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Chapter Seventeen
A napalways did wonders for Agatha’s mood. In fact, the nap, which lasted three hours, was exactly what she needed after seeing Chris today. Suddenly she couldn’t go anywhere without him being there, and that included her house. He was like a stray cat she had fed, and now she couldn’t get rid of him.
Before heading downstairs to find something to eat, she tossed on gray sweatpants and a purple T-shirt. In the kitchen, she was happy with a few leftovers from the Tuesday night benefit she had worked. Just some chicken in a sauce with potatoes, but she wasn’t picky.
Waiting for the microwave to do its magic, she went to the entryway and grabbed the box she had put there hours before when Chris had caught her singing. She opened the box and laid out the three books from inside on the counter. They looked perfect, just how she had envisioned them as she drew them. Porcupine’s Adventure, Turtle’s Walk, and Lost Kangaroo by Christie Lovely.
Looking at the author name, she still regretted not using her own a little. But Agatha sounded so old, and Christie felt kid-friendly. Now she wished she hadn’t done it. A.C. Lovely would have been better, but it was too late now.
She took the books to the third floor and placed them on a shelf in the back corner. Now there were nine. Eight months after the first was published, she had nine books out in the world. If she hadn’t missed that meeting the night she had slept with Chris, she would have had these published a year before. Instead, she had waited another seven months to go to that meeting.
Happy with her little library, she went back down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen to eat her supper in peace and quiet. She grabbed a pop and pulled the chicken from the microwave and set it all on the counter. Taking her first bite, she saw the mortgage paperwork on the counter across from her. Getting up again, she grabbed the papers and looked over them again. Nothing unusual that she could see, except that the current owner wanted to meet her on Monday morning before the papers would be signed. Her dad was the owner, as far as she knew, and he hadn’t wanted to see her in years. Why now? It didn’t matter because she would meet with anyone to get her house.
Running her fingers over the words, she wondered if her father was actually going to be there. She hadn’t seen him since she was in the sixth grade. She couldn’t even remember what he looked like anymore. Was he light and fair like Harper or darker like the twins? What she knew was that he didn’t look like her or Buzz, nor did their mom. The red hair could be explained away as a genetic fluke, but her own black hair was harder to justify. Even before he had left the family, she knew he probably wasn’t her father.
Looking back, she didn’t feel like he her treated her differently than her sisters. He had treated them all like kids he was stuck with working a lot and reading in his room when he was home. The girls were basically raising themselves when Sera had shown up. At nineteen, she didn’t know how to treat the wild kids, so she just went with it. She let them do what they wanted unless it interfered with school or, later, work.
Never did Sera push the girls to go to college like she was pushed by her own parents. She saw them each for who each were. Harper went to France to study cooking, and Lucy worked in restaurants, doing the same thing, knowing each had their own path. Maby was school-bound forever, but her twin Lucy was not. Buzz had gone to school, then had a hard time finding a job that was a good fit for her. But Agatha always felt she was the hardest one for Sera to understand—art wasn’t Sera’s thing. But Sera had never pushed Agatha to get a real job or even keep various bartending gigs.
Monday would come soon enough, yet Agatha had no idea what she was going to talk to her father about. Probably nothing. He called Sera once a year to check on them. If he wanted to talk to her, he could call the house.
Halfway through her meal, there was a knock on the door. Checking the clock, she saw it was almost 9 p.m., not a time for company, and her sisters did not knock. Agatha had an idea who it was.
Opening the door, she said, “What do you want, Chris?”
He grinned at her. “I was hoping Maby would let me use her bed again. Should I ask Cliff first?”
That made her smile. Cliff’s jealousy was completely unfounded, but Agatha loved that the man would fight for her sister.
“Go ahead. Any floors in that house of yours anymore?” She looked across the street as he came into her house, filling it with his presence and his scent. Her nap had not been long enough to cleanse him from her mind.
“Thanks, Agatha. I will have you know that I am hiring a contractor tomorrow.” He said with a smile, even if he was admitting defeat.
“What prompted that?” She bit her lip to stop smiling herself.
“This amazing woman across the street keeps telling me to. I decided to listen to her.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She would tell me she is. Thanks again, Agatha. I don’t know what I would do without you,” he said and headed right up to the room with all his stuff in his arms.
Shrugging, she decided this was maybe going to be easy if he was just going to bed when he came over. No need to worry about interacting with him or analyzing his every action. Instead, she wouldn’t even see him in the evening, which was fine with her. Heading back into the kitchen, she debated on heating the chicken again but decided she didn’t want to waste the time and ate it cold.
Agatha stacked the papers from the lawyer up, making sure the top page was blank. She had gotten used to nobody being around most of the time. If she wanted, she could have spread her stuff around the house, but she hadn’t. The house looked just like it had for years, just with fewer people in it.
“Shoot, I was going to order us something in, but you already ate.” Chris came into the kitchen in clean, sexy jeans and a tight gray T-shirt.
“Sorry. I had leftovers.” She pointed at the plate in front of her.
“Do you have more?”
“Not of this, but you can look in the fridge and see if there’s anything you want. Harper left pork chops on Saturday.” She pushed the plate away from her. Chicken was not interesting anymore now that he was filling the room.
“And Harper is?” He pulled out a plastic container and put it on the counter.
“My sister, the blonde you talked to on Saturday morning. Not the pregnant one, that was Mom. Harper’s a chef.” She got up and took the container from him, placing it in the microwave.
“A chef? So this is chef-quality leftovers?” He looked into the microwave over her head.
