“Oh, absolutely.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Yeah, took care of that already.”
Smooth, Rosie. Very convincing.
“Good, good.” Walt sounded relieved. “I meant to handle it before I left, but everything happened so fast. The bill's usually around fifteen hundred, give or take. Should've been in the mail mid-month.”
Fifteen hundred dollars.
Mid-month.
I mentally scrolled through the stack of mail I'd been sorting into Walt's pile and my pile. Had there been something official-looking? Something from the county? Something I'd set aside thinking it was meant for Walt?
Oh no.
“Yep, all sorted.” I kept my voice bright and breezy. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I appreciate that, Rosie. One less thing on my mind.” He paused. “Barbara's calling me for dinner. We're grilling tonight.”
“Ooh, fancy.” I forced enthusiasm into my voice. “What's on the menu?”
“Steaks, corn on the cob, her famous potato salad.” He sounded genuinely excited. “She says I'm too skinny.”
I laughed despite the knot forming in my stomach. “Uncle Walt, you've been the same size since I was six. But let her feed you. Enjoy every second.”
“I will.” His voice softened. “Give the animals my love, will you?”
“Already done. They miss you, but they're in good hands.”
“The best hands.” He paused. “I'll call again next week. You take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
“You, too. Eat all the potato salad.”
We said our goodbyes, and I sat there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear even after he'd hung up. Uncle Walt, sitting on a porch swing with Barbara. Grilling steaks. Planning antique shop visits. Happy.
He deserves this so much.
Then reality crashed back in.
Crap crap crap.
Property taxes. Fifteen hundred dollars. Mid-month.
I scrambled to my feet, scattering lavender everywhere. The herb bundles could wait. The peaceful sunset vibes? Gone. Completely obliterated by municipal financial obligations.
I ran toward the farmhouse, nearly tripping over a garden hose.
Please let it be in the stack. Please let me have set it aside like a responsible adult who totally knows how property taxes work.
I burst through the back door, making a beeline for the kitchen counter where I'd been sorting mail into two piles: “Rosie's Problem” and “Definitely Walt's Problem, Will Forward Later.”
Tax bill, tax bill, where are you, you expensive little nightmare?
I rifled through Walt's stack. A tractor supply catalog. Something from the Colorado Farmer's Association. A flyer for an upcoming town event.
No tax bill.
Okay, don't panic.
I spun toward my pile. Junk mail, a flyer from the hardware store, something about internet service...
