But he’s already shaking his head. “If you read the book, you know that Augusta and Karl are friends. Why wouldn’t she dedicate it to me? I consider it an honor.” It’s clear from his tone he doesn’t mean it. And equally clear he’s done talking. “Goodbye, Molly. I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but we both know that would be a lie. Go back to Seattle, if that’s even where you live.”
So much for Mr. Nice Guy. The only thing he’s convinced me of is that I’m onto something, maybe something big.
He walks away, his sweet dog trailing after him, and I find myself calling out, “I could say I’ll leave it alone, but we both know I won’t. See you around, Cal!”
Chapter Four
Cal
Never let yourself get stuck in a rut. My friends had all fallen into the same old patterns, and I’m sorry to say that I was marooned in there with them. Let’s not let it happen to you.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
Ruby whines as I hurry her into the truck. I feel like an ass for cutting her time short, and I consider taking her to another dog park, but the thought is fleeting and quickly dismissed. I need to get away from people. I need to escape.
The need is so strong it’s strangling, but getting into my truck and heading toward the Cluster eases some of its hold. Still, it takes a few blocks before my breathing is even close to normal.
How the hell did Molly O’Shea find me?
I force myself to take several deep breaths as Ruby watches me with her worried, soulful eyes, and it’s enough to remind me that she just got the shit scared out of her.
“Sorry, girl,” I say as I reach over and stroke the top of her head. “Did that dog scare you?”
She releases a tiny whine.
“You were a brave girl, protecting your new friend like that.” I rub behind her ear. “Who’s a good girl?”
We have a little game, where I ask, “Who’s a good girl?” and she releases a tiny yip. But she doesn’t respond now, instead lowering her head to my lap.
I continue to stroke her head as a mass of anxiety tries to claw its way out of my chest. I know I should pull over, but I want to get to the Cluster, to my home, because it’s the only place I can ever find any semblance of peace. Traffic is not my friend, though, and I get stuck at a stoplight thanks to some fool who thinks they can turn left on a four-lane road during rush hour at a light without a green arrow.
I finally get around them, but instead of heading straight toward the Cluster, I follow the sudden impulse to turn right and head toward Mrs. Carlton’s house. I stop by regularly to mow her lawn for her. It won’t need any maintenance today—it’s Tuesday, and I was just there last Friday—but I can check to see if anything else needs to be done around the house.
You liar. That’s not why you’re going there.
My conscience catches me off guard, but I can’t deny that it’s right. At least partially.
I pull up in front of Mrs. Carlton’s house and turn off the engine of my truck, staring at the Craftsman bungalow next door. The new owners painted it a dark teal with pale yellow trim, a far cry from the true-to-era tan body and green trim I’d painted it five years ago.
Pain stabs my heart as I stare at it, and for a moment I let the feeling wash over me, stealing my breath. I feel like I’m drowning, drenched in the rain that fell the night Alice died.
It’s because of Molly O’Shea that I’m here, I realize—because of what she said about staying at her parents’ house. I know that pain of walking the same floors that the person you lost used to walk. Hoping to see their ghost, yet terrified that you might.
A rap on the passenger window startles me. I jolt as an older woman in a housedress continues to beat my car with a broom.
“Get out of here, Roger! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m not going to bingo with you!”
Ruby pops out of my lap, releasing a low growl, but I know Mrs. Dahl, the neighbor who lives on the other side of Mrs. Carlton’s house, isn’t a threat. I start to roll down the window a smidge to talk to her, but the engine has been off long enough that it doesn’t work. So I get out, shutting Ruby in the truck for now because I have no idea what I’ll be dealing with.
I stop a few feet in front of the older woman, and her eyes narrow as she stares up at me. Mrs. Dahl has been teetering on the verge of dementia for a while now, but she was eccentric for a few decades before that, which makes it hard to know when it’s her dementia or her eccentricity you’re dealing with.
Today she’s wearing a flowing white dress that looks shockingly like she’s about to walk down the aisle of her own wedding—which would be her fourth or maybe her fifth. Her light brown hair has more gray in it than the last time I saw her briefly about six months ago. It’s wild and a little frizzy, and I can’t tell if she purposely made it that way or hasn’t brushed it in several days. Her blue eyes seem milkier, which could mean it’s her eyesight that’s made her confuse me with Roger and not her slipping mind.
To my surprise, she starts hitting me with her broom. “I told you it was over, Roger! No more donuts for you!”
I start laughing because her swings don’t hurt, and I have to wonder if the donuts are a euphemism. With Roxie Dahl, there’s just no telling.
Ruby barks furiously inside the truck, making me glad I left her inside for the moment.
“Roxie?” a familiar voice calls out in alarm. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to send this womanizer on his way!” Mrs. Dahl shouts, giving the broom a little more oomph, enough that the bristles scratch the forearm I’ve held up to protect my face.
Ruby now sounds vicious.
“That’s Cal, you blind bat!” Mrs. Carlton shouts as she tries to take the broom from her neighbor.
Mrs. Dahl resists, and the two women—both in their seventies—engage in a tug-of-war with the handle.
I step between them and grab the wooden pole with both hands. “Roxie, Mrs. Carlton is right. I’m Cal. Cal Reynolds. I used to live a couple of houses down, remember?”
Mrs. Dahl stops and her mouth parts slightly as she squints at me. “Cal?”
“In the flesh,” I say and carefully pry the broom from her fingers. “How have you been? Other than trying to chase off a womanizer who’s desperate to take you to bingo?”
Ruby’s barking turns into a low whine.
Any other woman would apologize, but that’s not Roxie Dahl’s style. Her mouth presses into a thin line, making the edge of her lipstick less defined. “Do you know how many men my age are desperate to get married?”
“No,” I say with a smile. “But can you blame them for wanting to marry you?” That comment is totally unlike me, or at least the person I’ve become. I can hear Molly teasing me about my pickup lines improving by the minute.
The anger returns, eclipsing the pain, but I turn it down to simmer, along with my panic that the things I’ve worked so hard to bury are about to be dug up by the intrepid reporter.
In all honesty, I’m pissed because she’s the first woman who has truly intrigued me for years, and she only did it to use me. It confirms my long-held belief that while I’m a fairly good judge of people in general, I’m terrible at it when it comes to my love life.