Читать книгу His Kind of Perfection - Pamela Hearon - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

June

KALE BARLOW WASN’T sure at exactly what moment it happened, but sometime in the past fifteen minutes—sometime between “This won’t take very long” and “Can you hold this wrench?”—the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

He reached for his beer and took a long, cool swig, gaining a second to refocus before he spoke. “You’re breaking up with me because I’ve gained a few pounds?”

Adele tossed her head, a habit holdover from when she’d had long hair. “It’s more than a few, Kale.” Her eyes flicked to the belly protruding over his cargo shorts, and her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I was reading this article this morning, and it hit a nerve, you know?” She held up the regional newspaper and tapped a spot with her finger. “It talks about how the attraction between two people’s got to be there, and if it’s not, then something’s wrong in the relationship.” She shrugged. “It made me realize it’s just not there anymore.”

“Oh, hell, Addy.” Kale grabbed the rag from his back pocket and swiped it down his sweaty face. “You put too much stock in those dime-store psychologists. As I recall, the attraction between us was fine last night.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mr. Fit’s not a ‘dime-store’ psychologist. He’s a fitness trainer, and he makes a lot of sense.”

Kale answered with an eye roll of his own. “That’s probably a syndicated column written by a guy in Manhattan whose sole purpose in life revolves around fitting into a thirty-two-inch waistband.”

“You just don’t get it, Kale.”

“Yeah, I do.” He rammed the rag back into his pocket and shifted his weight to lean against the pontoon boat whose motor was cutting out for no apparent reason. “You’re upset that my business went from being an eight-hour shift to a sixteen-hour shift when Memorial Day came around, and suddenly I don’t have time for long romantic walks along the beach.” He waved a hand toward the marina and the parking lot where seven more boats waited on their trailers for his attention. “But it’ll take four months of this to have anything extra to pay for that January cruise to the Bahamas you’ve got your heart set on.”

Adele crossed her arms defiantly across her chest. “The cruise was your idea. I suspect you think you’ll enjoy it because you won’t be required to do anything except stuff your face around the clock.”

Kale flinched inwardly at the direct hit. Napping in the sun in a chaise longue with a never-empty beer in his hand and a snack bar or full buffet always within reach was his idea of heaven on earth. But the first week of June had just been marked off the calendar, and the winter cruise reward seemed a long time off. Noticing he was fast losing the sunlight, he breathed a heavy sigh. “Just go on home and get over your mad, Addy. I’m busier than a cat covering up shit on a concrete walk, and I don’t have time for this tonight.”

His girlfriend’s face flushed deep red. “I’m tired, too, Kale. Tired of being with somebody who thinks of sex as a spectator sport...and he’s the spectator instead of the participant.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m tired of you lying there while I do all the grunt work.” She tossed the newspaper at his feet and stalked off. “And don’t call me,” she threw over her shoulder. “We’re done.”

Kale finished his beer as he watched her leave. “Damn it!” He so didn’t need this right now. Taking out his frustration on the can, he crunched it into a ball and aimed a jump shot into the recycle bin. “Oof!” His feet made it only a few inches off the ground. Landing hard, he felt his insides shudder. The can fell two feet short of the goal.

His concentration was completely broken now, so he hefted the cover back on the boat motor, shoved the discarded newspaper into one of his deep pockets and lumbered slowly to the beer can. Yeah, he was a little short of breath when he got there, and okay, leaning over to pick up the can was more difficult than it should have been. But, with the new business he’d leased, he didn’t have time right now to think about diets or fixing relationships. He had too much going on. He’d finally found a place he’d wanted to buy and settle down in...and the woman to do it with. He just needed enough money for a down payment and an engagement ring.

Until five minutes ago, he’d assumed the money was the hard part. Sad fishermen with boats that wouldn’t run and hungry mouths to feed were cutting back on his prospective down-payment money in a big way.

And no kid should ever have to go to bed hungry.

Kale’s throat tightened with what felt like anger, but he swallowed the emotion and let it drop down into his stomach where it would be cushioned.

So now Addy was going to throw him away like a piece of trash? Like hell, she was. They’d been together for almost a year. Things were comfortable, just like they should be, and he wasn’t about to let her go.

In fact, his mind wouldn’t even drift to the topic of starting over again...with anything.

At twenty-nine, he was well beyond those years of constantly having to reinvent himself to try to fit into whatever community his dad’s fly-by-night ventures had moved them to.

Spectator sport, huh? That was a low blow.

True, he liked to take things slow and easy in bed. A lot of women would like it that way. Hell, when had Addy decided she didn’t like it that way?

He trudged out to the gas pumps and jotted down the figures on his pad one last time for the day. On his way through the door, he switched the lighted sign from green and Open to red and Closed, locking the dead bolt to secure the front of the building for the night; then he leaned over the counter and flipped the pump switch to Off.

“And so am I,” he announced to the empty store. Passing through the snacks section, he grabbed a bag of chips, an ice cream bar and two more beers from the cooler.

His apartment at the back of the marina was a welcomed sight, although he wished Addy were there. He passed up the couch they usually shared and plopped into the well-worn recliner and raised the footrest with a sigh. Not giving the ice cream time to melt, he gobbled it down first as he used the remote to channel surf. The program choice wouldn’t make much difference anyway—his mind was on Addy.

He wanted her there with him, damn it. Wanted things back the way they had been yesterday.

He pulled the newspaper from his pocket and glanced at the article—the ridiculous drivel that had convinced her she needed to break up. The entire thing was about mutual attraction. Nowhere did it talk about beauty being only skin-deep or the eye of the beholder stuff.

The more he read, the angrier he became. Who in the hell was this Mr. Fit? And what in the hell would ever make him—or anyone—think they could give advice to people whose personal circumstances they knew nothing about? People like the school psychologists or the guidance counselors from his childhood, or the nosy teachers and coaches at the schools he’d passed through—the ones who always tried to get him “involved”? What good would starting a sport or joining a club do? He’d never been there long enough to see a year from start to finish—usually, not even through training and a season.

The frustration of his youth bubbled to the surface, fueled by the fact that Addy wasn’t there to keep him company. He snatched up his laptop and typed in the email address the newspaper provided, shooting off a message that was short and sweet, but summed up precisely how he felt at the moment.

Dear Mr. Fit,

Thanks for ruining my life.

With a grunt, he set the computer back on the table beside him and picked up a beer. When he popped the top, it spewed, the cold brew drenching his bare stomach where his shirt hung open.

He grabbed a tissue from the box beside him and dried off, noticing for the first time in a long time how much more room he took up in this chair.

Losing a few pounds couldn’t hurt, he supposed.

Especially if it meant getting Addy back and returning his world to normal.

He read the calorie count on the beer. One-hundred fifty? The new light beers only had around fifty-five. That would be an easy swap without much effort.

He flexed his biceps, satisfied to see the large bulge appear. A layer of fat might cover the muscle, but the muscle was definitely there.

The ground may have shifted beneath him, but he was a strong guy.

He would simply pull it back to where it belonged.

* * *

“HOW CAN I put this delicately, Bree?”

Langston Presley leaned far enough over the desk for Bree Rice to catch a whiff of the mouthwash he’d used after his coffee. His face stopped within inches of hers—a space that had, at one time, been very natural, but now felt very weird and much too close. “You’re fired!”

The puff of air from the F-sound punched Bree in the eye.

Made you blink! Her brother Gil’s favorite taunt from childhood scampered across her memory.

Bree clenched the towel that hung around her neck with both hands and jutted her chin forward defiantly. “Oh, come on, Lang. It’s not my fault Todd Howell is a self-centered, conceited, two-timing SOB.” She eyed him levelly. “How do you think I feel...coming back to the gym to work out after hours, and catching the guy I’m dating in one of the private showers with another woman? You want to blame me that he can’t keep his urges under control?”

“I’m not blaming you for his actions. I’m blaming you for your own lack of judgment.” If it were possible, Lang’s voice hardened even more. “You knew it was a bad idea to date a client, but I overlooked your indiscretion because of our history—”

That again. Bree bristled. “You overlooked it because the client happened to be the assistant football coach, and my dating him landed a huge contract with the high school athletic department—”

“Which runs out next week and won’t be renewed according to the phone call I just received,” Lang snapped.

“Oh.” Bree straightened as the shock of that bit of news stiffened her spine. The high school athletics was the gym’s largest account. Losing it was a major loss. “I’m sorry, Lang. It won’t happen again.”

She watched his jaw muscle twitch. “You’re right. It won’t happen again. At least, not with you. I meant what I said, Bree. You’re fired. I’m not sure what made us ever think this would work, but it’s time to admit it doesn’t. Time to call it quits...for good, this time.”

The ubiquitous it Lang referred to was their continued working relationship after their broken engagement. When Lang hired Bree as a personal trainer for his gym three years ago, the attraction had been immediate and undeniable. And when she’d broken the engagement, they’d vowed to make it work. She wanted to stay in western Kentucky where she’d grown up and where her family was, and Langston Presley’s gym in Paducah was the only one of its size in the area.

But since she’d started dating the football coach, things had been stickier. Lang had been pouty and withdrawn. More than once, he’d demanded to know what Todd had that he didn’t.

The question didn’t have an answer Bree knew how to give. There was just something about the attraction between her and Lang that had gone from sizzle to fizzle. He was a great-looking guy with a physique to kill for. But something between them was off.

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, her mom would quote to her and her twin brother when they were kids.

She had no doubt somebody would view Lang as a treasure. She simply wasn’t that somebody.

Bree was too angry to feel panic at the moment, but what this would mean to her career hovered at the edge of her thoughts. She gave reason another go. “You’re making a hasty decision here. It’s never a good idea to make a decision when your emotions are running high.”

“Yeah.” Another flare of anger shot from Lang’s eyes. “If I’d learned that lesson three years ago, I might not be in this mess now.”

Bree’s hackles rose at the comment. If she didn’t leave soon, things were going to escalate into a shouting match just like they had last night with Todd. She hated when her emotions made her lose control—and she certainly didn’t need any more drama in her life. Tamping down her ire, she moved toward the door. “Okay. You’ve said enough. I’ll go pack my things.”

“I’ll take back the Mr. Fit column, but you’ll need to finish up with any questions or comments from this week’s article.”

Darn! The weekly article was one of Bree’s favorite parts of the job. Working out was therapeutic, and being a personal trainer made her feel she was helping people get their lives under control and on track. But available time set limits on how many people she could help. Writing the column always made her feel as if she was helping the masses.

Making the world a better place.

She jerked open Lang’s door and stepped through it, a symbol of the opportunity that had been jerked out of her hands and left behind.

Grabbing an empty equipment crate, she stomped to her office and made quick work of packing up the few personal items from her desk and her locker, fuming silently at the injustice of it all.

The Mr. Fit fan mail would help her leave this place in a good humor...or, at least, a better one, so she saved that task until the very end.

She pulled up the messages in the account, finding only three this week. That was a bit disappointing but seemed pretty much on par with the rest of the day.

The first two were kind thank-yous about her common-sense approach to love and her uplifting message. Just as she expected, she found herself smiling at the praise she’d garnered from simply laying out her philosophy.

The third one sent her day further south.

Dear Mr. Fit,

Thanks for ruining my life.

Nothing else. No explanation. No signature. Just somebody looking to pin blame on someone else.

She peered at the email address—Kaleb@...—rolling her eyes at the stylistic spelling of Caleb, which obviously belonged to some overly dramatic kid who thought the world owed him something.

Well, it was time for Mr. Fit to let Mr. Kaleb-with-a-K know he needed to suck it up.

Dear Kaleb, she typed. You’re welcome.

She hit the button, sending the message—and this chapter of her life—on its way.

* * *

STELLA RICE TRIED using a mother look on the riding mower—one of those facial expressions that withered the disobedience right out of the errant child on sight.

Click-click, the mower answered sullenly.

She slapped her hand to its seat in frustration and stomped off to the house to allow them both some time to cool down.

The six loaves of friendship bread she’d taken out of the oven an hour before were finally cool. She wrapped them carefully in plastic wrap, going over this week’s recipients in her mind. She’d drop a couple off at the church for Pastor Sawyer and his wife, then take one to Miss Beulah May, whose house was next door to the church.

Stella chewed her lip. It was probably Lester Briggs’s turn to get a loaf, but the last time she’d taken him one, he’d spread it around town she was making a play for him. Silly old coot. As if she could really be interested in the likes of him.

As if she could really be interested in the likes of anyone but her beloved Isaiah, who had departed from this world ten years ago tomorrow.

Thirty-one wonderful years they’d shared. Two great kids. A nice home. A relatively uneventful life until his pancreatic cancer. But even that had been mercifully swift—only three weeks from diagnosis to burial.

Just before he’d slipped away, he’d left her with some final instructions. Don’t remember me with tears, Stell. Show the world how happy we were. Remember me with smiles and laughter.

She blinked away the tears, trying her darndest to honor his request. It didn’t always work, but today it did.

Maybe Ollie Perkins would get two loaves this week. It was Ollie who’d given her the starter for the bread years ago. His macular degeneration didn’t allow him to bake anymore, so he got a loaf from Stella every week.

She was the only one who still made the bread in their small community of Taylor’s Grove, Kentucky. Sure, the bread was a bit of a hassle; the starter needed to be fed, and the large bowl took up space in the refrigerator. And then, of course, the bread had to be made—six loaves every week.

It was a commitment most people didn’t want to make. But Stella looked at the bread as a small way of giving back to the community that had given her so much.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Even Lester Briggs, the silly old coot. She’d give him a loaf this week—and give Sue Marsden, The Mouth of Taylor’s Grove, something to talk about.

Stella went back outside, hopes running high that the mower had cooled enough to start. The kids were coming tomorrow, and she wanted everything to look nice. Her flower garden had enough blooms open to cut some large bouquets for Isaiah, yet it would still be pretty from the street. And she’d be able to send some daisies home with Bree. Gil wouldn’t care about the flowers, but he’d be thrilled with the extra apple dumplings, which Bree wouldn’t touch.

Her children—so much alike and yet so totally different. The thought brought a smile, and she chose to direct the positive attitude onto the mower. “Okay!” She clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

She climbed on and turned the switch.

The mower stuck out its tongue. Click-click.

“Oooo!” She fumed and got off. Maybe Bobo Hudson would come take a look at it. The retired mechanic sometimes did odd jobs around the place for her, although he’d been down from his back lately. She’d stop by his house on her way home from town.

“Just don’t go thinking I won’t replace you.” She wagged a warning finger at the mower and closed the back door before it had time to snort in response.

Well, this had certainly gotten her morning off to the wrong start.

Everything happens for a reason, Stell. She’d heard that statement every day of her life with Isaiah. It was the philosophy he lived by. And she’d tried hard to live by it, too.

But, for the life of her, in ten years she’d never been able to come up with a good reason for his death.

She grabbed her purse and her basket of bread and headed for town.

Taylor’s Grove Park sat at the very center of town, physically and socially. It was there that North and South Main and East and West Walnut streets intersected Yager Circle, and it was there that the people of Taylor’s Grove spent their time when they weren’t at home, church or school. If you found yourself alone and in need of company anytime between seven in the morning and nine at night—although the summer evening hours dwindled to seven-thirtyish in the winter—you only needed to go to the park to find someone to pass the time with. The gazebo offered shelter from the sun or the rain, and someone always had a bag of cookies or a sandwich to share.

As Stella approached the park this morning, she saw a small crowd gathered near the gazebo, and she could hear the distinct voice of Sue Marsden, loud and obviously angry about something—what else was new?

“We don’t like your kind,” Sue screeched. “And we don’t want you hanging around here. Sheriff Blaine will be here any minute.”

By now, Stella could see the person Sue was railing at—a scruffy, weather-beaten old man with a handmade sign that read: I CAN FIX ANYTHING BUT A BROKEN HEART.

A bum, maybe, but one with a sense of humor.

Stella liked him immediately.

“I don’t think there’s any law against looking for honest work, ma’am,” the man drawled. His voice sounded younger than the lines etched into his face implied.

“There are laws against vagrancy,” Sue snapped.

“Not a vagrant. Able to work and I got my home with me right there. But maybe you didn’t notice it, seeing as it’s done up in camouflage.”

The man pointed to an old pickup with what looked like a homemade camper built over the top and the bed. The whole thing had been splotched with black, drab green, yellow and orange paint.

When a chuckle went through the crowd, Sue’s face turned a vivid red. “You just get yourself back in your dilapidated truck and move on now, you hear?”

Sue’s tone irritated Stella even more than usual. There was no love lost between the two women. They tolerated each other, but kept their distance as much as possible in a town the size of Taylor’s Grove where nothing was too far from anything else. And Sue had never been on the receiving end of one of Stella’s loaves of bread.

So maybe it was Stella’s frustration with the mower or maybe it was just her always-present desire to see Sue Marsden get her comeuppance that spurred her forward.

“Can you fix a lawn mower?” Stella called from the back of the group.

The crowd turned in unison and parted to let her approach the stranger.

“Yes, ma’am. Small engines happen to be a specialty of mine.” He smiled, and despite the missing teeth, something about the look in his eyes made Stella believe he was telling the truth...and that he was hungry.

“I’ve got a mower that won’t run this morning.” She eyed him carefully. If he had alcohol or drug problems, she didn’t want to give him cash. “If you can get it going, I’ll feed you a nice lunch and send you off with the leftovers.”

“I’d be much obliged for that, ma’am.” He took his cap off and ran his hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “But I have food. It’s gas money I’m in need of.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sue interjected with a sneer.

Stella gave the woman a dismissive glance. “This doesn’t concern you, Sue. This is between me and Mr...?”

“Cyree, ma’am. Ray Cyree.” He started to offer his hand, then seemed to think better of it and pulled it back, clutching his cap tighter.

Stella was relieved. He didn’t appear to have bathed in several days...or weeks. “Well, Mr. Cyree. Seeing as how you should first know what you’re getting into, maybe it would be better to negotiate the terms after you’ve examined the mower?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Sue protested. “He could be an ax murderer, and you’re going to let him into your house?”

“I can stop by and check on you, Stella,” Tank Wallis promised, and a couple of others chimed in with “Me, too.”

“Thanks. There’ll be apple dumplings with ice cream waiting for anyone who wants to drop by this afternoon,” Stella announced, feeling assured that she and Mr. Cyree wouldn’t be alone for very long. “Shall we, Mr. Cyree?”

The stranger nodded. “Please, call me Ray. And, yeah, I’d like to get started.”

“Good. I’ll meet you there.” Stella pointed from the direction she’d come. “Down that street. Brick house at the corner of Walnut and Third. Lots of flowers.”

The two of them excused themselves, he headed to his truck, she to make the short walk home. Stella paused, wondering whether to disperse the loaves of friendship bread she carried, but decided against it.

The friend she’d just made looked as if he could use all six of them.

* * *

“HE DID A fabulous job of mowing and trimming, and following him to the filling station was the perfect solution. In fact, I’m cool with everything except the part where you invited him in.”

Bree couldn’t keep from smiling at her brother’s statement. Words, tone, delivery—all were exact duplicates of her dad’s. Everybody always commented on how much she and her twin brother looked like their dad. It was comforting to know he was still so much a part of them. Especially today. But it also made her ashamed of the news she was going to have to break to her mom and brother...which, of course, could wait until dinner was finished.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have done that if Tank hadn’t stopped by. Another roll?” Her mom held out the basket of homemade yeast rolls.

Gil took two, slathering them with butter. Mom waved them in Bree’s direction as a matter of etiquette, Bree supposed, knowing they’d be declined. She hadn’t deliberately ingested white flour—or white sugar, or anything with corn—in ten years, but her mom still acted as though her eating habits were a strange phase she would grow out of.

“Tank told me later he wouldn’t have known he was the same man,” her mom said, continuing her tale. “It was amazing the difference a shave and shower and some clean clothes made, even ones that were too big for him. I’m thinking I may cut off a pair of your dad’s trousers and hem them and have them waiting in case he takes me up on the offer to use the shower again.”

So, her mom was finally letting go of some of Dad’s things. That was a move in the right direction. Ten years was more than enough time to grieve.

“Dad would like that somebody finally got to use that shower, but I’m not sure he’d be as pleased about your having a naked man in the garage.” Bree laughed as the blush crept up her mom’s neck and into her face. The garage with the mudroom-plus-shower had always been a dream of her dad’s and a frivolous notion to her mom, who had finally relented, and the garage had been built. Ironically, it had been completed only a couple of weeks before he died, and he never got to use it. To Bree’s knowledge, yesterday’s shower, taken by a stranger, was the first time the shower stall had ever been occupied by anything but plants.

Gil laughed and directed a wink Bree’s way. “You’re not going to make naked men in the garage a habit, are you, Mom?”

“Oh, shush now, you two. Your conversation’s hardly appropriate for the dinner table.” She brandished the serving spoon from the carrots in both of their directions. But her stern expression gave way to a small grin. “But you should’ve seen Sue’s face when I hired the poor man. Lord, she looked like she was going to blow a gasket!”

Bree and Gil had seen that look on Sue’s face enough while they were growing up to picture it easily, and they shared a chuckle at their mom’s small victory.

The running feud between Stella Rice and Sue Marsden was a topic the people of Taylor’s Grove could always fall back on when nothing new was stirring. The fact that Sue Yager had been in love with Isaiah Rice, but Isaiah had been in love with Stella Gilbert had been common knowledge since the three had been in junior high school.

Even after she’d found what appeared to be true love with her husband, Ed, Sue Marsden was not one to let go of a grudge. The feud had continued.

Bree’s mom wiped her mouth with her napkin and took a sip of her iced tea. “But, enough of this. What’s going on with y’all? How’s work?”

Bree avoided the subject for a little while longer by stuffing a forkful of yellow squash into her mouth. She nodded at Gil to go first if he had any news. The big grin that broke out on his face said he did...and it was wonderful. So, while she adored her brother and wished for good things to come to him, another part of her brain pouted that sometimes his timing really sucked.

“John Dunn is looking to open a gym between Paducah and Murray. I told him about Dad’s building, and he seemed really interested.”

Her brother’s news rendered Bree momentarily speechless, but it brought a delighted gasp from her mom. “Oh, Gil. That’s terrific!”

The building in Benton that had housed Isaiah Rice’s insurance business had been leased to his partner for the first six years after their dad’s death. But then, Ralph had retired and moved to Florida, leaving the building vacant. It had been on the market for three years, taking its toll on their mom’s finances. Isaiah had left his wife comfortably well off, but paying the taxes and keeping the old, empty building in good condition took an ever-increasing amount each year.

Her mom’s expression flashed from joyous to wary. “Does he really think Benton’s large enough to support a gym?”

“Not by itself,” Gil answered. “But he figures it’s the perfect location to pull in from all the smaller surrounding communities...like Taylor’s Grove. Lots of people around here would love to belong to a gym, but they don’t have the time or desire to make that hour or hour-and-a-half round-trip drive.”

Bree had always chosen to work out of a gym...well, until yesterday morning. Gil, on the other hand, had put the personal in the title personal trainer. He charged by the hour, working with individuals or small groups—mostly businessmen and bored, well-to-do housewives.

“But that’s not the best part.”

Her brother’s news had already sent a shock wave through Bree, and she braced herself for whatever was coming next.

Gil’s smile broadened, and his eyes darted between her and her mom. “He’s offered me the manager/trainer position.”

“Will you...” Bree’s throat closed, and she paused to get some air. “Will you be hiring?”

“Why?” Gil grinned around the dinner roll at his lips. “You thinking of leaving that hoity-toity club that Langston sucked you into?”

“Maybe.” Bree shrugged.

Gil placed the uneaten roll back on his plate and looked hard at her. Through her, actually. “You’re serious. What gives?”

Her mom set her fork down and clasped her hands on the table by her plate, turning her full attention to Bree. “You’ve been quiet all evening.” She reached out, her warm hand enveloping Bree’s cold one. “I thought it was the anniversary that was making you melancholy. But it’s something else.”

Bree nodded. “I got fired yesterday.”

Mom and Gil both straightened in their seats.

“What in the hell happened?”

Her mom shot a look at Gil. “Watch your manners, Gilbert.”

Gil shrugged. “Sorry. What in the hell happened...Brianna?”

For her mom’s sake, Bree decided on the G-rated version. “I broke up with Todd. He got mad and pulled the entire athletic account.”

Gil gave a low whistle. “Whew! That’s a huge chunk of business to lose.”

Bree nodded in agreement.

“But that’s what you get for messing around with clients.” There was Dad’s tone again.

“We weren’t ‘messing around.’ We were dating,” Bree snapped.

“Call it what you want. It’s suicide in the business world.”

“Believe me, if I’d ever thought—”

“That’s your problem, Bree. You don’t think.”

Mom slapped her hand on the table. “Stop bickering, you two.” She sighed, and her angry glare softened. “Don’t you see? ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ Isaiah told us that all the time.” Her chin quivered as her eyes traveled back and forth, giving each child equal time. “You think it’s just a coincidence that we have a prospect on the building? And that prospect wants to hire you, Gil? And you, Bree, just happen to be looking for a job?” She smiled, and a tear traced its way down her cheek. “And all this just happened to come to pass on the anniversary of your father’s death? I’m telling you, kids, this is your dad watching over us.”

Her mom’s sentiments were sweet, but Bree didn’t feel the same comfort from the words. Hopefully, Dad was not somewhere watching her indiscretions. That would be...ewww! She shuddered.

Her mom gave a long, contented sigh, and then stood. “Y’all just stay here. I’ll go dish us up dessert.”

“None for me, Mom,” Bree reminded her.

“Yes, I know, dear.” Mom patted her on the back when she passed behind her on the way into the kitchen.

When she was out of earshot, Gil leaned across the table. “Mom’s right. Everything does happen for a reason. And the reason you got fired is because you were sleeping with a client.”

Bree was in no mood to be lectured. “Drop it, Gil,” she said, knowing he would have the last word—like always.

True to form, he stuck his finger in her direction. “I’ll tell you one thing. This opportunity might pan out for us both. But, if it does, you have to promise me never to get involved with another client.”

“I’m good on the control stuff, Gil.” Bree pointed to her plate as evidence of that fact. “And I’ve learned from my mistakes. No man’s worth risking my career.”

“Keep reminding yourself, will you?”

“No need.” Bree leaned back and snatched a tangerine from the bowl on the buffet. “The mantra is etched on my frontal lobe.”

She would never be that stupid again.