Page 31 of Surviving in Clua


Font Size:  

Mylo steps from behind me and he takes Mrs. Devon’s hand in a gentle handshake, a smile on his face. He even dips his head in a pseudo-bow. It’s like watching a lion greeting a lamb. “I did. Thank you.” His lips twitch. “But I would have fixed it for free.”

I look between them. Confused. He’s in with the locals? I had no idea. When neither of them expand on the subject, I swallow my curiosity and focus on why I’m here. “I was actually hoping to speak to Lola if she’s around?” I breathe past the sudden nerves tightening my throat when Mrs. Devon tilts her head, her eyebrows lifting. I should have called first. I didn’t even think. The last time I was here, this place was as open and as welcoming as a hippy commune. “I mean I can make an appointment or… or I can come back when…” I shake my head feeling woefully unprepared and every bit the dizzy blonde everybody thinks I am. I side eye Mylo. He’s watching me, confused. He still has no idea why I’m here.

“Don’t be silly. Lola loves a visitor, but I should warn you that since her stroke, she’s probably a little different than you remember her to be.”

“Oh.” My smile drops. “I mean, I had no idea. I can totally come back.”

“You will do no such thing. She’s in the courtyard. She’ll be delighted to see you.” The lines around Mrs. Devon’s eyes and mouth multiply when she smiles. “I’ll just go let her know you’re here.”

I start at the touch of Mylo’s hand to my lower back.

“You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

I turn to face him—try to hide the fact that I’m flailing. Can I really ask a sick woman to sell me her house? Is that legal? Perverse? Morally wrong? “I…” I lick my lips. “I didn’t know she’d had a stroke. This changes everything. I can’t…” The facade of calm I’m trying valiantly to keep pulled up around me wavers, my plans and ideas andhopetrickling away.

His hands raise like he’s about to cup my chin and force me to focus on his face instead of his chest. “You can’t what?”

I tilt my chin up, and his hands drop to his sides.

He scans my face, concern written in every crease of his forehead. “Kenzi?”

“Plan B…” I give my folder a shake between us. “Plan B hinges on asking a sick woman I’ve not seen in years to sell me her house and let me turn it into a restaurant. I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Maybe you should let her decide that.”

His words steady me a little. The unwavering calm in his eyes a little more. I release the death grip I have on the leather folder a tiny bit. Breathe. “Play it by ear?”

His mouth curves into a reassuring smile. “Play it by ear. If it feels right, ask. If not, you’ve visited with an old friend. No harm done.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” His big hands clasp my shoulders, he nods once, then glances behind me and straightens, and for the first time, I see it—likereallysee it. The leader in him… the Marine. It’s… well, it’s really goddamn hot.

Hot or not. This morning he told somebody I was nobody, not a friend, not a neighbor—anobody. I’d be stupid to forget that.

Stepping into the massive open space of the courtyard is like stepping back in time. Mosaic-tiled paths wind between overflowing flower beds all leading to a huge and old, but perfectly restored and bubbling stone fountain. People are painting at easels. Some clearly residents, some clearly not. The only thing that’s changed are the sleek and obviously new one-story brick buildings bordering the space in place of the little wooden bungalows that used to be there. I breathe in the sweet floral air, but it does nothing to calm my nerves.

And then I see her.

Her wheelchair isn’t one of the metal and rubber ones you see nowadays. It’s wooden. With massive, spoked wheels and a high leather back. She’s engrossed in layering thick swaths of color onto the canvas before her with a large brush gripped awkwardly between gnarled fingers.

My folder falls, forgotten from my grip when she looks up at me. She’s still the same. Older but the same. Feline dark eyes, the same black hair swept up into a twist, huge gold hoops in her ears and a fit and flair maxi dress all the colors of the rainbow. Her lips are even painted the same deep burgundy they always were. The only difference I see in her is when she smiles. Only one half of her face lifts. “Mackenzie? My days, girl, how many years has it been?” Her voice, once booming, is now soft and slightly slurred.

That more than anything else, pulls at my tear ducts.

I take more comfort than I should from Mylo’s gentle nudge, pushing me into motion. “Too many.” I clear my throat and move towards her to take her offered hand in both of mine. “How are you? I should have come sooner. I had no idea you’d been unwell.” I lower myself onto the little stool beside her. I can’t. I won’t. I can’t ask her about the house. Not now. Not after all this time. My chin threatens to wobble. I suck my bottom lip, then paste on my best smile when she cups my cheek briefly with her good hand.

“I’m good. Content. Surrounded by beauty and paint. What more could one ask for?” She tilts her head, eyes scanning my face with a sharpness that denies any doubt over her mental capacity. “So, what can I do for you?” She sits back. “And who’s this?” Those sharp eyes move over to where I’d almost forgotten Mylo was standing.

Arms behind him, back straight—even in surf shorts and a T-shirt the man has presence.

I shake my head, a tiny part of me tempted to shrug and say nobody. Show him how it feels. Okay a pretty big part of me. But, when I meet his stare, his mouth curves up again tugging at the other part of me—the one that’s still wondering where the hell we went wrong.

“This is Mylo. My…” I trail off. My what?

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Mylo steps forward and dips his head like he did to Mrs. Devon before it gets awkward.

And Lola looks…charmed, and if I’m not imagining it, slightly flushed “Oh my, a military man.” She tilts her head, a half-smile lifting one lined cheek.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like