Page 34 of My Best Friend's Dad

“Tell them we’ll paint all the weird colors back over and drywall over all the holes when you want to sell. That might not be for years. In the meantime, your place should beyours.”

It’s a hard decision. A big part of me knows she’s right, and I resent the iron fist of control my parents still have over my life, even if it’s just one word or one sentence or their voice banging around in my head when it shouldn’t. The other part has been broken and tamed, and it just doesn’t want to deal with the shitstorm my mom would create if she walked into my place and saw it as anything less than a duplicate version of our sterilized family home.

At least Mika has dropped the whole seduction-of-her-dad line of reasoning.

“So, about my dad…”

Damn it.

“If you find a farm with tons of junk, it will probably be old people owned. They’ll want to have tea with you after, and they’ll feed you dust cookies.”

I laugh. “If you mean fresh gingersnaps, then you’re probably right.”

There’s a second group of guys getting onto the green that are already shoving and roughhousing with each other and dropping all sorts of interesting variations of curse words.

“Nah, they’re probably those cookies from the tin that everyone hates.”

“Sigh,” I say again, just to drive her nuts, but Mika only laughs.

“I’m just about done with my lunch break. Cat Sue is peeking around the corner and gesturing at me madly while trying not to interrupt my conversation.”

I love Mika’s nickname for her boss. It’s really Cathleen Susan. She’s the one who started the Cat thing, seeing as she’s feline-crazy.

“No worries. See you soon?” Between work hours, it’s not always easy to coordinate, especially when mine often run into overtime and every Saturday ever.

“You know it.”

I tuck my phone back into my bag and pull out my apple. I ate a late breakfast before driving out, so this will be enough to get me through the rest of the day.

Yet another big golf group is pulling up, with two teenagers who challenge each other to a swordfight with their golf clubs.

Hmm. I love the barn, but I should probably check the golf course hours. The last thing someone needs is to get whacked with an errant ball or hear very loud talk about balls and the inventive and repeated use of the word fuck.

I’m good with balls and fuck, but some of my clients won’t like it, and it’s the little things that can ruin a wedding.

Then again, if I get shot for trespassing in the next hour as I drive all willy-nilly down the backroads trying to find someplace that looks both old and inviting, I might not need to worry about that.

It blows my mind that people approach other people’s yards like that for a living, but then, that’s probably what some folks would say about my job. Weddings and technical fussy details aren’t for everyone.

I do have to get back for a meeting with a prospective client this afternoon, so I shoot up from the bench and take my apple to go.

If I’m going to get shot at, I suppose it’s best to get it done and over with.

Chapter nine

Rowleigh

Bellatrix sent me a ping late last night. Considering that she warned me to drive something with clearance, wear clothes I wouldn’t mind throwing out after, and also have shoes that could withstand rusty nails, I had more than a slight inkling about what we were going to be doing before I pulled up to the long, narrow driveway.

I only have to wait a few moments at the side of the gravel road with my favorite nineties punk band blasting over the SUV’s speakers before Bellatrix’s old blue car edges up behind me.

She drives past, waving at me. Even in the old beater sedan, which is rusty but probably trusty because it’s from the golden era of imports, she’s as regal as a queen.

The driveway has to be half a mile long, and Bellatrix’s car kicks up an ungodly cloud of dust.

As I pull up just behind her, she emerges from her car with her hair in a messy bun, her face makeup-free, and in old baggy jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt that’s the opposite of baggy.

I quickly look away before she catches my eyes lingering on the curve of her breasts.