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The lid popped.
She’d never been able to make anybody do what she wanted. She couldn’t make Toby obey her or force Mike to leave her alone, and she hadn’t been able to turn Scott into a faithful husband.
Mike poured some paint into the roller pan. “Toby, grab that brush and start putting a second coat on the trim.”
Toby didn’t offer a single protest. He wouldn’t do the simplest thing for her, but when it came to taking orders from a racist ass, he turned into a model of cooperation.
“I’d help you myself,” Mike said, “but …” He made an expansive gesture toward his immaculate gray summer slacks. “Oh, heck.” He grabbed the roller, loaded it up with the buttery paint, and started to work.
She hated what was happening, but she didn’t know how to stop it. Mike Moody, nosing in where he wasn’t wanted, just like always.
“It’s a nice color,” he said.
She liked it, too, but she wasn’t exchanging polite chitchat with him. “Don’t work next to me,” she said. “Your cologne reeks.”
She’d finally managed to ruffle his phony geniality. “What are you talking about? Do you know how much this stuff costs?”
“You can’t buy good taste, Mike. Just like you can’t buy manners.”
Toby threw down his paintbrush, his face contorting with anger. “Why can’t you be nice to him?”
Mike didn’t miss a beat. “I sure would like something to drink. How about it, Bree? You got some lemonade or something in the house? A cool drink would simmer everybody down.”
Only Toby and Bree were simmering. Mike’s phony affability remained unruffled. And then he stopped painting. Not because she wanted him to stop but because he’d spotted an approaching pickup truck. A truck he apparently recognized, since he hurried to the road to flag it down.
A big salesman’s grin stretched his face as the truck stopped. “Jason, my man,” he said to the long-haired kid behind the wheel. “Have you met Bree Remington?”
She was Bree West. She hadn’t been Bree Remington in ten years.
The kid gave her a nod. Mike rested his hand on the roof of the truck. “Bree’s selling Myra’s honey now. I bet your mom would appreciate it if you brought her a couple of jars. Everybody knows Myra’s honey’s good for migraines.”
“Sure thing, Mike.”
And that was the way the rest of her afternoon went, with Mike alternating between rolling paint and flagging down customers. She stayed as far away from him as she could. Experience had taught her that whatever good deeds Mike Moody performed came with all kinds of strings attached.
By the time the day was over, the farm stand glowed under two coats of buttery yellow paint, and she’d sold eighteen jars of honey, but as Mike headed back to his car, she couldn’t find a “thank you” anywhere inside her.
LUCY FOUND HERSELF WATCHING FOR Toby as she pulled up some weeds along the porch. She hadn’t seen him in three days, not since Big Mike had taken him away. She decided to drop in at the cottage and check on him. Although she’d been out on her bike every day, she hadn’t ridden into town in nearly a week, and she needed some groceries. When she returned, she’d get to work. Really, this time. Instead of just thinking about writing, she’d sit down and actually do it.
Instead of following the back road, she took the highway, and as she rounded the bend, she saw the farm stand, no longer a dingy gray but a soft yellow. Jars of golden honey sat on the counter, and Bree was painting a fanciful carousel horse on one side of a teepee-shaped wooden sign hinged at the top. As Lucy got closer, she read the royal blue script:
Carousel Honey
Best on the island
Our honey makes your world go round
Toby sat on the counter, watching Bree, his legs dangling, a sour expression on his face. As Lucy got off her bike, Bree put down her brush. She had a splash of bright pink paint on one cheek, a dab of lime green on the other. Her sleeveless top revealed an angry red bump on her pale, freckled arm.
Toby hopped off the counter and raced over to her. “Hey, Viper. You got work for me to do?”
“Not today.” She studied the sign. “You’re a real artist, Bree. It looks great.”
“Thanks, but I’m just a dabbler.” She began maneuvering the heavy sign toward the road, being careful not to smudge the fresh paint.
Lucy hurried to help her. “You must have been working hard. Everything looks great.”
“I can be there early tomorrow,” Toby said.
