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“Bibi, we can’t afford it.”
“Don’t you worry about the money. I took an account of my savings and there’s plenty. And what am I going to do with it? Travel the world? I’m happy as a clam right here.” She smiled. “It won’t be a chateau, so don’t get your hopes up. But you need it, Shiloh. You have incredible talent—that was obvious a long time ago. And while I tease you about making room for more in your life, I know how important your work is to you. This isn’t some hobby.”
“No,” I said softly. “It is my life.”
Her hand came up and found my cheek. “I want to do whatever I can—no matter how small—to bring you closer to your dreams. Even if it means I’ll see you less than I do now.”
I threw my arms around Bibi’s shoulders. “I can’t thank you enough. But I can help pay. The handyman or the materials—”
“I forbid it. You need every dollar for your shop. This is my gift to you, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
I hugged her tighter. “Thank you, Bibi.”
“You’re welcome, child. Now go. I know you’re itching to get back to work. I can feel it running through your bones.”
I laughed and kissed her cheek. “I love you.”
“Love you, baby girl.” She blew me a kiss and went back to her knitting, humming along to Nina Simone’s “Young, Gifted, and Black,” a knowing, satisfied smile on her weathered face.
I hurried to the garage where my materials were crammed into bins that lined one wall. A tiny worktable butted against Bibi’s ancient Buick that was mine now. The single bulb wasn’t enough light, but I hated working with the garage door open. I felt exposed, my business visible to anyone walking their dog or taking out the trash. Working in the privacy of my backyard would be a dream. A level up.
And the next level is my own shop.
I put in my headphones. Rihanna sang in my ear as I sat down at the table in front of my latest project. Before I’d left for Louisiana, I’d braided lengths of brass and copper for an eventual bracelet. Feeling at home on my stool, I slid the rough bracelet down a mandrel, then took up a rubber mallet. Hammering lightly, I shaped the coils of metal on the cylindrical rod until it was perfectly round and the size I wanted.
In minutes, I had another finished piece for a woman named Christine in Texas who’d ordered off my Etsy page. That website had been exactly what I needed to get my work out there and build some revenue for my eventual shop. By next summer, even.
Thanks to Bibi.
Love for that woman filled me up, making me warm and erasing the vestiges of Mama’s cold shoulder. Bibi was the only person I loved without reservation.
I turned over her words as I turned the new bracelet around and around in the light—her warning that I’d become closed off like my mother. Stuck behind a wall of our own making and lost at the same time. But what else could I do? Every brick in Mama’s wall was one I added to mine.
It was the only way I knew how to survive that my own mother hated me.
Chapter Two
“Ronan?”
I turned toward the sound of my name, scanning the baggage claim crowd, and there he was—Nelson Wentz. My only living relative.
My heart slammed in my chest at the resemblance.
Uncle Nelson was a preview of how my dad might’ve looked had he made it to middle age—mid-fifties, wearing old jeans and with a gut pushing out of his windbreaker. Nelson’s dark hair was mostly gone, and his eyes were gray, flat, and empty. Like a shark’s when they roll back for the kill. Same as Dad’s.
Same as mine.
“Hey, Uncle Nelson.”
“Just Nelson,” he said. “So you’re him, eh?” He scanned me up and down, taking in my torn jeans, black T-shirt,
and the tattoos inking my skin, as if I were cattle at auction. “Looks like they been working you hard on that farm. Good. My back’s not what it used to be. I’m gonna need you to do most of the heavy lifting.”
I hefted my ratty backpack higher on my shoulder. “What for?”
“We’ll get into that on the ride down.” He jerked his flabby chin at the luggage carousel. “You got a bag?”
I nodded, trying to ignore the disappointment that bit at me.
