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Authors: Barbara Taylor Sissel
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Jeff and Lauren and their crew hauled off for free.
Neither she nor Jeff had wanted to live in the city, so Jeff bought acreage on the outskirts of Hardys Walk, more than enough land to accommodate his heavy equipment and his warehouse along with the inventory from Freddy Tate’s. Lauren had wanted to build a house, something small and cozy, on their business property, but Jeff wanted to live in town, in the posh, gated community of Northbend, and she’d let herself be talked into it. After all the other expenses, there was little cash leftover for a huge wedding, so they were married in a quiet civil ceremony. Tara had been difficult. She hadn’t liked Jeff, but Lauren was too happy to pay much attention. Her thought, if she’d had one, had been that Jeff and Tara would work it out. Now Lauren touched the tip of her finger to the computer screen, to a photo of herself brandishing a pry bar. Jeff was grinning down at her. It was from right after they married.
From the days when he’d thanked her for saving him, calling her his little toughie.
Because she was strong for her size and didn’t mind hard work. And because she could get into tight places like old-country-church bell towers, where no reasonably sized man, much less a man Jeff’s size, could go. She hadn’t thought twice about climbing into the belfry two years ago to have a look at what it would take to get the bell safely down, and it was dumb—really dumb—but she hadn’t considered the possibility of bats, either—that as she climbed the ladder, flashlight in hand, one might swoop at her. When one did, she was so startled, she lost her grip and her footing.
And her joy in her work.
She had yet to recover that. She tired easily now, and often her hip hurt, not in the sharp, lacerating way it had when her injuries were still new; it was more a dull throbbing, an ache so deep in the joint not even therapeutic massage reached it. No one could say how much better it might get or even if she would improve at all from the place where she was. It was up to her, what happened from here. She should get back into the gym; she should sign up for yoga. She had yet to do either.
Some days, it was hard finding the will to get out of bed.
Lauren clicked on the e-mail tab and scrolled through the messages, scanning the list quickly, but then one from Cornerstone Bank, with a subject line that read New & improved sign-in process , caught her eye. But they didn’t bank at Cornerstone. That’s what she was thinking when her cell phone rang.
She tugged it out of her purse, eyes still on the screen.
It was Jeff, asking about her head.
“It’s better,” she told him, but her attention was fixed on the bank notice, catching on random phrases: happy to have you . . . if you have any questions . . . to set up an online account . . .Had they switched banks? She waited, but no recollection of doing that surfaced. Jeff asked where she was. “The office,” she said. “There’s an e-mail here—” Lauren stopped, not wanting to hear it, that she’d forgotten. It would only worry Jeff, and anyway, if she gave it time, the memory would come back. It was how her brain worked now, like a light with a faulty switch.
“What e-mail?” he prodded.
“Never mind. How are things going there?” Lauren went to the window that looked out on a field fenced in rusty chain link. There was a scruffy patch of woods in one far corner. She could hear the traffic on the nearby interstate, the insistent percussion of tires pounding pavement.
“Tara’s acting like she doesn’t want to sell,” Jeff said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should hold off. The place means a lot to you two.”
Lauren was taken aback. “Really? But you were so—you said it was the only way.”
“Yeah. It’s not like she doesn’t need the money, too.”
He meant Tara, whose financial judgment was as impaired as her relationship judgment.
“You do realize when we sell, she’ll blow
Neither she nor Jeff had wanted to live in the city, so Jeff bought acreage on the outskirts of Hardys Walk, more than enough land to accommodate his heavy equipment and his warehouse along with the inventory from Freddy Tate’s. Lauren had wanted to build a house, something small and cozy, on their business property, but Jeff wanted to live in town, in the posh, gated community of Northbend, and she’d let herself be talked into it. After all the other expenses, there was little cash leftover for a huge wedding, so they were married in a quiet civil ceremony. Tara had been difficult. She hadn’t liked Jeff, but Lauren was too happy to pay much attention. Her thought, if she’d had one, had been that Jeff and Tara would work it out. Now Lauren touched the tip of her finger to the computer screen, to a photo of herself brandishing a pry bar. Jeff was grinning down at her. It was from right after they married.
From the days when he’d thanked her for saving him, calling her his little toughie.
Because she was strong for her size and didn’t mind hard work. And because she could get into tight places like old-country-church bell towers, where no reasonably sized man, much less a man Jeff’s size, could go. She hadn’t thought twice about climbing into the belfry two years ago to have a look at what it would take to get the bell safely down, and it was dumb—really dumb—but she hadn’t considered the possibility of bats, either—that as she climbed the ladder, flashlight in hand, one might swoop at her. When one did, she was so startled, she lost her grip and her footing.
And her joy in her work.
She had yet to recover that. She tired easily now, and often her hip hurt, not in the sharp, lacerating way it had when her injuries were still new; it was more a dull throbbing, an ache so deep in the joint not even therapeutic massage reached it. No one could say how much better it might get or even if she would improve at all from the place where she was. It was up to her, what happened from here. She should get back into the gym; she should sign up for yoga. She had yet to do either.
Some days, it was hard finding the will to get out of bed.
Lauren clicked on the e-mail tab and scrolled through the messages, scanning the list quickly, but then one from Cornerstone Bank, with a subject line that read New & improved sign-in process , caught her eye. But they didn’t bank at Cornerstone. That’s what she was thinking when her cell phone rang.
She tugged it out of her purse, eyes still on the screen.
It was Jeff, asking about her head.
“It’s better,” she told him, but her attention was fixed on the bank notice, catching on random phrases: happy to have you . . . if you have any questions . . . to set up an online account . . .Had they switched banks? She waited, but no recollection of doing that surfaced. Jeff asked where she was. “The office,” she said. “There’s an e-mail here—” Lauren stopped, not wanting to hear it, that she’d forgotten. It would only worry Jeff, and anyway, if she gave it time, the memory would come back. It was how her brain worked now, like a light with a faulty switch.
“What e-mail?” he prodded.
“Never mind. How are things going there?” Lauren went to the window that looked out on a field fenced in rusty chain link. There was a scruffy patch of woods in one far corner. She could hear the traffic on the nearby interstate, the insistent percussion of tires pounding pavement.
“Tara’s acting like she doesn’t want to sell,” Jeff said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should hold off. The place means a lot to you two.”
Lauren was taken aback. “Really? But you were so—you said it was the only way.”
“Yeah. It’s not like she doesn’t need the money, too.”
He meant Tara, whose financial judgment was as impaired as her relationship judgment.
“You do realize when we sell, she’ll blow
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