Love Next Door (Lakeside 1)

“He probably doesn’t want to stress you out more than you already are. And it’s probably all for nothing.”

“Maybe I need to come back to Chicago and deal with this.”

I can hear the creak of his office chair, which means he’s probably swiveling, something he does often. “You’re better off staying where you are. I know it’s not ideal, but let your dad and his lawyers manage this. Look at this as an opportunity to reinvent yourself. You weren’t in love with your job. Relax for a few months, figure out what you want to do next.”

“A few months? I was thinking more like a few weeks.” But considering how long I’ve been here already and how little progress I’ve made, Frankie’s timeline seems more reasonable, although less desirable.

“It all depends on how long it takes for this thing to sort itself out. Take up whittling or something.”

“Whittling?”

“I don’t know. Build something cool. Go fishing. Just give it time. Me and Chip will come for a visit in a couple of weeks. Sound good?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. You think Monica will let Chip come, though?”

Chip is one of our mutual friends. We went to college together and have stayed tight since graduation. His girlfriend, Monica, is high maintenance. Nice enough, but she has Chip wrapped around her finger.

“I’ll get him to start working on her now. I’ll rent one of those party RVs. It’ll be awesome.”

“Sure, sounds good.” And it does. If I can’t be in Chicago right now, at least my friends can come visit me here.

A ping comes from the other end of the line. “I have to go,” Frankie says. “Got a hot date tonight.”

“Oh yeah? With who? Anyone I know?”

“Nah, just some girl I met at a club last weekend. I’ll fill you in when I come visit. Stay chill, my man.” He ends the call, and I tip my head up, staring at the nearly cloudless blue sky, sun shining down on me like it has no idea my life is a mess.

I don’t like that I’m here, in Pearl Lake, and that my dad is now under investigation. Or that he didn’t bother to tell me when I spoke with him. It makes me paranoid. Like people are keeping things from me, and I no longer know who I can trust.

CHAPTER 9

EVERYWHERE I GO, THERE YOU ARE

Van

I don’t have time to wallow in self-pity, unfortunately, or obliterate brain cells with alcohol, neither of which would be particularly productive. The alarm on my phone reminds me that I have an appointment with Bernie, the lawyer who dealt with my grandmother’s will.

I should’ve done this months ago, but I wasn’t in the headspace to manage it. There’s some irony in the fact that the moment I arrived to finally deal with things here, my life in Chicago turned upside down. I’d rationalized that as much as I loved Grammy Bee, she wasn’t leaving behind much. Just the cottage and a lot of junk to sort through. I’ve always loved the place, but cleaning it up wasn’t a job I had the time to take on. Now all I have is time.

I hop in the truck, the springs in the seat squealing in protest (although almost everything in this truck protests), and make a stop at the dump—again—before I drive into town. The law office is on the edge of downtown in a small outbuilding on the same piece of property as Bernie’s house. It’s actually the office for the only town lawyer, an accountant, the city planner, and an art therapist. I’m not sure what the therapist has to do with law and accounting, but there it is.

When I get there, my favorite surly neighbor happens to be coming out of the building. She’s with a guy on crutches. He’s tall and thin, with the same sandy-blond hair, his a shorter mop of curls. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s her younger brother. I never saw much of him when I stayed with Grammy Bee, but then again, I didn’t see much of Dillion either.

I pull into the spot beside her truck, purposely crowding the driver’s side door. I’m about ten minutes early for my appointment, so instead of heading inside, I cut the engine and wait.

She frowns when she sees the truck, and her eyes turn to slits when she spots the narrow gap I’ve left between our vehicles. The side mirrors are almost touching. Her tongue pokes at the almost-closed gap between her front teeth, and she knocks on the hood of my truck.

I wave.

“What the heck?” She motions toward the space between our vehicles.

I pretend I can’t hear her and tap my ear. Her brother continues around to the passenger side, not even sparing her a glance.

“You can hear me just fine, asshole!” she shouts.