“A verbal agreement would be fantastic, but a completed form would be even better.” She clicked a pen and held it out to me.
Was this kid seriously eight years old? She was frighteningly efficient. I was pretty sure I could hire her to do my taxes. She couldn’t be worse than Scooter Bates, my current CPA, who seemed afraid of me.
This request felt like a lot of pressure. I didn’t usually get involved in the community. Magnolia didn’t sponsor booths at the festivals or holiday markets. Nor did we participate in anything beyond serving tourists year-round.
My attention returned to the little scammer, who was still smiling like a serial killer.
“Isn’t there some other business you can ask?” I said.
Her enthusiasm wilted several degrees, and a tiny frown formed between her dark brows. “But you won the poll.”
I scrutinized her expression, feeling an unwelcome tightness in my chest when her lower lip jutted out. “What would you need from me?”
Jamie brightened again. “A modest, tax-refundable monetary contribution for uniforms bearing the Magnolia Bar logo, and a few other housekeeping requirements. It’s all there on the form.”
I glanced at the approximately ten million words on the paper in my hand, wondering what child talked like that.
“Please, Mr. Ellis,” her small, high voice said suddenly, finally sounding like a little kid.
Swallowing, I met her earnest, big-eyed gaze. Then I snatched the pen out of her hand and signed the form before she did something horrific like start crying. “Do you need the money now?” I asked.
Jamie accepted the clipboard and grinned up at me. “No, sir. You’ll be contacted by the Parks and Rec Department. They accept check, cash, or money order.” Then she handed me back a copy of the form I’d just signed. “That’s for your records. Thank you, Mr. Ellis. The team will be thrilled.”
And then Jamie Santiago hustled out of the lobby doors into the late-morning sunshine, her long hair bouncing the whole way. She climbed into a white SUV, and I stood staring after her like someone who’d been steamrolled by an eight-year-old.
The farmhouse I grew up in was about fifteen minutes from downtown Kirby Falls. It was on a quiet stretch of road and had one of those custom mailboxes that resembled the house itself. A two-story white traditional farmhouse with navy-blue shutters and a wraparound porch, complete with ceiling fans I’d installed a few years back and ferns hanging at intervals.
My grandmother was the only occupant since I’d moved out at eighteen. But she still kept an impressive garden in the backyard and a variety of birdhouses all over the property.
I parked my motorcycle in front of the detached two-car garage on a foggy Tuesday. The September morning was chilly as low-lying mist hid the rear of the property from view.
The doors to the outbuilding were closed, but I knew my grandmother was home. She preferred to park her giant sedan in the grass beside the front porch. The detached garage mostly contained my woodworking tools and equipment, but it had been a while since I’d built anything. The hobby had taken shapeafter my grandmother took a watercolor class nearly a decade ago.
She’d asked me if I could make a frame for her artwork, so I’d learned how to. It turned out I enjoyed woodworking beyond the simple projects I’d managed to finish back in my high school shop class. As I grew more skilled, I experimented with making shelves and birdhouses, planters and benches.
But I’d been too busy lately to start a new project. It was apple season in Western North Carolina, and the bar would be overwhelmed with tourists for the next two months, at least.
No matter how hectic my work schedule was, though, I tried to always make time for Lia Ellis. The woman had sacrificed a lot to raise me and put me through college. She’d put up with my moody, rebellious teenage ass, too.
We usually had breakfast together a few times a week. And last night, my grandmother had texted saying there would be eggs and apple butter this morning if I wanted it.
I came in through the back door without knocking. I could hear the radio playing in the kitchen and Lia humming along.
“It’s me,” I called, though I was sure she’d heard my motorcycle when I’d arrived. Plus, she’d had a sixth sense for when I was coming and going since middle school. Lia had been a master of catching me sneaking in and out, some innate skill possessed by all hard-assed, take-no-shit, independent women. Especially those who’d been on their own for the majority of their lives.
The night I’d vandalized the pastor’s shed senior year, I’d found her waiting for me on the front porch, shrewd hazel eyes narrowed and knowledgeable.
Now, I cleared my throat and crossed the threshold into the kitchen to find Lia moving a rubber spatula efficiently around a skillet. The scrambled eggs looked fluffy and bright, and I knew she must have visited Laiken Scruggs’s farm this week for a dozen.
“Mornin’, Jack,” she said, voice a little rough, like it always was.
“Good morning, Lia.” I pressed a kiss to her cheek, placing the loaf of sourdough from the bakery at Grandpappy’s onto the counter next to the butter dish.
“Ho ho, what’s this?” she teased. “You braved the masses for fresh bread?”
“It was early enough that the masses were still asleep at their Airbnbs. Besides, your apple butter deserves good bread.”
I glanced at the Orchard Bake Shop logo on the brown paper bag, my mind drifting to Bonnie Clark. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about the petite blond disaster since last weekend, and that in and of itself made me feel ... off-balance.
