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“Says the girl who hasn’t seen him in years. What’s it been? A decade? I’m sure there is a reason for that.” He’s calling me out, and what he’s spitting isn’t exactly false.
It’s six years, but it might as well have been my entire life. It wasn’t like Dad and I were close.
“Which one is Nathan?” I ask, choosing to ignore his question and remembering what he whispered when he came in.
“That lazy dope over there.” Patrick raises a strong hand and points to the St. Bernard.
Nathan simply blinks one eye open, unimpressed with our bickering.
“I’m here now, so there is no need for you to come over anymore. In fact, I’d like you to leave.”
“How’re you feeding the horse and goat?” He ignores me, walking to the fridge.
When he bends, opens it, and lets out a dry heave, I have to hold back my giggle.
“Could have warned me,” he mutters, going to the screen door once more.
“What fun would that have been?” I smirk.
“You need to get them proper nutrition. Do you even know what that is?”
Every remark is fashioned to bring me down a peg. To put me in my place. To make it extremely clear that I’m not welcome in his perfect town. That I’m not a part of the community here.
“I’d like you to leave now. Everything on this property, until I sign my name on a dotted line, is my business. I don’t need your help, nor do you want to give it.”
Wounded pride bubbles up in me. I may not have loved being his daughter, but my father deserves some kind of respect in his death.
Patrick turns, filling the doorway once more. As his boot hits the dilapidated back porch, he turns one last time.
Ocean-blue eyes bore into mine. “You should sell this place—fast. Get out of Hope Crest, Cassandra.”
While it’s not a threat, it sure is a message. I don’t realize I blow out a breath I’ve been holding until I see Patrick’s shoulders dip below the hills separating his property from mine.
2
PATRICK
My dad is going to fucking flip when he hears Cassandra Mauer is back in town.
It’s all I can think as I drive into the hub of Hope Crest, the only place I’ve ever known and lived. My Pennsylvania hometown is a gem on the Delaware River, with lush green forests and homes built before the Revolutionary War sitting on the banks of rushing rapids. With our quaint green bridges passing over into New Jersey and the cobblestone sidewalks lining the streets, anyone would be happy to grow up here.
It’s why I stayed. Why practically my entire extended family stayed.
As I ease my car down Newton Street, the main drag in Hope Crest, I’m met with the foot traffic of a small town; parents walking their kids to the first week of elementary school, business owners putting out a chalkboard with the specials of the day, dog owners stopping at the animal water fountains the town put in five years ago. The brick-fronted Laura Inn still has its gas lamps on from last night, and Vanilla Bean’s greenhouse-inspired coffee shop is bustling with people in need of a caffeine fix.
Some late-season tourists are walking the wildflower path along the canal while residents watch from their wrought-iron balconies. Rolling my windows down for a whiff of that East Coast autumn rolling in, I can’t wait until the leaves turn. It might be corny, but my whole heart belongs to this tiny mecca. Hope Crest is consistently mentioned as one of the best small towns in the US; our people are welcoming, inclusive, hard-working, and generally love the community we’ve cultivated.
Another reason it’s always on those lists? My family’s fourth-generation pizzeria. The Hope Pizza sauce has been in my blood from the moment I entered the world, though I guess Mom and Dad waited until I was about a year old to give me my first slice. My mom’s grandfather immigrated from Napoli in nineteen twenty and ended up in Philadelphia, where he fell in love with an Italian girl whose family came from Milan. Together, they moved out here, opened their own pizzeria, and a hundred years later, we’re still kicking.
Through a ton of hard work, sacrifice from the members of our family, and some dragging of the older generation into modern technology by the younger of us, Hope Pizza has become a destination in itself. Tourists come to Hope Crest simply to order a pie and sit on our waterfront patio.
My family is a staple in town, we’re always hosting charity booths or sponsoring little league teams, and generally, we love everyone who decides to come here.
Everyone except Bob Mauer and, in turn, his daughter. Dad hated that man until the day he died, and honestly, the rest of the family weren’t all that fond of him either. Butch Mauer was a vile person, doing everything from causing scenes in businesses in town to making diatribe speeches at town council meetings for no other reason than the hatred in his heart. He would spread gossip about townspeople, try to start arguments at the summer fair, and talk out the side of his mouth to break up relationships or dissuade business dealings. The guy was an asshole, through and through.
Because of it, his daughter suffered the consequences. Once upon a time, I felt bad about that. But Cassandra Mauer has grown up to be a successful woman, much more than the likes of any Hope Crest resident. She’s doing more than okay, so the guilt isn’t too sour in my gut.
Or at least I could try to convince myself of that.
