Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  I hear his voice behind his office door and am grateful I won’t have to march all over the property hunting him down.

  I shrug, roll out my neck, and prepare myself. Quickly, I run through my argument so I have all my points in order. I’ll tell him the shack is an employee health hazard and point out that his house is huge—there have got to be at least six bedrooms. I passed a game room, living room, and breakfast nook, and I will happily sleep on the ground in any one of them. I’m not picky.

  I know I have a winning defense, but I still can’t work up the courage to knock on his door. My heart is beating so fast, no rhythm, just quick pulses. I’ve turned into a hummingbird. Is this what desperation feels like? It’s wild, like a drug.

  I try to remember why I’m here, why I left Andrew in the first place. For the last five years, I was the perfect wife. I studied the news and stayed abreast of current events. I was polite and witty and funny, and when necessary, I was demure and thoughtful. I ate well-portioned meals and worked out every day, lathered myself in night creams and face masks and consequently have the skin and the ass of an eighteen-year-old, and in the end, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

  My mental pep talk works—I’m out for blood. I pound on his office door with the side of my fist then let myself in. Poor Jack. He doesn’t know what hit him. If he’d caught me last week, I would have been gentle and meek. I would have used a sweet tone, an “on-the-phone” voice when I spoke with him, just like Andrew preferred. Now, he gets the unfiltered version, the angry, wild hellion I’ve caged in for too long. I wouldn’t be surprised to find streaks of black war paint under my eyes.

  “By all means, barge in whenever you please.”

  His words drip with sarcasm. It’s clear he’s angry about the interruption as he glares at me from behind his desk. That look and his annoyed tone shift my perspective, and I remember I don’t feel bad he’s getting the unfiltered version. No, he started this mess by being rude to me: calling me a princess, dragging me away from the all-hands meeting, and then tossing me into that glorified lean-to that gives other respectable shacks a bad name. He thinks I’m a spoiled brat—no doubt the result of Helen’s handiwork—and instead of giving me the benefit of the doubt, he’s done nothing but doubt my benefits. He’s been nothing but brusque and unwelcoming, so no, NO POOR JACK.

  He’s still wearing that backward baseball hat, and he looks like the cool jock from high school all grown up. I try not to be intimidated. I give him what I can only hope is a serious, no-nonsense glare. My hands go to my hips. My elbows bow out. It’s a power pose, it’s Wonder Woman, and I’m nailing it.

  “I’d like to propose an alternate living arrangement.” His brown eyes try to sear through me. Still, I continue. “I passed a bunch of decent rooms on my way up here. There’s a bedroom down the hall—”

  “None of the rooms in this house are available to you. I’m not running a bed and breakfast.”

  Obviously. If he were, it would be called Bad Manners Manor, and the one-star Yelp reviews would read, Surly owner scares would-be guests away.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to rent a better place after your first paycheck—if you make it that long.”

  “Fine. When exactly is payday?”

  He leans back in his chair and rubs the scruff along his jaw. “Payroll went out last Friday, so you’ll get your first paycheck two weeks from now, just like everyone else.”

  Two weeks? I won’t last that long. I have one pair of underwear.

  “I could really use an advance.”

  I say this very calmly, like I’ve seen in movies, and I think he will respond in turn. He doesn’t.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Signing bonus?”

  He really laughs at that, cracks up like I’m the stupidest person he’s ever encountered. His laughter makes me feel a little sick, and my hands form little fists by my sides. If we were closer, I think I’d swing and try to give him a black eye, just to see how it’d feel. He’s at least twice my size, but I’m scrappy. He’d never see it coming.

  “Why do you need the money? A new purse?”

  The accusation wraps around my heart like talons and it pops like a balloon, deflating any courage I had left. God, he thinks so little of me. He thinks I’d subject myself to this humiliation for something as frivolous as a new purse?

  I should tell him the truth, that I want the money so I can go into town and buy some essentials: a new pillow and a clean blanket. I need a pair of tennis shoes because my loafers have rubbed my feet raw. I have no clothes, nothing to change into. I am utterly destitute, and completely at his mercy. I came to Texas hoping to find some comfort from my sister and instead I found him—the rudest, most inconsiderate man west of the Mississippi.

  I open my mouth, prepared to pour everything out, to make him feel terrible for the things he’s said to me, but I quickly realize I can’t. As soon as I speak, I’ll sob. I’m one of those people who inexplicably cries when angry. It’s annoying. Any time I want to shout at someone, it comes out as a teary mess. Anger and sadness comingle in my brain, no hope of harnessing one without the other. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry; therefore, I have no choice.

  Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of his office, slamming the door behind me. It’s a strange thing to do considering we were in the middle of a conversation. I’ve just given him more reason to think I’m insane, but at least I still have my pride. Do people with a single pair of underwear have pride?

  I limp away on my blistered feet, repeating a short mantra over and over in my head: Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

  Amazingly, my brain listens. I don’t shed a single tear as I make my way downstairs, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room that leads to the back door. I’m so laser-focused on making it out that I miss the bags piled up beside the doorframe until I trip over one of them. I’ve apparently met my quota of embarrassing moments for the day, because the universe saves me from face-planting completely. I catch myself and check over my shoulder to make sure there was no audience for my little stumble—the coast is clear. I turn back for the door, prepared to whip it open and make my escape, but then I look down.

  The trash bags aren’t filled with garbage—they’re filled with clothes, clothes that are undoubtedly waiting to be loaded up and taken to Goodwill for donation. I know this because there’s a little sticky note on one of them that says, DONATION! TAKE WHAT YOU WANT!

  I have half a mind to fall to my knees and weep. Instead, I turn one ear to the stairs, confirm that Jack hasn’t followed me down, and then get to work rooting through the bags. I justify the fact that I’m stealing because the clothes are about to be donated to the less fortunate, and guess what? I’m currently the least fortunate I’ve ever been. These clothes are mine.

  I find a few pair of worn but clean black socks folded into pairs. Maybe a few weeks ago, I would have balked at the idea of wearing a stranger’s old socks. Today, right now, they are more valuable than gold. I even slip a pair on right then so they’ll act as a buffer between my loafers and my blistered feet. I look like a mall walker headed to Nifty After Fifty.

  Once I’m satisfied I have enough socks, I rummage through a collection of folded t-shirts and skim a few off the top. I unfold one to discover it’s an XL and will undoubtedly drown me, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll manage. I dump the shirts on the ground beside me and keep rifling through the contents of the bags right up until a voice speaks behind me and I jump out of my skin.

  “As I understand it, the point of having a housekeeper is so they’ll clean up messes, not make new ones.”

  I whip around, surprised to find the older woman from before, the one who answered the door when I first arrived on the ranch. She’s standing in the doorway of the laundry room with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “You’re right. I swear I’ll put everything back.”

  I start shoving clothes
in bags, but she shakes her head, holds up a finger, and then disappears back into the kitchen. She’s gone for a moment before she reappears with a new black trash bag in hand. She whips it open then bends low beside me, starting to shovel clothes inside.

  “Is that enough? You only have a few t-shirts here,” she points out.

  “Oh yes, it should be just fine. I can wash them.”

  “And you found some of the socks I put in there, that’s good. What size shoe are you?”

  I’m dumbfounded by this turn of events, but I have enough sense to reply quickly, “Seven and a half.”

  “Right, well, I’m a nine, so they’ll be a little big, but I put a pair of tennis shoes in that bag over there.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I damn well know that, now shove over. You’re sitting on one of the shirts.”

  I lean over so she can tug the t-shirt out from under me and then she stuffs it in the bag with all the others.

  “Whose clothes are these?”

  She scowls at me. “Silence is a virtue. Get virtuous.”

  If they’re Jack’s—and I suspect they are—will I toss them aside? No. In fact, he’ll have to chop off my feet if he wants these socks back.

  I’m surprised she’s taken the time to collect the clothes for me, and I have enough good sense to accept her charity. Unless…

  “Does he know you took this stuff out of his closet?”

  Her mouth flattens in a thin line. “They say there’s no such thing as a stupid question, but does that mean you have to try so hard to think of one? It’s damn annoying.”

  I can’t tell whether she loves me or hates me, so I play it safe and just keep my lips zipped after that, watching as she continues going through the bags, taking things I wouldn’t have had the courage to grab before. There’s fresh white linen and towels. She gives me everything. My trash bag is bulging.

  “I know this isn’t enough. I don’t have any shorts for you—you’re too damn skinny to wear mine—but those jeans you’re wearing should work until we can make it into town.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  I’m surprised by how overwhelmed I feel.

  “No. Stop. If you cry right now, I’m taking all this to the burn pile. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s blubbering. Now listen, my grandson is a tough cookie, an arrogant devil through and through. I tried to talk him into letting you stay in the house, but he’s got his mind made up, something about teaching you a lesson. If you ask me, there’s more likely a lesson in there for him, but this is his house and I won’t disrespect him by sneaking you in here.”

  “Your grandson?” I ask, cutting in.

  “Was that another question?” She pauses her work and glances over to me. From this proximity, there’s no pretense between us. I can see every shade of blue in her hard eyes, every wrinkle etched in her tan skin. I have no doubt she can see the absolute despair reflected back at her. She can probably also smell the peanuts on my breath. “Oh, hell. All right. We haven’t been properly introduced.” Her hand darts out for mine. “Edith McKnight, the devil’s grandma.”

  I take her hand and shake it, surprised by how strong her grip is.

  “Meredith Wilchester—er, Avery. Meredith Avery,” I say, catching myself and dusting off my maiden name, the one I’ll be reverting back to from this day forward.

  “Pleased to meet you, Meredith. I wish it were on better terms, but we’ll make the best of this situation. Now here, take this. It’s too heavy for me or I’d help you.”

  She hands me the bag and pushes to her feet. She brushes her hands on the back of her jeans then turns to walk away, just like that, as if she didn’t just turn my entire day around.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I call after her. “Why are you helping me?”

  Without bothering to turn around, she rambles off a string of countryisms. “My grandson is a good man, but he often thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow. He could strut sittin’ down. I mean, I love him, but sometimes it’s like hugging a rose bush.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I’m helpin’ you because I know he can’t yet, but when you get to be my age, you learn that a wounded bird eventually needs a peaceful nest.”

  It’s like she’s speaking a foreign language.

  6

  Jack

  I’ve got big plans for today: I’m going to keep my temper simmering near a low boil, I’m going to avoid the princess, I’m not going to let my ranch hands pull any shit like they did yesterday with the pigs, and I will have my inbox empty by the end of the workday. This is the plan—at least, it was. My alarm clock is still due to go off in five minutes, but I’m already up on the edge of my bed in my boxer briefs, listening to Christine talk my ear off. Alfred is snoring at my feet. I think dogs sometimes like to rub it in.

  “You promised you’d come to San Antonio later this week.”

  I blink sleep out of my eyes and chance a glance at the clock beside my bed: 5:10 AM—too damn early for a fight.

  “And I explained that it’s just not possible. Helen left last week and—”

  “You’re kidding me. Jack, do you know the last time you made the effort to come here? To show me you care even the tiniest bit?”

  I rest my elbows on my knees, squeeze my eyes closed, and pinch the bridge of my nose. I really could’ve used those last five minutes of sleep. “I’m sure I could come up with a good example if you hadn’t called at the crack of dawn. I haven’t even had my coffee.”

  That response doesn’t go over well.

  “You are the most emotionally vacant man I’ve ever met. We’ve been together two years—TWO YEARS—and I get the feeling you wouldn’t care if I broke up with you right here and now.”

  Has it really been that long?

  “Chrissy, c’mon—”

  “No. Don’t bother.” She pauses, inhales a deep breath. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, sweet. “I’m just…I’m upset. I miss you, that’s all. We hardly see each other.”

  “You know I’d be there with you if I could.”

  “Would you?”

  Just then, my alarm clock starts blaring loudly. BEEP BEEP BEEP. My eyes pop open and I reach over to slam my hand down to turn it off. Alfred hops up and starts wagging his tail, flaunting the energy from his extra sleep.

  “Chrissy, I gotta—”

  “Yeah, I know, you gotta go. Going’s what you do best.”

  Her words are meant to sting, but they don’t.

  “Will I see you later this week?” I ask, trying to end the phone call on a good note.

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

  We both know she’ll cave and make the drive out here. That’s how our relationship works. For two years, she’s lived in San Antonio and I’ve lived here. We see each other once or twice a month, when it’s convenient. It’s not nearly enough for her, but it’s all the time I have to give at the moment. With Helen gone, I’m not even sure I can swing that.

  After we hang up, I get going, speeding through a shower before I tug on a worn pair of Wranglers and reach for one of my favorite Blue Stone Ranch t-shirts, except my hand comes back empty. There aren’t any shirts hanging where they should be—I guess that’s what happens when Mary isn’t here to do my laundry. I settle for a pearl snap button-down then reach for my trusty ball cap. Until I make it into town for a haircut, it’ll have to do.

  Downstairs, I let Alfred out the back door. Edith is already by the coffee maker, filling up a mug.

  “Hope you made it extra strong today.”

  She hands it off to me with a trademark sneer.

  “It’s somewhere between crude oil and jet fuel. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  I take a big sip then tip the mug toward her in thanks. “It’s perfect.”

  “I heard you upstairs on the phone. Little early for Christine to be callin’, isn’t it? Some of us would have appreciated sleeping in a l
ittle bit.”

  “You haven’t slept past 5:00 in thirty years.”

  “Not for lack of tryin’, and I’d still like the option.”

  She pours some coffee into a mug for herself and cuts it with cream before proceeding to answer most of my questions with more questions.

  “Christine was chewin’ my hide.”

  “What’s new?”

  “Maybe I should put in more of an effort with her.”

  “Do you think she’s worth it?”

  “I can’t remember the last time I drove out to see her. Must have been a couple months back.”

  “You could ask her to move out here.”

  “You think I should?”

  “Do you love her?”

  “I don’t know. She told me this morning we’ve been together for two years—do people usually love each other after two years?”

  “It’s hard to say. Generally speaking, seeds don’t sprout in rocky soil.”

  “Damn.”

  She levels me with a thoughtful gaze. “I could have told you two years ago she wasn’t for you.”

  I smirk. “You’re biased. You two never got along well.”

  “Yeah? Well, whose fault is that? I get along with everyone.”

  I quirk a brow, pointing out the obvious. “Half the town is too scared to love you. The other half is too scared not to love you.”

  She chuckles and steps toward the window near the sink. “No, that’s you half the town’s scared of. I’m just standin’ next to you. Oh, look who’s ready for her first day of work.”

  I follow her gaze out the window and find Meredith stepping out of the shack. Color me shocked. I didn’t figure her for an early bird, and I feel deprived—I thought I’d get the pleasure of performing a cowbell wake-up call.

  She turns toward the horizon and shades her eyes with one hand, taking in the sunrise. I know exactly how beautiful it is from that angle—vivid yellow and orange. The view is made even better by the fact that there are no skyscrapers or high-rises obstructing it. After spending the night in that dreary shack, it’s probably a welcome sight. I’m surprised she stuck around.