AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Olivia was miserable. And whenever she was miserable, she became focused and extremely productive. She cleaned out every closet in her house, the flatware drawer, and the refrigerator and freezer, and then she went to Trader Joe’s and stocked up on cheese and coffee, and she was now industriously working on the stained rug on the balcony. Jonathan Livingston Seagull watched her from his perch on the back of the rattan couch with what appeared to be a slight smirk on his long beak.
“It’s not funny, you know,” she said as she brushed in the eco-friendly carpet cleaner. “How would you like it if I used your nest as a toilet? You wouldn’t be laughing then, now would you?”
He sidestepped to the arm of the couch and leaned closer to the opened can of sardines she’d placed on the table. She didn’t know if seagulls liked sardines. They were the only things she’d been able to think to buy at Trader Joe’s. With eight cans now in her well-organized cupboard, she was relieved when Jonathan reached out his beak and snatched one from the can. The others followed in short order.
“I shouldn’t be rewarding you for bad behavior.” She sprayed more carpet cleaner on the rug. “In fact I should’ve let Nash get rid of you when I had the chance. Now he’s gone.” She brushed in the cleaner. “And so is Grayson.”
The Beaumont brothers had left that morning. She should’ve expected it. After all, they were Deacon’s brothers—or at least half brothers. But that didn’t explain why she got so teary-eyed when they’d said their goodbyes. Of course they’d said they would be back to visit. But she didn’t believe it. Now that she wasn’t part of Deacon’s life anymore, she wouldn’t be part of theirs. She would miss them. She would miss Nash’s flirting and his bright smile. Miss Grayson’s calming presence and inspiring talent. Now the house seemed so empty. So lonely. Maybe she should call Babette and invite her back. Even her snooty arrogance would be better than this silence.
She gave up on getting the stains out and sat back on her butt. “At least I have you, Jonathan—”
“Hammond!” Mrs. Huckabee’s loud yell scared Jonathan, and in a flap of wings he took flight. His poop landed almost dead center on the spot Olivia had been cleaning.
“I’m busy, Doris!” Mr. Huckabee yelled back. “I’m sitting out here on the balcony listening to Britney talk to her new lover. Now that the two so-called cousins left, she’s got some guy over there who goes by the name of Jonathan.”
Olivia rolled her eyes and got to her feet. Mr. Huckabee was sitting on his balcony holding a pair of binoculars that were directed straight at her. Not that he needed them when their houses were so close. She waved. “Hello, Mr. Huckabee. See anything interesting?”
He lowered the binoculars, not at all embarrassed that he’d been caught spying. “So you remembered to close the garage today when you left for the store.”
She didn’t know how Nash had done it, but somehow he’d set up an alarm on her phone that went off when she pulled away from the house without closing the garage door. “Thank you for always keeping an eye on my house,” she said.
Mr. Huckabee nodded. “So where’s this Jonathan?”
She could’ve explained, but she was coming to realize that Mr. Huckabee didn’t want explanations as much as some excitement. Excitement that he could no longer get for himself.
“Passed out cold,” she said as she looked down at the empty couch. “He must’ve eaten too many of my magic brownies.”
Mr. Huckabee grinned. “That will do it.” He set the binoculars on the table. “You should try Mrs. Huckabee’s some time. She has them down to a science—just enough buzz without the side effects of a gassy stomach.”
“She sounds like quite a cook.”
He craned his neck and called back into the house, “Doris! I’m going to invite Britney over for dinner.”
“Olivia!” Mrs. Huckabee yelled.
Mr. Huckabee didn’t miss a beat. “Who is Olivia?”
***
Surprisingly, and fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Huckabee dressed for dinner. Mrs. Huckabee wore a peasant blouse and long skirt, and Mr. Huckabee wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and ripped jeans. Mr. Huckabee was right. His wife was an excellent cook. Olivia had seconds of the vegetable couscous, but declined the brownie for dessert. Instead she had a glass of wine and listened to the couple relive their life together.
They had married right out of college and traveled the world. Africa. South America. India. After living in a commune in Arizona, they’d settled in San Francisco and opened a restaurant for vegans. By the end of the evening, it was plain to see that they had lived a long and adventurous life. One that made Olivia’s life look dull by comparison. By the time the dinner was over and she’d walked back to her house, she was feeling more than a little morose. Not only because the Huckabees had experienced so much of life but also because they had done it together.
All Olivia had was her mother and a pooping seagull. She had wasted her adult life on a company…and on a man who hadn’t even cared enough to tell her about his son. If Michael had told her, she would’ve understood his leaving the company to Deacon. And it would’ve saved her the last few weeks of hell. Of course not all of it had been hell. Most of it had been heaven. She had loved designing. Loved having Grayson and Nash around. Loved…Deacon.
Yes, she loved Deacon. The time away from him had allowed her to finally accept it. But it didn’t change the fact that they could never be together. She would always remind him of the man who had stolen his mother’s dream.
As she punched in the security code for the garage, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She whirled to find the lemon juicer salesman sneaking away from the side of her house. When he saw her, he dropped the empty flower containers, grabbed his roller suitcase, and made a run for it. She didn’t know if it was the wine or her guilt about not thanking him sooner that had her chasing after him. She caught up to him after a block and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. It was a surprisingly nice trench coat, the material an expensive nylon-and-polyester mix.
“Wait,” she said as she pulled him to a stop. “I just wanted to thank you.”
He stared down at his shoes. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said in a gruff whisper.
“Of course I do. You’ve taken out my trash, swept my driveway, and planted those beautiful flowers in my garden. I really appreciate it, and I’d like to buy a lemon juicer.”
He quickly unzipped the roller bag and pulled a juicer out. It looked a little like a gun. There was a round chamber where the lemon went, a handle you squeezed, and a long barrel the juice came out of. He handed it to her.
