Sammy’s Lost Sailboat (Found By Daddy #20)

Chapter One

Sammy

Work had been both long and productive, which was great.

But it also meant I was beat. Adding an extra-long bus ride, thanks to the construction that was pretty much everywhere lately, and I was beyond ready to be home.

At least I didn’t need to drive home, my small house close enough to the city transport to avoid navigating that detour hellscape myself.

As I walked up the path to my place, a flutter caught my attention.

I followed it with my gaze, until it landed on the handrail up my stoop.

Slowly, I closed the distance, wanting to see what kind of butterfly it was.

I was hardly an entomologist, but I loved what I used to call “fairy bugs” when I was little and knew more about them than most. This one was one of my favorites, an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail.

They had a fierceness with their stripes while still stunningly beautiful.

This one had a small area of damage to its wing, but appeared to be fine about it, flitting to the neighbor’s wildflower patch as I got too close. I bolted up the steps, needing to capture this moment on paper.

I took off my shoes, hung my key on the hook, put my messenger bag on the bench, and ran straight to my nightstand to get my current sketchbook and pencils. I always had a sketchbook going. Some people took pictures. I liked to draw my memories.

Despite my love of sketching, I was hardly an artist in that it-could-be-my-profession kind of way, and I was fine with that.

I didn’t draw for others; I did it for myself.

Looking back at the books, which I labeled by years, sometimes months, depending upon how inspired I was, always made me happy.

I was nearly finished with the butterfly and even had it mostly colored when the doorbell rang.

“Just a second, Brock,” I called out. I didn’t want to stop before I was done, and I had just a tiny little piece left.

I rushed through it and closed the book, left it on the coffee table, then second-guessed that choice, and put it where it belonged then hurried to the door just as the doorbell rang again.

I grabbed the door, expecting to open it and find Brock, who was coming over for a celebration/playdate. Instead, I came face-to-face with a delivery man.

“I’m so sorry.”

He did not look pleased. “I’m looking for Samuel Jones.”

“That’s me.” No one called me that. I was always Sammy. Heck, my electric bill said Sammy. Him calling me that should’ve been the first sign this wasn’t an average package.

I hadn’t remembered ordering anything, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t. More than once, I’d accidentally ordered something from instead of putting it in my wish list. At least they were things I wanted.

“You to sign.”

I deserved his grumpiness and wrote my name on the device, and he handed me a thick padded envelope.

“Thanks.”

Brock walked up as I was about to shut the door. Perfect timing. He held a bag of chicken from our favorite place. We were going to have a movie night in celebration of our big project at work finally being over.

Brock was a fairly new friend, but we had a lot in common, including both of us having memberships at Chained and enjoying time in the little room.

As a rule, I compartmentalized and didn’t like mixing work with friendships, but our Chained connection kind of blurred that, and so far, it was working well.

He came in and took three steps before I cleared my throat.

“Sorry.” He scurried back, took his shoes off, and put them where they belonged. “I forgot.”

Unlike my place, Brock’s was clutter filled. It also felt more like home, and he knew exactly where everything was at all times. I was jealous about that. If I didn’t have everything in its place, I’d never know where anything was.

“Get something good?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

I put the package in the mail basket and instantly changed my mind, deciding to open it instead. “Maybe it’s treasure,” I teased.

It wasn’t treasure. I reached in and pulled out a thick packet with a picture of my grandfather’s cabin on it.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

I quickly learned it was detailed information about my grandfather’s cabin where I spent summers growing up.

One of my all-time favorite places to be and, in a lot of ways, more of a home than my actual house.

My grandfather had died a few months earlier, and seeing his place was bringing up all kinds of feels.

My late mother’s side of the family, being pretty awful, decided not to have a funeral because who has money for that? They tried to pull the same shit when my mother died, but it hadn’t been their call then. My father took care of the details, which irked them even more.

“Why’d someone send you that?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

I flipped through the papers. It was pretty much like a real estate listing but with all the details of the house you’d never think to put in one, including age of windows, number of outlets, the contents in each room, and on and on.

“This is weird.” I handed it to him. “Do they want me to buy it?”

I didn’t have any money. All of my savings had gone into buying my home after living in apartments for years, but I’d try to figure it out. That place was special and worth any sacrifice, including getting a shitty apartment with roommates if need be.

“No, but I don’t think this is a listing. See if there’s anything else.”

Sure enough, there was a letter from a law office letting me know I needed to set up a meeting with them to finalize the details.

“Did you know he was leaving you the cabin?”

“No, and no one else did either because if they did, trust me, they would have bitched about it.” Or maybe that was why I was just getting the info now.

“What are you gonna do?”

I checked the time. “Looks like I’m waiting till tomorrow and calling this number, I guess.”

He took the paper from me, shoved both it and the packet into the envelope, walked them over, and dropped them in the basket.

“How about we not think about that tonight?” He pretended it was a question but, knowing Brock, it was more of a command. I teased him that he’d be a good daddy because he was so bossy multiple times since we met, and each and every one of them ended with him sticking out his tongue to me.

“You just want me to ignore it?” Was that possible?

“Pretty much because it’s either that, or you let yourself spiral. Besides, we have chicken.”

“I do like chicken and, Brock, thanks. I’m glad you were here.” Having someone else to focus on had been huge, despite him not having “done anything.”

“You’re lucky to have a friend like me.” He grabbed my hand. “It’s chicken time.

We ate chicken, lots and lots of chicken with no sides because, to Brock, it was just about the chicken. He was funny when it came to his fried chicken.

Bellies full, we laid blankets and pillows on the floor and turned on one of our favorite movies.

We watched every single one in the franchise until we both fell asleep on the floor.

It was the escape I needed because tomorrow, I was going to have to deal with lawyers, lots and lots of paperwork, and probably some pissed-off relatives.