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I push up from the table and move to the sliding door to look at the backyard. Said brat is gone, as I would have expected. “What should I call her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Bitch, harridan, greedy monster. Brat almost seems like… an endearment.”
“There’s nothing endearing about Tillie.”
“Tillie?” she asks with a chuckle. “Cute name.”
I grind my teeth. “Tilden Marshall,” I grit out. “That’s her name for the lawsuit.”
She laughs again. “Got it. I’ll call now and get the ball rolling. They’ll be able to get something filed by the end of the day.”
The burn of fondness warms me that Harlow so freely takes the time to help—especially when I’m an asshole—and it feels out of place. I haven’t felt that for anyone in a very long time. I push it away and say the right words. Not only the right words, but with the right tone—genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Harlow. I really appreciate it.”
When I hang up, I settle back in the chair to finish my beer. I revel in imagining the look on Tilden Marshall’s face when she gets served with the injunction.
I wonder if she’ll stomp over here to tear me a new one, and I also wonder why I’m not overly put out by the possibility that she might do so.
Christ… I might even look forward to it.
CHAPTER 5
Tillie
Grabbing my listoff the kitchen table, I review it one more time to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. I have to run into town for errands, the most important of which is a package waiting for me at the post office containing replacement watercolor supplies. I order in bulk, and it’s expensive, thus I use the post office for my deliveries. I can’t take a chance on someone stealing packages from my porch.
Post office.
Grocery store.
Pharmacy.
Lunch with Hayley.
I can be back home by three p.m. for when I rescheduled my meeting with the general contractor about the new driveway. I can’t start construction on the actual building until I have an access point for the building equipment to enter.
Of course, I can’t get the access point until I cut down the trees. That needs to happen sooner rather than later, and John is coming back out tomorrow morning for us to mark the trees. I’m moving forward, full steam ahead.
Stuffing the list in my purse, I nab my keys from the tiny hook near the door and swing it open.
Only to screech in fright as someone is standing there with arm raised as if poised to knock. I quickly process it’s not just anyone, but a sheriff’s deputy. He’s older—late fifties, I’d guess—but with a thick neck, huge barrel chest, and meaty arms. Clearly, he works out a lot.
“Oh, hello… good morning,” I say with a bright smile. “You scared me.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he replies with a tip of his head. “Just getting ready to knock.”
His tone is grave, and the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. “Is everything okay?”
“Are you Tilden Marshall?” he asks, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck.
“Yes,” I reply hesitantly.
The man pushes a large manila envelope at me. “I’m afraid I have to serve this on you.”
“Serve?” I clutch the envelope and look down at the rectangular mailing label with my name and address. My gaze lifts, and he tips his head again. “Have a nice day.”
The deputy trots down the porch steps, and before his foot hits the ground, I tear into the envelope. I pull out a two-page document neatly stapled in the upper right corner.
I start reading, and some words glare at me.
