Page 17 of A Simple Life

“Laura said the paint color Abby picked is usually not allowed.”

I shrugged. “It’s one room. It can be repainted when you move on.”

She dug into her pocket and held up some swatches. “Are these okay?”

I glanced down and nodded. They were all soft neutrals. “Yep.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “I want to be a good tenant. I plan on staying here awhile. Building a life for Abby and myself.”

The way she said the words, I had a feeling there was a story to be told. But I knew she didn’t know me well enough to tell it, and I never got involved with tenants.

“I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you. The next while will be busy, but I’m sure once I get things off the ground, it’ll be great.”

“Get things off the ground?”

She nodded. “I’m opening the new restaurant in town.”

I stared at her. “Where the Sandwich Shop was?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the dill idea lady?”

“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes, putting her hands on her hips. “You have a problem with that?”

“Kinda a silly name. Nothing wrong with Sandwich Shop.”

“That’s the old name. This is a new place with a new name. And it’s not silly, it’s catchy.”

I snorted. “Such a city slicker. We like it simple around here.”

She called to her daughter. “Abby—we have to go. Come on!” Then she turned to me. “Maybe they keep it simple so farmers like you can understand.”

“Farmers like me?” I asked, stepping closer. “You think I’m simple?”

“I think you’re rude and closed-minded.” She shook her head. “I came here to apologize and start fresh, but I see that was a mistake.”

“Obviously.” I waved my hand. “Name your restaurant whatever you want. Hell will freeze over before I eat there.”

“You…ass,” she hissed.

Abby crawled through the fence. “Why do we hafta go, Momma? I like it here!”

Quinn grabbed her hand. “Too many animals here, Abby. Rude, bad-mannered animals.”

She flounced away, and I watched as she got to the vehicle, struggling to lift the toolbox from the back. She tossed it on the ground, the lid popping open and tools spilling out.

“Whoops,” she called. “Sorry, city slickers don’t know how to care for farmer tools.”

And she drove off. I was pretty sure she flipped me the finger as she did.

I turned and looked at the cows.

“Well, that went well.”

Monday evening, I pulled up to the small town hall, sliding out of my truck as another vehicle parked beside me. Quinn stepped from the driver’s side, and our gazes met over the short span separating us.