Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Rhett
“Seriously, Papaw?”
The man is sittin’ on his front porch, already deep into a mason jar of moonshine. You’d think his liver would give out after all these years, but I think he’s pickled his organs into a state of preservation instead. Papaw might just outlive us all.
He grins at me like I’m cute instead of a pissed-off grown man. “I reckon you need some of my liquid sunshine.”
That’s the last thing I need.
“I can’t have you giving out discounts and such. Just…let me handle my own business from now on.”
Papaw takes another long swig of moonshine.
He’s wearing a stained pair of coveralls that used to be his uniform when he worked at the garage, fixin’ cars.
He got fired over twenty years ago for showing up drunk.
Can’t remember if that was right before I left town or right after. He got fired a lot over the years.
“Mrs. Willowby said you told her I give twenty percent discounts, on account of being new in town.” I rub the back of my neck just to keep from reaching out and strangling the man. “First off, I ain’t new in town, I grew up here. Second of all, I don’t do discounts.”
“Ya ought to think about it,” Papaw drawls. “Good way to pick up clients.”
I sigh yet again. “You realize I had a thriving business in Atlanta, right? And I didn’t get there handing out discounts for handyman services to little ol’ ladies.”
“Well, now, tha’s the big city. This here’s Heaven.”
I take several long, controlled breaths. Papaw isn’t ever going to understand. Best I can do is try to neutralize him.
“Okay. Can you please not advertise for me? Just…tell people I’m back in town, but don’t say anything else. Can you do that for me?”
Papaw’s eyebrows draw together. He tilts his chair back so it’s balancing on the back two legs. “You gotta remember somethin’. Things haven’t changed ’round here in all these years. They still don’t like the Prices ’round here.”
It takes all of my self-control not to rip into the man or roll my eyes.
Maybe if he didn’t show up everywhere drunk or refuse to hold down a steady job for the majority of his working years, people might think a bit better of the man.
But you don’t get to be eighty years old without becoming a little set in your ways.
All the hootin’ and hollerin’ in the world won’t change his opinions.
“Well, I gotta get home and make dinner for Rylan.”
“Wanna take some moonshine with ya?” He holds up his mason jar. “It’ll put hair on your chest and keep you from being so damn grumpy.”
I wave it away. “I’m good, ol’ man, I’m good.”
He waits until I’m almost in my truck to get the last word in. “Are you though?”
I get in my beat-up work truck and head for the new house I bought just down the road.
It’s a fixer-upper, which is fine by me.
I have all the expertise and tools to make this baby shine.
Sadly, it’s been two months since my teenage son and I moved back to Heaven, and I’ve only had a few small jobs, which works out well for working on the house, but not for making a living.
I do commercial build-outs mostly, and in that sense, Papaw is right.
Heaven is not a big city. The number of commercial projects is much smaller and no one around here knows what I can do.
Yet.
I pull up into our driveway and cut the engine, scraping a hand across my face and collecting my thoughts before I step inside.
I love my son. He’s the light of my life and my sole focus since his mama left this world when he was a toddler, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit he can be a handful.
It’s like the teen years awakened the devil in him.
He’s been pushing the envelope every day since, eventually getting involved with a rough crowd in our little suburb of Atlanta.
That’s what forced our move back to Heaven.
I had to get Rylan on a good path and somehow Heaven seemed like the place we could find it, contrary to what Papaw thinks of this town.
I grab my toolbelt and my cowboy hat and exit the truck.
Bass thumps through the upstairs windows.
My jaw aches from how much I’m clenching it.
As a fan of country music myself, I can’t stand that shit my son listens to.
It’s got zero melody, and don’t get me started on the raunchy lyrics.
But I know Rylan. He’s ornery just like his dear ol’ dad.
If I put up a stink about it, he’ll only listen to it more, at higher decibels.
Inside the door, I toe off my work boots and dump my bag.
My hat goes on the coat rack and I wrack my brain for what to make us for dinner.
God, I hate that daily question. If I ever win the lottery, I’m gonna spend every last dime on hiring a private chef so I never have to wonder what’s for dinner again.
For tonight, I’ve got some ground beef defrosted, so it’ll either be tacos or spaghetti, depending on what other ingredients we have on hand.
The meat is just starting to brown up when the doorbell rings, followed by a loud banging on the door.
The music upstairs cuts off, and I thank the Lord for small mercies.
I shut off the burner, wipe my hands on the kitchen towel that I’m pretty sure was my bathroom towel yesterday, and head for the door.
The hinges don’t let out that god-awful squeak since I spent a whole day working on this dang door.
I blink, thinking I must be dreaming.
Standing there on the porch that needs sanding and re-staining is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Short despite the heels, curvy in all the right places, and dressed like she stepped out of the society papers to go dumpster diving.
She flicks her long blonde, salon-curled hair behind her shoulder and lifts her pert nose in the air.
A waft of her sweet floral perfume hits my nose and makes my head swim.
Goddamn, is that sweat dripping down my back because of the heat and humidity or this woman?
“I’ve been over hell and half of Georgia tryin’ to find you,” she says, voice syrupy sweet with a big kick of spice.
She’s been looking for me? This woman? I twist my neck and look behind me, but I’m the only dumbass standing here.
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, you should be. I have all the evidence, and I don’t mind tellin’ you, I have half a mind to call the sheriff straightaway. This sort of thing just ain’t done in Heaven.” She stomps her little foot to make her point.
What point? No fuckin’ idea.
I sag against the door, certain this woman has the wrong house. I don’t associate with a lot of women in general, let alone one who looks like she’s never gotten her hands dirty in her life.
“I think you have the wrong house, ma’am.”
For some reason that just fires her up. Her cheeks go pink and blue eyes start spitting fire. “Don’t you ma’am me like you got manners when your son just stole from me!”
My spine goes straight as a board. “Excuse me?”
“You havin’ trouble with your ears? Your son, Rylan, is it? He stole from my boutique this afternoon, and I’d appreciate a word with you both.” She slaps a handful of papers I didn’t notice earlier in my chest and holds them there with the point of one sharp red fingernail.
Stunned and a bit alarmed at her accusation, I take the papers from her.
Sadly, she drops her hand and is no longer touching me.
I scan the top page and my blood runs cold.
That’s Rylan, for sure. In a women’s boutique?
What the hell? The next few pages of pictures tell a story that has me both deeply disappointed and insanely ashamed.
I gave up my thriving business to move to Heaven so my son could clean up his act. So he could finish high school without a bad reputation following him around.
“Rylan!” I barely get turned around before I’m hollering for my son.
He pops his head around the corner like he’s been standing there this whole time eavesdropping. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Get over here.”
The color drains from his face, so at least he can read my mood still. He shoves his hands in his pockets, hangs his head, and ambles over like he’s got all the time in the world before I rip him a new one.
“This woman—” I stop, realizing I don’t know her name.
“Mary London Winthrop,” she supplies helpfully.
Oh fuck. I close my eyes for a brief moment.
A Winthrop? They hated the Prices when I was growing up.
Clayton and Ophelia ran this town like a king and queen, one of the wealthiest families and also one of the most well-connected.
They tried shutting down Papaw’s moonshine production on more than one occasion.
They went so far as to tell their son, a kid in my class, not to be friends with me. I clear my throat and carry on.
“Ms. Winthrop says you stole from her boutique today. Is that true?” Rylan opens his mouth way too quickly. I cut him off before he can make things worse. I wave the papers in the air, but don’t let him see them. “Might I suggest that telling the truth will get you further than a lie?”
Rylan hangs his head again, starting to mumble.
“Look me in the eyes when you speak, son.”
He lifts his head, defiance shining out of eyes that look exactly like mine. He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks next, it’s clear and with a bit more confidence.
“I may have stolen a necklace.”
A solid brick lands in my stomach. Disappointment, anger, and a growing sense that I’ve failed my son.
“There’s no may about it,” Mary London pipes in, stepping into my house, looking all kinds of wrong in the entryway that needs paint, a new light fixture, and new flooring.
She gives my son a stern look that does nothing to take away from her beauty.
“I got you on the security cameras stealing a necklace that costs a little over a hundred dollars.”
Warning bells clang in my head. I need to make sure she doesn’t call the sheriff. Rylan will pay for his mistake, mark my words, but if he can do that without law enforcement being involved, that’s better for his future. “He’ll be giving it back.”
“But, Dad, I can’t,” Rylan wails. “I already gave it to—”
Mary London holds up her hand, cutting us both off. “I don’t want it back.”
My jaw is clenched so hard I’m causing a migraine. “He’ll pay you back, then.”
“I don’t have a hundred dollars or I would have just paid for it.”
My hands itch to strangle the boy. “Rylan, seriously? So because you don’t have the money, you think it’s okay to steal it? Is that what I’ve taught you?”
Mary London steps between us, her back so close to me I can count the beautiful hairs on her head. She has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact with Rylan.
“Since you can’t pay me back, you’ll swing by the boutique and work it off.
” Rylan’s mouth flops open, but I have to say, I admire Mary London’s courage.
“Tomorrow will be perfect. I need my gutters fixed, the walkway out back cleaned, and the awning out front painted.” She pats him on the chest. “Bring your muscles and I’ll bring lunch. You like cheeseburgers?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rylan mumbles, shocking me.
Lately, whenever I ask for his help on a project, he always has something else to do in order to avoid manual labor. It’s particularly hurtful because when he was young, he used to follow me around on all my jobs, helping even when his “help” was making more work for me. I miss my little buddy.
And here he is readily agreeing to help this lady at her boutique.
Granted, he doesn’t have much choice. It’s either manual labor or visit the sheriff’s office.
“I’ll make sure he shows up,” I say to Mary London’s back as she walks through the door to the porch, high heels tapping all the way. Is it wrong to admit I notice her nicely rounded ass in that pencil skirt? “Stealing’s not the kind of people we are, I promise you.”
Mary London looks over her shoulder, shiny red lips tipping up in a saucy smile. “We’ll see about that.”
And then she’s gone, leaving a cloud of her expensive perfume behind.