11. Chapter 11
Lydia
“It’s the little things, Lydia.”
That one line keeps playing over and over in my head, and I’m trying hard not to swoon over a man I literally just met. My inner monologue has been at war all afternoon.
No, ma’am, Lydia. This is far too soon.
I only met him a few days ago. And oh yeah, I’m still freaking married! Married to an abusive dickhead I never should have married in the first place and never want to see again…but still married.
But he brought you coffee and a scone. The best scone you’ve ever had.
That was really sweet. The only thing Simon ever gave me without strings attached was the flu. The douchebag.
This internal struggle has been going on all afternoon, and I need to shut my brain off.
“It’s the little things, Lydia.”
Insert deep, dramatic sigh.
I shake my head and glance around the house.
It’s still empty-ish, and since I’m off tomorrow, I’ll head to the cute antique store in town and see what I can find on my very limited budget.
I’d love to go back to that cute little home store and pick up a few things, but after browsing with Nick, their stuff just isn’t in my budget right now.
I’m still living off what I grabbed from the ATM the night I left, and I’m trying hard not to touch my emergency credit card.
The last thing I need is to start piling on debt.
Not when I have a clean slate here. Well…
clean-ish. I still need to find an attorney, start the divorce process, and figure out my car situation.
I haven’t even needed to drive since getting here, as so much is within walking distance.
But I hate the idea of getting rid of it and being stranded if I ever need something from the next town over.
Does this town even have a hospital? Or at least a doctor’s office?
I should really do some digging. Okay. Attorney first, to sort out the mess that is currently my life, then shopping.
I guess I need to hit the grocery store at some point too.
A girl can’t live on scones and coffee forever.
Thinking about scones and coffee immediately pulls my mind back to Nick.
Nick with the beautiful chocolate brown eyes.
Nick with the dark, wavy hair I desperately want to run my fingers through.
Nick with the broad shoulders and tanned skin.
I’m pretty sure I caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from the neckline of his T-shirt earlier.
I’ve never dated a man with tattoos, but I think it’s something I would be very into. Like…a lot.
Yep, put that on the list.
After Googling attorneys in Whispering Hills, Colorado, I came up with exactly one name: Norah Fulsom.
Fulsom.
Is she Nick’s sister? Cousin? A wife he forgot to mention? That last idea makes my stomach lurch, but I shove it aside, knowing I have no choice but to contact her. She is the only attorney in the area.
I dial the number and am greeted by a sweet, very flamboyant man on the other end. “Norah Fulsom’s office. Can I help you?” He is obviously chewing gum and makes no attempt to hide the smacking. Did he just blow a bubble?
I already adore this person.
“Hi, yes. My name is Lydia Hayes. Can you tell me if Ms. Fulsom handles divorce cases?”
“Does she? Honey, Ms. Norah is the best divorce attorney you can get. Girlfriend is an absolute shark. Would you like to set up a meeting to see her? Got a fella you’d really like to stick it to?”
I like this man more with each passing second.
I cover my mouth to hide a chuckle.
“Yes, please. I do have someone I would really like to stick it to.” Images of Simon backhanding me in his car flash through my mind, and I grind my teeth at the thought.
“Badly,” I add.
“Well, Miss Hayes, I can get you on Ms. Norah’s schedule a week from today at 3 p.m. Will that work for you?”
“Yes. Thank you so much.” I give him all my contact information and hang up with a grateful sigh, glad this is one thing I can check off my to-do list. Honestly, I wish it were sooner, but I should receive my first paycheck from Coco by then.
Maybe that will help cover Ms. Fulsom’s retainer.
Shoot, I hope she’s not crazy expensive.
Oh well. Even if she is, I’ll pay whatever it takes to be rid of Simon.
Also…this is a worry for future Lydia.
Just then, as if to emphasize my desperate need for this meeting, my phone dings with a new text.
Simon: Lydee, I miss you. Please come home. I promise what happened that night will never happen again. I was drunk and out of my mind. I’m so sorry, baby.
I hate when he calls me Lydee. What was once a cute nickname from my grandma now sounds disgusting coming from his lips. Same with baby. It could be a cute term of endearment from literally anyone else, but hearing it from him makes my skin crawl.
I switch my phone to silent, knowing Simon won’t stop at one text. Several more will follow, and I don’t want to deal with that right now.
I spent last night tidying up the already clean house, and while surveying the yard to see what else I could tackle, I noticed a small shed tucked into the back corner of the lot near the fence.
After prying open the rusty lock, I gasped at the treasure trove inside.
The musty shed held a small white table and two almost-matching chairs, a coffee table that had seen better days but could be adorable with a good scrub and fresh paint, and best part of all, a beautiful Tiffany-inspired lamp made of colored glass panes.
It was stunning and would look perfect beside the lone chair in the living room.
First thing this morning, I decide to call Rita next door to ask if she knows anything about the furniture stored here. I need to talk to her about the rent anyway.
Instead of calling her, I walk over and knock on her front door. I laugh when I hear The Spice Girls’ “If You Wanna Be My Lover” coming from inside the house. This woman is a hoot.
She comes to the door once I knock again, a little louder this time, hoping she can hear me over her jam session.
She opens the door looking mildly exasperated by the interruption.
But when she sees it’s me, her face softens slightly.
Not a full smile, but at least she’s not glaring. I’m determined to win her over.
“Good morning, Ms. Rita. How are you today?” I smile down at the tiny woman.
Since I’m roughly five-three, she can’t be much taller than five feet, but it’s obvious her tiny frame packs a hell of a punch.
I am immediately in awe of what she’s wearing today.
It’s a metallic silver kaftan she’s accented with a handful of turquoise jewelry and purple slide-on shoes.
A satin-like scarf is wrapped around her silvery hair. My goodness, this woman is fabulous.
“I’m fine, dear. What brings you here?” She doesn’t invite me inside, but that’s fine.
“I’m sorry to stop by unexpectedly, but do you know anything about the furniture stored in the backyard shed? I was doing some cleaning up around the house and came across it. If Sharon would be okay with it, I’d love to move some of it into the house.”
Rita steps farther onto her porch and glances toward the backyard of my rental. “Huh, I forgot that was even back there. The kids must have moved stuff out there when they moved her into the home. I say, whatever you’d like to use, go for it. I trust you’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure? It would help so much if I didn’t have to buy all new furniture right now. But I’d hate to use pieces Sharon’s children meant to keep.”
Rita scoffs at that, then smiles shrewdly. “Her children have probably forgotten all about it. They have no interest in this house anymore.” A flicker of sadness crosses her eyes, but she quickly shakes it off. “Feel free to use anything you find. Give that home some new life, dear.”
I got two “dears” out of her. I feel like we’re making progress. Yay!
“I really appreciate it, Rita. Thank you. Also, while I’m here, I never found out how much rent will be and when you’d like it.”
We briefly discuss the financial side of our agreement. Rita is clearly eager to get back to whatever she was doing before I knocked. I let her go, happy with the monthly amount she gives me, knowing I can stretch my money a little bit farther than I initially expected to.
I leave Rita’s feeling as though a small weight has been lifted from my shoulders and head straight to the shed to get to work.
In the space of an hour, I’ve managed to drag everything I think I can use close to the front door.
I scrub and dust what I can, then do my damnedest to haul it inside and arrange it.
Finally, after what feels like forever, I have placed the table and chairs in what I’m calling the dining area, the coffee table in the living room, even though there is no couch yet, and the beautiful antique lamp beside the old chair, instantly making that corner feel cozier.
Then I heat up some mac and cheese, sit on the floor, and marvel at my new space. It’s old and sparsely decorated, but already feels homey and welcoming. Best of all, it’s mine. And that may be the best feeling of all.
This morning, I wake up in an unusually good mood, make some coffee in the tiny old coffee pot, and turn on some Stevie Wonder to dance to while it brews.
When the coffeemaker, which might be older than I am, beeps to signal it’s done, I grab a mug that says “Eat at Joe’s,” rinse it, and pour myself a cup.
The second the hot liquid touches my lips, I spit it back into the mug.
Ugh. I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything so foul.
Did something die in that thing? Oh, my goodness, that was terrible.
I gulp down water, trying to rinse the taste from my mouth, but it’s useless.
I dig a piece of gum out of my bag and decide I’ll just have to splurge and go to Pour Decisions again.
Going without coffee simply isn’t an option.