When Fences Fall: Small-town, grumpy sunshine romance, page 3
“Oh, that.” Her eyes dull—it was clearly the wrong question to ask. She probably was looking for some deep conversation, but it’s too early and I’m too fucked up for that. “I’m here almost every morning.”
“Charming.” I glance at the sky, silently asking why this is happening to me. First my backyard is occupied by a witch, now the front is taken by this fluffy ghost-squatter.
“I think so too. Now,” she moves to the side and pats the space next to her. “Come sit here.”
Eyeing the half-rotten swing, I remain by the door.
“Oh, c’mon, don’t be a pussy,” she says with a raspy chuckle. “It won’t fall. And if it does, I’ll fall on top of you. Fun times, yes?”
Still stunned from this sweet old lady saying the word ‘pussy,’ I move toward the swing automatically.
“C’mon, big fella.” She keeps patting the seat. “I’m not getting any younger.”
I go to carefully plant my ass on the other side of the swing, and it lets out a loud squeak, making me nearly jump. When I’m finally down, not able to breathe for fear of breaking the whole construction because it would cause the old lady’s fall, I carefully lean back.
“What’s your name?” I ask because she’s clearly not going anywhere.
Her brows draw together in concentration as her eyes turn sadder. “I—” She swallows. “I think… Something with the moon.”
Shit, so she does have dementia.
“I’ll call you Moon then. It’s a very beautiful name.”
“All right.” Her face brightens. “Moon. And you are?”
“Jericho, ma’am,” I reply with a short nod.
“Jericho.” She tries out the word. “A very interesting name.” Then she smacks her open palms on her thighs with extra force I didn’t expect from such a fragile creature. I get so scared that I nearly grab her arms to check for damage. “So, Steve, how did you end up in this house?”
“I’m no—” Shaking my head, I stop myself in time. “I bought this house. Just yesterday in fact, and toda—”
“Granny!” comes an already familiar voice, running toward us in a nightgown very similar to the granny’s. “What are you doing there?”
Great. The sweet old lady is the witch’s grandmother. Should have figured that out.
“It was stuffy in the house, and I needed some fresh air.”
“All the windows were open,” the witch says, running up the steps and trying to catch her breath. “And you know that because you opened them yourself yesterday, nearly freezing me to death.” Her voice is accusing, tone harsh.
“You’ll thank me later, dear. Open windows are like a fridge for your youth.”
“Grandma,” the witch quite literally growls, not appreciating the shared wisdom.
The need to defend a defenseless old lady is strong, so I rise from the swing and stand between Moon and the witch.
“She might not remember that,” I start in a warning tone. “She clearly has some memory issues,” I add quieter, hoping it will calm her down because the last thing the old lady needs is her aggravated, ungrateful granddaughter going ballistic on her for not remembering about open windows.
But my words have the opposite effect. The witch’s eyes narrow while her little nostrils flare, making her look like a bull ready to attack. A small, ginger bull. She pushes her finger into my chest, digging it deep into my flesh.
“Don’t tell me how I need to talk to my grandma,” she hisses warningly.
“You need to learn some respect and boundaries,” I hiss back, leaning forward. It should scare her, though it isn’t my intention. I’m much larger than her, plus my past gives me a certain aura that people tend to avoid. I try not to intimidate people on purpose, but sometimes it comes involuntarily.
Not her though. She rises on her tippytoes to get closer to my face while her finger presses even harder. I wish I could say I barely feel it, but her nail digs pretty deep right at the spot where the hot coffee landed, making the moment memorable for sure for the next few hours.
“I recommend you learn some boundaries too about not involving your unknowing ass into things you don’t know.”
“Language, Nora!” A shaky voice reminds us about her presence.
“Sorry, Granny,” the witch shoots back without taking her eyes off me. “Don’t talk to my grandmother.”
“She came to me!” I cry out in disbelief. “What was I supposed to do? Kick her out?”
“You didn’t have any problems kicking me out when I wasn’t bothering anyone.”
“She has deme—” I nearly say something I can’t take back while pointing at Moon. The witch’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips tell me that I might lose an ear if I finish that sentence. “You know what,” I start, throwing my hands in the air in a surrendering gesture. “Never mind. Just go.”
I grab my coffee and nod to the old lady, who gives a jolly “Goodbye, Steve” to me as I head back into the house. I’m being forced to hide in my own house one day after I purchased it. I’m going to kill Jonah.
Picking up my phone, I shoot him a message.
You set me up, Jonah.
His reply is instant.
???
My neighbors are crazy.
The Moons?
I’d forgotten he’d said their last name was Moon. I rub my face with my hand because I’m losing my grip on reality.
Yes, them.
What are you talking about? They are ADORABLE!
Deciding I won’t be getting anything out of this conversation because he’s clearly on their side, and all of this is just a big plot, I drop the phone on the table and go to pour myself another cup of coffee. I’ve got some things to do before my first guest arrives, so I don’t have time for a psychotic rooster, a witch, and her ghost of a grandmother.
5
Nora
“Why did you go to his house?” I ask Granny as we walk back home. It used to be her place, and it still is, even though she officially gifted it to me five years ago when her health began deteriorating.
“Why did you?” she shoots back in her usual clear voice.
I’m sure she played her favorite trick on our new neighbor where she pretends to be a forgetful old lady, when in reality her mind is sharper than mine. Her tongue is dirtier too—the things this fluffy lady says can make a seasoned sailor blush. And she does it in public, for God’s sake.
“Touché,” I mumble back.
“Did the moon ritual work?” She sounds rather hopeful, which breaks my heart. Does she really think I’m so broken?
“I don’t know,” I reply, sighing. “He interrupted before I could enjoy the moment.”
“I think it did.” She glances at me with shining eyes before adding with a giggle, “He’s got some good muscles on him. He can interrupt me anytime he wants.”
“Grandma!” I cry out in horror. She turns into a horndog when an attractive man is nearby, mortifying me with mental images I’ll never recover from.
And he sure is attractive, I can’t deny that. Tall and strong, with shoulders so wide Granny and I could both hide behind them. I didn’t pay much attention to his appearance last night because the moonlight adds a seductive attraction to everything it touches, so I didn’t dare trust it. Though I did feel his hard muscles under my body while he was carrying me from his property—something the moon certainly couldn’t alter.
This morning I got an eyeful of those muscles. The green flannel did nothing to contain his physique. His lean features promised more strength than a swollen bodybuilder would have. The carefully calculated movements of a man who knows his power were very enticing, even when ruined by his tongue.
That tongue ruins everything. Every time he speaks, some version of poison comes out, and I want to submit a complaint to the universe for having decided to attach such a poisonous tongue to a body and face like that.
That face, damn it. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have angry dreams about it. Sharp cheekbones, strong, annoyingly sculpted jaw, and dark, gray eyes with low-sitting brows. Those dark eyes have seen things. Many things.
His skin and brown hair have that golden shimmer that suggests he spends a lot of time outdoors doing heavy, manly things.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. Big, bad, and probably damaged. No, Nora. No. Not this kryptonite.
“Do you want tea?” I ask Granny, trying to avert my own attention from my rapidly accelerating heart.
“Coffee.” Here comes that stubborn tone I know I can’t win against.
“Gran,” I start with a groan. “You know coffee is not good for you.”
“I’m a few months shy of ninety. Leave me alone and give me my coffee.”
“Gran.”
“Nora,” she mimics my tone. “I’ve been drinking coffee all my life, and I’m not going to stop just because some doctor who still has his mother’s milk on his lips told me not to drink it anymore.”
“Dr. Rogers is forty-one.”
“As I said, a baby.” She waves her fragile hand in the air dismissively. “I remember him picking his nose at my tables and eating the boogies instead of my delicious pancakes. How am I supposed to take him seriously?”
She’s not wrong here. Chuckling, I roll my eyes—everyone under fifty is a baby to her. I guess it comes with age. And he indeed told her to stop taking caffeine in such high doses, recommending decaf tea instead. Of course, my grandmother took it as a sign of war and doubled her intake. Even when I hide it from her, she attains some from the neighbors down the street. I warned everyone to stop feeding her unhealthy habit, but they can’t resist when she uses her authoritative voice on them, especially when she’s used it on them before. My grandmother used to own the best diner in the area until about five years ago when she sold it to me, staying at work long into her retirement. Pretty much every single human in this town has been in her diner nearly every single day for one reason or another.
Giving up on fighting the idea of winning this battle, I make a pot of decaf coffee and pour her a mug. She spits it out a moment later.
“I didn’t survive all these years just to be poisoned by this garbage.” Her big, bright eyes stare at me with accusation.
I feel my lips twitching. “It’s coffee, Grandma. Not garbage.”
She slowly turns her head toward me with a white eyebrow nearly disappearing in her still strong hairline. “Nora, I taught you how to wipe your butt. Don’t take this tone with me.”
Rolling my eyes as dramatically as I can, I head to fix a new pot of coffee. Caffeinated this time. I sure could use some of it myself.
When Grandma takes the first sip of coffee, her eyes close in bliss as she lets out an embarrassing moan. I move about the kitchen, fixing us breakfast, when she suddenly starts talking.
“That new neighbor of ours, he’s not bad looking.”
Taking a deep breath, I try replying in a calm voice because she’s had this idea since Richard dumped me many years ago that he broke my juju. I, on the other hand, think I quickly developed a brain and refused to believe men after that. “He’s all right.”
“All right?” She cackles. “Girl, you need to go check your vision. The man is fine.”
“The man kicked me off of his property last night.”
“He just moved in.” A shrug of her shoulders weighed by age. “He doesn’t know any better. Maybe he was stressed.”
Narrowing my eyes, I point my index finger at her. “Why does it sound like you’re defending him?”
She rears back in mock horror, pressing her open hand to her chest. “I would never.”
I keep pushing. “And what were you doing on his porch this early?”
Her face changes in an instant, turning into this angelic old lady she pretends to be sometimes.
“Are you going to town today?”
“Of course, I am, Granny. I need to make sure Letty doesn’t burn down the diner. Again,” I add with a smirk.
“But it’s your day off, honey.”
I laugh. “Like it’s ever stopped you.”
“True, very true,” she laughs back. “But I can always come and help.” Her tone turns considerate, and I walk up to her to give her white head a kiss.
“We’re doing fine, Grandma. I promise. You built a strong foundation for the place, so it’s easy for me to manage.”
“Okay,” she replies quietly, gently patting my shoulder. Then her palm moves to my belly for a quick tap-tap-tap. “Those eggs of yours don’t get any younger. Give this new fella a chance.”
Clicking my tongue, I whip around and return to fixing myself a plate. I am twenty-five years old, for God’s sake. And so what that I haven’t dated anyone since Dick? It’s my personal preference. But my grandma has put it on herself to see my sister and me both married before she departs from this world. Which won’t be anytime soon if I have anything to say about it.
I clean up the kitchen, then, since it’s a surprisingly nice morning, I go to the backyard to do a quick yoga session before running some errands.
As I settle onto my extra thick mat I keep specifically for outdoors, a gush of warm wind moves my dream catchers, creating a cacophony of familiar sounds. It’s good background music for some me-time. I’ve been collecting dream catchers for years, buying them off local artists around here and online. Ever since I started having nightmares—which is more than half my life—I’ve been relying on different things to protect me from bad dreams. It hasn’t been super successful so far, but I think it could be worse. So I keep my crystals and dream catchers around.
Our cozy backyard with my favorite trees, flowers, and charms from all over the country has always been my quiet and peaceful place, but now, my eyes keep wandering toward my neighbor’s house on their own accord. Grandma is right—the man is fine. Too bad he can speak because the moment he opened his mouth, I knew we wouldn’t be friends. Looks like our peaceful life has just become more interesting.
6
Jericho
Starting a day so early with minimum sleep is not ideal, but I’ve had worse. By the time I finish cleaning the place and fixing basic things that are too dangerous to leave them be, I’m caffeinated up to my ears. Jonah was right, the house might need a little more work than I initially planned, but it’s better this way. I like to keep busy between jobs. My next gig is not for a few weeks, so I can finish this house and make it home.
I could easily fix everything without getting a permit. It’s just a formality if I’m working on my house myself, but I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot in the new town, so I add stop at city hall to my to-do list.
After fixing the leaky faucets in every bathroom and the kitchen, I go to secure the loose steps on the front porch. I plan on replacing them, but for right now some extra nails will have to do. I can’t leave them like that and risk someone breaking their neck, but I’ve got errands to run.
My first stop is getting permits. Being met with curious looks the moment I step foot into city hall is expected. What is not expected is everyone’s lack of assistance when I ask whom I need to speak to regarding the renovations I have planned for my house.
After being sent from person to person (which surprisingly is a very large number of people for a town this size), I find myself knocking on a door with the name Jaqueline Randolph.
“Hello?” I call out, carefully pushing the door to open slightly.
“Yes?” a female voice responds.
I push the door wider and walk inside. A woman, sitting at a big, brown desk greets me with a small smile on her face. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, hi.” I walk up to the desk. “I was hoping you could help me get a permit for renovations on my house.”
Her smile grows wider as her eyes dip down my body before focusing back on my face. “I might be able to do that. Please, take a seat,” she says, waving her hand at the textile chair across from the desk.
When I plant myself on the chair, she rises to her feet, unbuttons two top buttons of her white blouse with an already low cut, and walks up to me. I shift in my chair, feeling rather uncomfortable—it’s not that hot in the room. She pauses in front of me for a few seconds before placing her bottom on the desk. Right in front of me.
“What kind of permits are you looking for, Jericho?”
“You know my name?” I ask, confused.
She shrugs one shoulder, revealing a red bra strap. “Comes with the job description. So.” She pushes herself deeper onto the desk and places one leg over the other. “How can I help you, exactly?”
Trying to ignore her rather forward behavior, I focus on her face. “I need to apply for a building permit, Mrs. Randolph.”
“It’s Miss.” She smiles wider. “And it’s Jaqueline for you.”
Using a friendly tone, I say, “I’d like to apply for a building permit, Ms. Randolph.”
Her smile drops a little. “And I’m the only one who can help you with that.” She points her finger at the door behind me. “Considering the local hillbillies might not even understand what you need.”
So, she’s not local. That makes this easier for me because I can already tell we won’t be friends. Pissing off a locally born and raised city inspector versus a newcomer are two different ball games, where I might stand a chance with the latter since I’m one of those hillbillies, if she considers everyone from small towns in Maine one of them. I was born and raised in a small town about fifty miles away from here before we moved to Boston, and small-town politics work the same everywhere.
“What do you need a permit for?” She taps her long nails on the hard surface by her thigh.
“Full renovation. Electrical, plumbing, structural.”
She tsks her tongue. “It’s a lot.”
