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“You don’t know that for sure. I’ve been thinking we should try a new church.”
“I don’t want to try a new church. I’ll go to the old one with Big Mike.”
“Not this week.” Bree had been dubious when Lucy introduced the idea, but now she made up her mind. “On Sunday, we’re going to Heart of Charity.”
His eyes widened in outrage. “We can’t do that. That’s the black people’s church!”
So much for all the books they’d been reading. And, really, what was the point? If claiming his father’s heritage wasn’t important to Toby, why should it matter to her?
Because it did.
LUCY SMELLED OF THE ALMOND oil she’d used to help Bree make hand cream. It masked the scent of the fresh loaf of bread in the sack dangling from her handlebars. She visited the cottage daily to spell Bree at the farm stand and take another stab at perfecting honey-based caramels. Once she was satisfied with the results, she’d try dipping them in chocolate and topping them with sea salt. So far, her efforts weren’t going well, but she had hopes. She also baked bread in Bree’s kitchen, using the excuse that the stove at the house wouldn’t keep true temperature. She was willing to trust Bree with her own secrets, but Temple’s weren’t hers to share.
What she hadn’t been doing was writing. She couldn’t seem to figure out where to start. Nealy was one of the most fascinating women in the world, but Lucy ended up throwing out whatever she wrote about her after a few sentences. Her father wanted a personal account, not a Wikipedia entry. Something was very wrong, but she had no idea what.
When she wasn’t trying to write or helping out at the farm stand, she was thinking about her reverse bucket list. Just that morning she’d slept late, and before she lost her nerve, she’d prank-called two people. “This is a recording. I’m confirming your order for one hundred pounds of fresh manure. If you want it dumped anyplace except your driveway, call us back immediately. Our number is—” And she’d hung up.
Totally juvenile. Moderately satisfying. Especially since she’d used Panda’s phone to make the calls in case they got traced.
As she pulled up to the house, she saw Temple pass by the upstairs windows. Last week Toby had appeared unannounced and seen Temple running up and down the steps to the dock carrying ten-pound weights. Temple was predictably upset—firs
t because she’d been spotted and second because Toby had no idea who she was.
“He’s twelve,” Lucy had told her.
“That’s the way it starts out. First a kid doesn’t know your name. The next thing you know, it’s a forty-year-old soccer mom, and your career is over.”
“You’re a lunatic,” Viper told her. “A fruitcake for the ages.” And then, more kindly, “You’ve already lost at least fifteen pounds, and—”
“Barely fourteen.”
“—and despite what you want to believe, you look fantastic.” She ignored Temple’s derisive snort. “You’re doing what you came here to do, and you should be on top of the world. Instead, you’re meaner than ever. How do you expect to handle real food once you don’t have Panda policing you?”
“Things’ll be different. I’ll handle it.” She’d stormed off.
Lucy knew a lot of women ate their way through breakups, and although Temple hardly ever mentioned Max, their split had to be at the root of her troubles.
Panda’s car was just turning into the drive. He’d begun leaving Temple alone for short periods of time, generally going for a run or taking the kayak out. More recently, he’d made two brief trips into town. She climbed off her bike and watched him step from the car.
The muscles underneath his tight-fitting gray T-shirt were out of control, and although his abs were temporarily covered up, she happened to know they were extraordinary. She, on the other hand, had gained back another five pounds. After a lifetime of never thinking about her weight, she’d been brought low by living in a house full of diet food. Once she was around the real stuff, such as her failed honey caramels, she lost control.
Her weight gain, however, hadn’t affected her current choice of outfit, a trashy blue and black tie-dyed bra top that showed more boob-age than a bathing suit and shorts that didn’t even start until the top of her hip bones. She might as well show them off while they were still visible.
As Panda sauntered toward her, he took in her outfit, from trashy top to platform flip-flops. He cocked his head toward the garage. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” She casually unclipped her nose ring and slipped it in her pocket.
“You know the routine.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to go along with it.”
“I have a job to do.”
She tilted her head and tugged on one of her dreads. “Screw your job.”
“Big mistake.” He caught her arm and forcibly steered her through the shadows at the side of the house toward the garage. When they reached the warped side door, he kicked it open. “Inside.”
“I don’t want to go inside. I want—”
