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Waving her off, I pull up a chair that’s usually in her office, over to her worktable.
“Does your dad know?”
Here’s the thing. My dad hasn’t ever gotten over my mom leaving. “Her betrayal” is how he puts it. “Yep. He read it to me.”
“And?”
I shrug. “He seems fine.” To be honest, he’s probably not fine, but I won’t know that for sure until he processes the information a bit longer. My father has many good qualities, but he’s a brooder. He says he’s “pondering” things, but it’s a bit darker than that. He’ll have to let this information percolate for a while before I’ll know how he really feels.
“Give him a couple of days.” Bella looks up at me and smirks. “He’ll have something to say.”
I shrug again. She knows Kip Hamlin as well as anyone since she spent half her life at my house. I spent half mine at hers. We were sort of inseparable. Still are.
“How’s the house coming along?”
I’m working on my biggest project, to date. An old Queen Anne style house that sits right on the edge of town. It’s the first thing you see when you come into Zodiac Hills from the west. It was built by one of Zodiac Hills’s first residents, and a very wealthy guy, Malcolm Little. He was famous for being infamous. Some say he got his money from discovering oil in Texas. Others say he was a bank robber. I tend to believe the first one—oil money—because if he robbed banks, I’m pretty sure the authorities would’ve locked him up, and they never did. The question I’ve always wondered is, how in the heck did he end up in the middle of nowhere? When the house came up for sale, I had to get it. Ever since I was little, I fanaticized about that house. What it would have been like to live there in the most beautiful house in town. To say it’s my dream project is an understatement. Not that I’ll be able to live there after I finish. I’ll have to sell it like I have the other places I’ve refurbished.
The last owners of the place, ancestors of Malcolm Little, never lived in it, so it sat empty for years and years. It was in bad shape, which was perfect for me. There’s nothing I love more than turning something run-down, hell, dilapidated, into something beautiful again. I’ve been working on the Little house, off and on, for over six months now. It’s painstaking work having to sand down all the woodwork and refinish it. I’ve also had to tear out old plaster and use drywall instead on several walls on the lower level due to water damage thanks to the leaky pipe from the upstairs bathroom. That was my first repair—the walls below it. “That damn kitchen is making me crazy.”
“You’re planning on making it larger, right?”
I nod. “I want to take out that weird closet off to the right of the kitchen. It serves no purpose that I can see. If I took it out, I could expand the kitchen by about eight feet.” Seven feet, ten inches to be exact, but who’s counting?
Reaching out, I make an attempt to swipe some of the tart filling from the large stainless bowl on the table, but she bats my hand away. “You know damn well, Lou Lou, if you do that, I’ll have to remake it.”
She’s correct. I know that. She can’t sell something I’ve touched. “You should stop out today and see the progress.”
“What you’re really saying is you’d like my feedback on the kitchen.”
“Yep.” I snort. “That’s exactly right.” Who better than someone who spends the majority of their life in a kitchen to tell me how I should design a kitchen?
“I’m leaving early today so I can stop by later.”
“Early? Why?” She never leaves early.
She gives me her arched brow, which means she thinks I’m being nosy.
I don’t care what she thinks; I need to know. “Why are you leaving early?”
“Mom’s got an appointment.”
“What for?” What isn’t she telling me? “What’s wrong with Mom?” You see, after my mom left, I sort of adopted Bella’s mom, even calling her that.
“Nothing to worry about, Lou.”
“If it’s nothing to worry about, why do you have to take her? She can drive.”
“Because, nosy ass, she tripped on one of her stupid garden gnomes and sprained her right ankle. She can’t drive.”
“Oh.” I smile and sigh with relief. “Why didn’t you say that?”
“Because she asked me not to tell anyone.”
“I’m not anyone….” I’m not.
“Lou….”
“No.” I slide off the chair and turn to leave. I’m a little hurt by her last few statements. “I—” I hesitate. “I’ve gotta go. I’m getting some lumber delivered today.” I am, but it’s not happening until this afternoon.
“What about your tarts?”
“Save me one,” I say as I push through the swinging doors. I’m out of her shop before I have a chance to think about what happened. I’ve got time once I hop into my truck, though. It hurt, what my best friend told me. For as long as I can remember, the Trumans have been part of my family. Always. She knows how important they all are to me. And that makes me wonder… what isn’t she telling me?
* * *
