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Jake walks out and the phone continues to ring. Instead of leaving a message the traitorous rat hung up and redialed.
“Yes?” I answer, my tone making it clear that I’m less than happy to hear from him.
“Carrie. Fucking Christ, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a week. You have to come back. Kennedy is a mess. She can’t do anything without me having to hold her hand. Legal is up my arse because she didn’t follow up on a source and half my dry cleaning is missing.”
Ben sounds frazzled. Ben is never frazzled. I am secretly pleased at this new development in his character. But this is no longer about Ben. It’s about me and a fork in the road, so to speak.
“Ben…”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry about Kennedy.”
“Great. So when can I expect you? By the way, where are you? I went by your place and the old lady next door, the one with the cat, told me you’d moved.”
“Lake Placid…New York”––by eyes drift to the wall I share with Jake––“and I’m not coming back yet. But I do have a suggestion.”
“I need you, I don’t need suggestions.”
Yeah, he needs his slave back. No thanks. It dawns upon me then. Falls out of thin air and hits me in the head. Getting fired may have been the best thing to ever happen to me.
I stare at the wall that separates my cottage from Jake’s. The second best.
“Ben…”
“Yes?”
There are moments in life when one must practice restraint. This is not one of those moments.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Chapter 14
Regina and I head to Farmer’s Market the following day. I need inspiration for my next article. The first person we run into is Beth Herman, one of the mean girls that used to terrorize us at lunch. In tow, she has four-year-old twin girls and one tired looking husband.
“Gina Polizzi and Carrie Anderson! Oh my Gawwd. It’s so good to see you two. And you’re still friends. How cute!”
The feeling is not mutual. To my regret, she looks exactly the same. Small, blonde, and beautiful.
We make polite conversation, and she tells me how much she loved the article. “Brad and I are donating. Those poor poor boys. It’s terrible. And it’s so great that that hockey player”––she turns to her husband––“Honey, what’s his name?”
“Turner. Jake Turner.”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s so nice that he does the lessons.” She cups her hand near her mouth. “Madison says he’s smoking hot. She’s got it bad for him.”
Madison can go pound salt.
She turns again. “Honey, one minute.” Honey looks like he wants to swallow a gun.
She takes us aside, out of earshot of her family, and what comes next surprises everyone.
Beth starts crying.
She goes on and on about how many times she thought of all the awful things she’d said to us over the years. She says that now that she has kids she can’t imagine someone, anyone, treating her girls that way. Honestly, I wish she would’ve had her come to Jesus moment a little sooner. Like a decade sooner. But I accept the apology now nonetheless. After the Sean Gorman incident, this is a big deal.
It’s twilight by the time I get back to the Cottages. I smile the entire walk home, a sense of satisfaction reaching deep into my bones that I haven’t felt since breaking my big story all those years ago. Things are definitely looking up for me.
On my way back to the Austen, I think about Jake and wonder what he’s up to. I even contemplate knocking on his door. Except, I never know which Jake I’m going to get. I have no idea how Mr. Unpredictable will behave. And since I’m not ready to come down from the high of today’s victory, I scrap the plan.
As I’m passing by the house, I spot a tall figure under the porch light. He looks like my father, but it couldn’t be him. It couldn’t because this man is standing awfully close to a woman with shoulder length brown hair, their posture undeniably intimate. And everyone knows my father doesn’t date.
Until I draw closer and I see the smile. Holy crap, it is my father. This is major breaking news. Great news, in fact.
Pulling my phone out of my tote, I text my sister.
Me: Alert. Alert. Eugene Anderson is finally romancing a woman!! Hallelujah and praise the Lawd.
An incoming text rings, and I immediately mute it. My father and the mystery woman are talking in whispery words, and I don’t want to be caught perving on them.
Jackattack: OMG!!!!!!
Meanwhile, just like a perv, exactly like a perv, I creep closer and crouch behind an azalea bush. Which is when my sister calls.
“I can’t talk and spy at the same time!” I whisper hiss.
“What does she look like?” Jackie whispers back.
“Did you not hear me? Hold on––” I glance at them again. “Tall, thin, brown hair. Dressed kinda shabby in worn jeans and a chunky, faded blue sweater.”
