Before his life had turned out to be about as substantial as an empty cereal packet, he’d considered himself a pretty easygoing kind of guy. Not particularly prone to temper tantrums, reasonably long fuse, pretty quick with a laugh when something tickled his funny bone.
Lately, though... Lately he’d noticed a tendency to see only the darkness, the ugliness in people and the world. And his fuse had shortened considerably. Six months ago, Mackenzie’s little stunt would have made him laugh and worry about her blood pressure. Today, it filled him with the urge to do something childish like put Led Zeppelin on the stereo and turn up the volume to bleeding-eardrum level so that it rattled her windows.
He released his breath on an exasperated exhalation. It didn’t take a psychologists’ convention to work out where the impulse stemmed from and who his anger was really directed at.
Edie.
Except she was a thousand miles away and he hadn’t spoken to her for more than three months.
Because he didn’t know what to do with all the anger Mackenzie had inadvertently triggered in him, he strode through the house and into the yard, aiming for the shed in the far corner. Nothing like a distraction to avoid dealing with his feelings.
Strudel kept pace with him, her whiskered face bright with doggy anticipation. At least one of them was getting something out of this.
He was struggling with the rusty latch on the shed when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen before deciding to take the call. It was Brent, his brother.
“You there yet or still on the road?” Brent asked.
“Got here a couple of hours ago.”
“How’s the place looking?”
“Old.”
“Coat of paint will fix that. I’ve been doing some research. Looks like the big-gun real-estate agent in the area is Dixon and Lane.”
Oliver gave the latch a thump with his fist. “It’ll be a while before I can call the agents in, mate.” The latch finally gave and he pulled the door open. “Bloody hell.”
“What?”
“The garden shed is stuffed with furniture.” His gaze ran over chairs, a sideboard, a dresser, a bed frame, all of it crammed cheek by jowl and covered with dust.
“Any good stuff?”
“I have no idea.” It all looked old-fashioned and heavy to him, but what did he know?
“We should get an evaluator in. One of those guys who specializes in estates,” Brent said.
“I guess.”
“You sound tired.”
“Lot of road between here and Sydney.”
“That’s kind of the point, though, right?”
Oliver shut the shed door and used his shoulder to hold it in place while he forced the rusty bolt home. “Yeah.”
“I’ll let you go. Speak again tomorrow, okay?” Brent said.
Oliver suppressed a sigh. Ever since he’d told his brother about Edie and Nick, Brent had been checking in with him daily. As though Oliver would “do something stupid” if he didn’t have his hand held.
“You don’t have to keep up the suicide watch, you know. I’m pissed off, but I’m hardly going to end it all,” he said drily.
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant thunder of surf.
“You’re not on suicide watch,” Brent said stiffly.
“Whatever you want to call it. I don’t need my hand held.”
“Excuse me for caring.”
Brent sounded pissed now. Oliver ran his hand through his hair.
“I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But you don’t need to babysit me.”
“Sure. I’ll speak to you later.” Brent hung up.
Oliver congratulated himself on being a dick. Brent was a good guy. A little fussy sometimes, but maybe that came with the territory when you were the older brother. Rewarding his concern with smart-assery was a kid’s way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.
Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Oliver promised himself he’d call Brent tomorrow. He surveyed the garden, looking for Strudel before he headed into the house. He frowned when he saw her doing the doggy meet-and-greet routine with the neighbor’s dachshund.
“How did you get over here?” He glanced at the fence that separated the two properties. It was silver with age, but it looked solid enough. Obviously there must be a hole somewhere.
“Strudel. Come here, girl. Come here.”
His normally obedient schnauzer didn’t so much as glance in his general direction. She was too busy canoodling with her new best friend, sniffing and dancing around and generally being coy.
Oliver went after her, scanning the fence line as he walked. Sure enough, he found a half-rotted board and a hole that was sufficiently large for a determined dachshund to gain entrance.
“Party’s over, buddy.” He reached down to scoop up the dachshund. The dog wriggled desperately, but Oliver kept a tight grip, only releasing him when he’d arrived at the fence. He squatted, pointed the dog at the hole and stood guard until the sausage dog had wiggled into his own yard. There were a few loose bricks in the garden bed nearby and Oliver used them to build a blockade. He’d patch the hole properly later, but the makeshift barrier should keep Romeo out in the interim.
He returned to the house and did a thorough tour of each room, making notes on the work that needed to be done. He’d reached the kitchen when he realized Strudel had disappeared. He checked the living room, sure he’d find her making herself at home on the overstuffed couch. She wasn’t there, however.
He glanced outside as he returned to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the dachshund planted at the bottom of the exterior steps.
Bloody hell. Houdini had done it again.
He found Strudel sitting at the door, gaze fixed longingly on the handle, almost as though she was willing it to turn. He had no idea how she knew that her furry friend had come calling, but clearly she did.
“You can do much better, girl,” he said. “He’s way too short for you.”
He went outside, Strudel hard on his heels. He watched in bemusement as the two dogs greeted each other with what he could only describe as the canine equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute. Didn’t seem to matter that they’d seen each other less than an hour ago.
“Okay. Hate to break it up, but Houdini has to go home.”
He picked up the dachshund and carried him to the hole in the fence. To his surprise, the barricade was still intact. He followed the fence farther into the garden, squirming hound under his arm
By the time he’d reached the rear of the property he’d found another three holes, which made the dachshund more of an opportunist than an escape artist. Oliver considered the problem for a few seconds, but he really couldn’t see any alternative to biting the bullet and paying his not-very-neighborly neighbor another visit. She needed to be made aware of the issues with their shared boundary. As tempting as it was to simply attach a note to her dog’s collar and send him through one of the many holes in the fence, Oliver figured the news would probably be better received in person.
He ushered the interloper inside and clipped Strudel’s lead onto his collar. He had to practically drag the dachshund out the door, however, and he could hear Strudel whining beseechingly as he crossed to Mackenzie’s driveway. He knocked on her door, then looked down. The dog was staring up at him with sad eyes, the picture of abject misery.
“Yeah, yeah, your life is hell. I get it.”
He could hear footsteps inside the house. He braced himself for more rudeness. Mackenzie opened the door and stared at first him, then the dachshund.
“Why do you have my dog?” she asked, a frown furrowing her brow.
“Because he was in my yard. Twice. The fence between our properties is riddled with holes.”
She crouched, one hand reaching for the door frame for balance.
“Mr. Smith, what have you been up to? Have you been out making new friends?” Her tone was warm, even a little ind
ulgent.
She knelt, rubbing the dog beneath his chin. Oliver stared at her down-turned head, noticing something through her dark, clipped hair. A white, shiny line sliced across her scalp along the side of her skull, then curled toward the front just inside her hairline.
A scar.
A pretty wicked, serious one by the looks of it.
She glanced at him. “Thanks for bringing him back.”
She wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. Her skin was very fair and her long, dark eyelashes stood out in dramatic contrast to her piercing blue eyes.
She unclipped the leash, then straightened. Maybe he was looking for it after seeing the scar, but it seemed to him the move wasn’t anywhere near as easy and casual as she’d like him to think. He reminded himself of the reason he was here—and it wasn’t to ferret out her secrets.
“We need to do something about the fence,” he said.
“There’s never been a problem before. Mr. Smith isn’t much of a roamer.”
“I think he’s more interested in Strudel than exploring the terrain.”
“That’s never been a problem before, either.”
His back came up. Admittedly, he’d come here primed to be annoyed because she’d been so dismissive earlier, but there was a definite tone to her words. As though somehow he and Strudel were responsible for her dog’s behavior.
“I guess times have changed. We should probably do a temporary fix and then get some quotes to have it repaired.”
The phone rang inside her house and she glanced over her shoulder. The move drew his attention to her breasts—small but perky. He gave himself a mental shake. As if he cared what her breasts looked like. They were attached to the rest of her, which was toned within an inch of its life and way too scrawny for his tastes.
“I need to get that,” she said as she refocused on him.
“Fine. But we need to deal with this fence or Mr. Smith is going to come visiting again.”
“I’m sorry, but I really need to take this call. I’ll get back to you.” There was a distracted urgency beneath her words as she reached for the knob.
He opened his mouth to protest—as the door swung shut in his face for the second time that day.
“You cannot be serious,” he told the shiny black wood.
But she was. She was also the rudest person he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. He was tempted to knock again and force her to deal with him, but he had an image of himself knocking till the cows came home and her ignoring him as she dealt with her vitally important, utterly life-transforming phone call.
He’d been de-balled quite enough by his wife’s staggering infidelity, thank you very much. He had no intention of hanging around to play the part of supplicant.
He remembered an old saying as he returned to his aunt’s house: no good turn goes unpunished.
Indeed.
ISBN: 9781460310625
Copyright © 2013 by Pamela Hearon Hodges
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