I hear my name being called, but my mind is too busy picturing the round-bellied men I saw lingering around the front of the station when I drove by yesterday on my way to get groceries. I mean, I get it’s for charity, but still.
“So, what do you think? I’ll let her know?” Ann Margaret asks.
“Huh? I’m sorry, what were you—”
“Okay, are we finally ready?” Mom strolls out, her face freshly powdered and glossed, her boobs extra perky from being plumped and adjusted. She says it like she’s been waiting on me all this time.
Her smoky eyes dart to the Hunky Hero flyer I was gaping at and a gleeful laugh escapes her. “We should go together! That’d be a fun mother-daughter night, don’t you think? And you can bid on a man.”
My face twists with disgust. “Ew. No.”
“What?” She frowns, as if confused by my reaction. “It’s the best night of the year around town.”
“You’ve gone to this?”
“I haven’t just gone. I’ve won.” She winks conspiratorially. “Fire Chief Cassidy last year.”
I have no idea who Fire Chief Cassidy is, but I’m surprised to hear Mom gave money to charity. Then again, if the reward involves an even semi-attractive man, I guess she’d be all about doing a good deed.
For the children, of course.
“And what does owning a hunky hero entail exactly?” I air-quote those words. “Bragging rights? Or do you actually go out to, like, dinner and a movie?”
“I’m sure that’s all the dowdy women around town get out of it.” She studies her nail lacquer, a devious smile touching her lips. “But what a night that was.”
I bite my tongue. Seriously, is there no man my mother won’t screw? And she basically paid for this one.
“So? Are we going to dinner or what?” Her heels click against the tile as she marches for the door. “I could really use a drink.”
Seven
Who the hell cuts grass at eight in the morning? Isn’t there a law against that?
I struggle to tamp down my annoyance at the grating sound of the lawn mower in a neighboring yard as it carries through my open windows, knowing that my foul mood is thanks to an emotionally draining evening, followed by a restless night.
Dinner with my mother was exhausting, as usual—listening to her gossip and judge until her speech slurred, about who’s going through a divorce and which woman needs to take better care of herself before she drives her man way. Looks and money, that’s all that seems to matter to Dottie Reed. There isn’t much in the way of substance to her personality, a grim reality I clued into long ago. There also isn’t any point in calling her out for it. It’ll just put her in a snit, and I have no interest in fighting again.
Thankfully, she has never required my attention on the regular and I suspect that won’t change, even with me being back in town. I’ve bought myself at least a month before I have to make a phone call, two months for another stab-me-in-the-eye dinner.
I couldn’t get home fast enough last night, but when I finally did, it was to a sweltering house. I woke up in a pool of sweat at 6:00 a.m., thanks to this never-ending heat wave and lack of air conditioning, a fact I was aware of but didn’t seem to grasp until now.
Iris Rutshack ran a portable air conditioner from her ground floor bedroom window, one that she took with her. If these temperatures don’t let up soon, I’ll be forking over cash for a unit. Another thing to add to the long list of must-haves.
I suck back a mouthful of coffee as I assess my charming but dated kitchen—the butter-yellow cupboards adorned by hinges that sit on the outside, the green, yellow, and white mosaic tile backsplash that gives the space a festive look. I’ve scrubbed everything down, and yet the thirty-year-old, avocado-green appliances still look grimy. Especially the stove, which Iris warned in a note sometimes “acts up.” I’m not sure exactly what that means yet, but it needs to go, as soon as my paychecks start rolling in.
But for now, it’s all about cleaning up the front yard and painting the main floor walls before I have to switch my focus to getting my classroom ready for my sixth graders.
I smile into my giant coffee mug.
My walls. My class. I’m not sure what makes me more excited.
And I have little time to waste.
Grabbing my bucket of cleaning supplies, I shove it under the sink, out of the way, and then crank the sink tap, intent on washing the pile of dirty dishes. A strange metal clank and pop sounds, followed by a distinct hiss. A moment later, cool water touches my bare feet, pooling on the worn beige linoleum floor.