Page 11 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“The front yard’s too muddy,” Andy forged on. “We’re going to tear the yard up . . .”

Bree started toward her house.

Chip waited while Andy laid out a string of doomsday possibilities. But when he started to worry about disrupting chickens’ egg-laying production, Chip stepped in.

“Now, come on, Andy. It’s not going to be all that bad. Do you see any chickens around here?” Chip waved his hand around the neighborhood. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about hitting a coop and having a mass breakout.”

“I’ll be darned if I don’t see one,” Andy replied, nodding over Chip’s shoulder. Sure enough, a weather-beaten, mint-green coop stood in Bree’s front yard beside a couple of overgrown bushes. Red shutters, a weathervane with a rusted rooster tipping his nose east in the breeze, and a large chicken-wire run. Several beady eyes flashed his way with unblinking eeriness, as though the brood smelled the Chick-fil-A wrapper in his truck.

Bree stood watching from the porch of the two-story, white-vinyl Craftsman in need of a good pressure washing. The front steps were lined with pots of a variety of shapes and sizes, all void of life in the March frost. In the yard a bright yellow box held the cursive words hand painted down the side: Our Little Free Library. Two cats cat-walked along the balcony of the front porch, tails flicked high.

Right. So roughly the opposite taste, in every possible way, of Ashleigh.

Wind chimes tinkled from Bree’s porch, and she opened her screen door and stepped inside.

He turned back to Andy and resisted putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not asking you to turn the corner on the driveway. Just drop the dumpster on the front yard. I’ll need it emptied in two days anyway.”

“Front yard?” Andy said. Chip rubbed the spittle off his neck. “What front yard? You got less space than a median here, Chip.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we can do it. I know I said I’d help you out here, but this just isn’t possible. You’re just going to have to use your truck—”

“This’ll work,” Chip cut in. “C’mon.”

No need to mention to Andy that his other work truck, which until that morning had been his only work truck, was currently at the Deadmore Street job. Or that as of this moment, his business’s bank account was about three hundred dollars from going in the red. “I gotta start demo right away, Andy. This is my new residence. As in, my home. Right now.”

The waves on Andy’s forehead rose. His short, fat finger shot toward the house. “You’re living in that? Now?”

Incredible. It was the first time in thirty years Andy’s bushy brows rose enough to reveal he had baby-blue eyes.

Chip swung his body back to face his new palace. “It’s not so bad.”

As if on cue, an owl shot out of the chimney—or rather, the tarp currently covering a hole in the roof that would one day become the chimney.

“It’s going to need some work, I admit—” Chip began.

A gust of wind blew and the drooping roof over his front porch let out a weary creak.

“But I only need a few weeks to whip her into shape.”

A second later the one nail holding up the shutter on the left-hand window gave and the whole thing clattered to the ground. God and His angels were conspiring against him. Chip shut his mouth to prevent the house from collapsing.

“Does your father—” Andy began.

Chip raised his brow.

Andy shut his mouth too.

There were three disadvantages to growing up in a town where everyone knew you. First, they also knew your father. Second, they could still recall you as a fifth grader, which killed any authoritative tone you might try to pull off as an adult. Third, they felt the right to pause on occasion to give you detailed instructions on how to run your life.

“C’mon,” Chip repeated, only a whisper of pleading in his voice. “Let’s do this.”

Andy sighed, glanced up and down the road again, and gave a short nod. A second later, he disappeared into his truck.

Chip turned at the sound of a screen door slamming and saw the fairy woman back on her porch, locking her front door.

Andy began rolling toward him, his truck’s massive tires overtaking the small road. He crawled past a parked Suburban, sparing inches between the truck and the sleek body of the huge vehicle. Stopping ten yards before the house, exhaust running, Andy waited for Chip’s signal.

Chip beckoned Andy on.

The ground began to rumble as the brake lights turned off and the truck, with dumpster attached, moved backward.