Page 44 of The Cul-de-Sac War
A lightbulb in his head went off.
Fine art.
Artists were going to be perched along the Creeper Trail, next Tuesday, and the art enthusiasts in town were going to watch them work . . . for a fundraiser . . . for the Barter.
In the snap of a finger, a plan started forming.
He was not going to lie to his girlfriend.
He also was not going to lie to his girlfriend in front of his mother.
Just . . . avoid certain facts.
“That does sound riveting,” Chip began, putting his hand over hers. “But I’m afraid I have a project going on for that Tuesday and will need to work late.”
Technically true.
“But I hear the Tavern has a new menu coming out. We could go as soon as I’m finished and see about that stroll afterward . . .”
Bingo.
Ashleigh’s eyes lit up at the new idea. A bit shamefully, he worked to avoid looking at her eyes, or his mother’s.
An art event.
Tuesday the ninth.
Now all he had to do was find an easel.
Chapter 9
Bree
Bree had a perfectly legitimate reason for sitting on her porch steps, and it had nothing to do with him. Still, that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to make use of the time by shooting daggers from her eyes while he walked back and forth from the house to his truck, hauling bits of Sheetrock.
The real reason she was sitting on the porch steps, clutching a coffee mug between her knees and a cell phone to her ear, was because she was waiting. For them.
“I don’t see—” Over the phone line, Bree’s niece Anna gave a breathy pause. “—any fairies here.”
“Keep digging. It’s there.”
Bree listened as her niece rustled through the box full of bizarre and not-so-bizarre knickknacks and collectibles, photographs, rocks, lace, and cards. Every Saturday Bree made her way to the post office and sent a package to Miss Anna Farland, 114 Haybrook Way—a box of items Bree acquired over the course of the week, items that had a story. Tangible things, a string to go the distance between them and give each one an end to hold.
It wasn’t the same as being there with her. It wasn’t even close.
But until she could pull herself together, until she could get a grip, it was the best she could do.
Evie found her postage receipts one day and asked her how on earth she managed to spend so much every week on humongous packages when Bree always claimed to be short on cash. What was in the packages? Evie had pressed. Who were they for? Were there secrets in there? Was she some sort of spy? Bree had stuffed the slips into her back pocket and redirected the topic to Evie’s bizarre cat coffee mug. Evie hesitated, then went on to vehemently defend her cat mug—almost convincingly enough to make Bree believe Evie was ignorant of the fact they had changed the subject. Almost. That was the day they had turned from housemates to, in their own way, friends.
She tried not to listen to Anna’s labored breathing as she sorted through her treasure box. Every breath Bree heard felt like a punch.
“Here it is!” said Anna. Bree smiled to herself as she imagined her niece taking in every detail of the photograph Bree had shot of the eight-hundred-pound, sixteen-foot-tall bronze statue of Titania encircled by Puck, woodland creatures, and her fairy entourage. When she spoke at last, Anna’s voice was soft but enthusiastic. “Cute! But you circled something in this picture. What is it?”
Bree turned the mug in her hands and held the phone between her shoulder and ear. “So that’s my fairy in the play. My character is Mustardseed, so I circled my fairy on the sculpture. Or what I like to believe is my fairy. I pass that fountain and the sculptures every day on the way to work.”
“I like how—she’s holding—the butterfly.”
Bree listened as she took a sip of her coffee. Nodded. “I wanted to be the one playing in the water, but Birdie told me that was the character named Puck.” Bree swallowed then, realizing she’d mentioned another taboo topic. Anna used to play in the water. Used to be passionate about swimming. Used to be part of the neighborhood swim team. But that was before the hospital visits. And the clinics. And the pain.
