my foster brothers and, if I can, find out why he wants Dad’s house. The problem is that I think Tristan Copeland is tricky. When he looked at me, it was as though he had x-ray eyes, seeing everything beneath the surface.
I finally psych myself up enough to leave the car when the door to the shop opens. Tristan is there, barking into his mobile, standing so straight it’s as though he’s looking down his nose at the world.
“We’re close,” he says. “You know that patience is a virtue.”
I pretend to drop something and bend over so he can’t see me, hoping to hear a little more of this conversation.
“Tell Copperington’s that they’re going to get the site. I have two more homes to sign on the dotted line, and that’s it.”
Copperington’s? The name sounds familiar. Tristan continues listening to whoever is on the other end of the phone, locking up his office as I stay out of sight. Quickly tapping Copperington’s into my phone, I know immediately who they are from the logo that appears. It’s a company that runs malls. Not just any malls. Huge malls that suck the life out of small towns like this.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Tristan says. “You know what it’s like. Can’t let anyone sense that you’re desperate or they think they’ve got you over a barrel. They start asking for a ridiculous price or refusing to sell out of principle.” He scoffs, like the idea of anyone having principles disgusts him.
My legs begin to shake from squatting for too long, and I can’t hear Tristan anymore. I think he’s hung up the phone. As I decide to rise to find out where he is, I see a shadow falling over me—a shadow with a bulbous top half and skinny bottom half.
“Well, hello,” he says slowly, as my eyes meet his. Tristan.
I scramble to my feet, with my keys and phone in hand. “I’m such a klutz,” I say, waving them.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I was…” I glance around, finding a small hardware store and an undertaker nearby, “…looking to buy a washer for my faucet,” I say.
Tristan nods, suspicion passing over his face, masked by a smirk that seems laced with unpleasantness. Funny how people can smile, but it’s wholly unconvincing of anything kind or friendly.
“I’m still coming by tomorrow,” he says. “To speak to you and the boys.”
“Sure,” I say. “Actually, could you make it Friday? We have a family celebration tomorrow.”
Tristan nods. “Friday.”
“Great. And bring your proposal in writing?” I lock up my car, my hands almost shaking as I can feel his eyes on me, weighing up all of my actions and expressions. He knows I was listening, and it feels like being caught looking at someone showering.
“Good luck with the washer,” he calls, his smirk now out in full force. He’s like the wolf in the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, ready to eat me for dinner, his black beard as sinister as that of Peter Pan’s pirate.
“Thanks.” Hitching my purse onto my shoulder, I stride to the hardware store, giving a sigh of relief when I’m inside, and the door closes behind me.