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Addy laughed. “No, this hunk is real.”
“Really?”
Addy swept the stem trimmings into the plastic-lined garbage bin. “No. Well, not really. You know my neighbors?”
“The ones with that cute tabby that has white paws?”
“Yeah, and a proliferation of kids, lawn ornaments, and sticky fingers. The father deployed to Afghanistan but was injured. Courtney went to him in Virginia—I’m assuming Walter Reed—and left the kids in the care of Ben’s brother. Yesterday, the middle kid destroyed my new greenhouse. So-”
“The one you just had built?” Shelia’s eyebrows made an even tighter line of outrage. Leave it to Shelia to be pissed off for her.
“Yeah, they’re coming over on Saturday to repair it, but tonight I’m sitting down with the hunky uncle to go over the kids’ schedule to see if Flora and I can’t help him out a little.”
“Reeeally? Baby, I like the way you say ‘hunky uncle,’ and it’s nice you’re helping your neighbor out. Just tread carefully,” Shelia said, her wide, always-glossed lips curving into a smile. Shelia wasn’t one to push Addy to date, like some of her other friends, because she knew what it was like to have trust twisted and stomped upon. Her assistant had married an abusive man, a man who had beaten her so severely she’d miscarried their child and had been forced to undergo an emergency hysterectomy. After years of enduring the abuse, Shelia had left him, only to have him stalk her and torture her for many more years. The abuse and terror had ended when Alfred ran his car into a tree. A bottle of bourbon and a wet New Orleans street saved Shelia from the gun the man had in his glove box… the same gun he’d already fired at Shelia once before. So, no, Addy’s assistant didn’t trust easily.
But Shelia hadn’t given up on Addy finding love. She pushed gently, but she pushed. Just like Aunt Flora. And Addy’s mother. And her sisters. And… well, she could go on and on with the people who wanted to see her with a man at her side.
But Addy wouldn’t be moved until she was ready. She’d learned long ago to listen to her instincts and step carefully where men were concerned. It took her a long time before she trusted. Which is why she couldn’t figure out why there was a sort of auto-trust when it came to Lucas.
“He’s hunky, but it’s not a date.”
“But you’ve got weekend plans.”
“Yeah, we’re rebuilding a greenhouse… with three kids.”
“Who knows what can come of some innocent hammering, nailing, and screwing? Uh, huh.” Shelia bobbed her head and performed the wave… which was hard to do holding a floral box.
“Go, crazy lady.”
Shelia’s laughter trailed as she pushed out the back door. Addy twisted the lock behind her. Shelia had vacuumed the indoor-outdoor carpet and then locked the front door, but Addy scooted out of her back workstation and double-checked the lock.
Like she did every day.
Then she located her purse, cellphone, and pepper spray.
Like she did every day.
Fighting against fear wasn’t for the fainthearted. Addy’s nerves shredded every time she saw an unlocked window, a door left cracked, or a shadow falling over her when she was alone.
Most people never thought about their personal safety, but ever since the day in November eight years ago, Addy had thought of little else.
Being stalked and nearly killed by a crazy person did that to a gal.
Of course, Addy knew she was mostly safe in her little corner of the world. Tuesday evenings in St. Denis Shopping Center in Uptown New Orleans was busy enough with shoppers, diners, and looky-loos enjoying the early spring weather. No dark alleys or lonely stretches inviting violence. But none of that comforted her. After all, danger lurked on the sunniest of days, in the perceived safest of places.
Last night her thoughts had been haunted by Lucas and the feelings he stirred in her. Hungry, sweet thoughts claimed by the normal Addy, the woman who wanted to find love and peace with someone who completed her, a man who would feel like home.
But the other Addy had pulled her mind from that hopeful thought to the letter she’d received from Angola State Penitentiary. From some random inmate named Jim McDade. Some decoy who likely owed Robbie Guidry a favor and most likely had no clue why he’d been asked to send the missive. Probably didn’t even care.
The paper within the envelope had been a drawing, rather well done, of a field of brown eyed Susans. The cheerful yellow flowers with the wide brown center seemed to dance in the picture, their little faces turned toward the fading sun sinking against a streaked horizon. It had been folded carefully, a crisp trifold. Innocuous. Innocent.
But the image had caused Addy’s hand to shake so violently she dropped the paper to the floor.
Brown-eyed Susans.
A favorite flower for a brown-eyed girl.
Her father had sung that song to her when he strummed his guitar, winking at her, making her feel like the safest, most-loved girl in the world. Brown-eyed Addy. Daddy’s girl.
