Chapter 30
Olla didn’t believe in cussing. There’s enough words in the English language to express yourself without using ugly words. But there was one word my grandmother let slip every now and then, like a wayward burp, sneaking up on you out of the blue.
She claimed it wasn’t a real bad word but something about the pronunciation of it told me otherwise. Ain’t no way of making that word sound acceptable.
Apparently, I took after my grandmother in the sense I wasn’t much on inappropriate language either, but I couldn’t deny how effective the word pissed was when capturing the exact reaction I felt when realizing my next-door neighbor who was starting to look a whole heckuva lot like my superhero—albeit dorky in fashion—was in cahoots with my arch nemesis—aka my brother.
Seriously! They. Knew. Each. Other.
Wanting to stay away from Henry’s lying, stupid, handsome face, I set up shop in the crow’s nest. Even though it was tighter quarters than the patio below, I felt safer.
Safer from my hurt feelings and the man who helped cause them.
Even from this elevated vantage point, I could still hear the rapid rhythm of Henry’s keyboard but far enough away to not actually have to see him.
I began drawing a fern pattern on the sage-green Western hat.
I wanted to eventually purchase a branding iron with a fern frond on the end to personalize each of my pieces.
Thinking bigger, I decided one day I would have my own boutique and make it my mission to showcase work from others who had fallen on hard times.
I’d give them a chance like Bekah had given me.
A noise below drew me out of my thoughts. Holding the pen midair, I turned in my seat and listened. Footsteps were moving across my sandy deck. Then, someone knocked. The typing from next door also stopped, but no one spoke.
Easing to the edge of the rail, I glanced over and saw a fedora hat that I wished to never see again. I heard the squeak of the back door opening, then he disappeared from my sight.
“Hey!” Henry shouted. “You can’t just go into someone’s house like that!”
Deaton emerged from my house at the same time Henry stormed up the steps.
“It’s okay, man. I’m Junie’s friend. We go way back.” Deaton shrugged with a devil-may-care attitude. He motioned behind him. “Besides, it was unlocked.”
Henry crossed his arms. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still trespassing.”
“Whatever.” Deaton started toward the deck stairs. “You happen to know where Junie is?”
Henry’s eyes lifted just long enough to meet mine, then returned his glare to Deaton. “She’s at my house.”
Deaton stopped descending the stairs and glanced over his shoulder at Henry. “You mind telling her she has company?”
“Can’t. She’s taking a nap. Sorry.” Henry certainly didn’t sound sorry. At least the liar had put his fibbing skills to good use.
“The two of you hooking up or something?”
“Or something. You need to leave.”
Deaton chuckled, low and gravelly. “No worries. I’ll give her a call.”
I scooted completely out of sight and held my breath, scared to death my phone was about to start ringing and give me away.
It shouldn’t, since I’d blocked his number, but I wasn’t exactly sure how that worked.
Several long moments passed, then the typing started up again next door. I blew out a long sigh of relief.
Collecting my belongings, I rushed inside.
After putting the hat and supplies in the workroom, I went downstairs to see if Deaton had bothered anything.
He was only in the house for less than a minute but I still needed to check.
Nothing seemed amiss. With a shaky hand, I locked the back door, then went into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
I opened the cabinet and a plastic Cool Whip bowl toppled out.
Inspecting the cluttered shelves, evidence that my grandmother didn’t like to throw things away, I decided it was time to do something about it.
Cy and I hadn’t changed much in the last three years since she passed away.
On Olla’s nightstand in her bedroom, her colorful reading glasses remained sitting on top of The Lady’s Mine by Francine Rivers.
Only three chapters remained. That didn’t seem fair, her being so close to finishing it but never would.
I hadn’t been able to bring myself to put the book or her glasses away.
But this, the Cool Whip containers and butter bowls, I could start here.
It gave me a way of working off some frustration anyway.
Grabbing a garbage bag, I got to work, pulling everything out of the cabinets, sorting, tossing the unnecessary items, then putting away the keepers.
Once I finished that cabinet, I moved to the next, then the next, pausing only long enough to make a trip to the garbage bin outside.
I saved the cabinet above the refrigerator for last. Grabbing a chair, I climbed up but before I could open the door a tickling attacked my nose.
“Achoo!” I sneezed several times and nearly toppled off the chair. Climbing down, I blew my nose, then grabbed a damp cloth.
After dusting the top of the fridge, I opened the cabinet and was startled to find a treasure that I had no business discovering. An unopened bottle of Fireball.
Pulling the heavy bottle from the cabinet, I hopped down and sat in the chair and stared at the amber liquid.
Smoothing a fingertip over the edges of the scorched label, an indicator of what it was capable of, I swallowed with difficulty.
I could just about taste the hot sweetness, feel the burn of the whiskey down my throat and the coating warmth in my belly.
Grandma Olla always kept a bottle stashed away, claiming a small shot of it would chase away a cold or cough.
That was the difference between me and her.
She could take a tiny swig and walk away from the bottle, but not me.
It would worry me slap to death until every last drop was gone.
Just drink it. No one will know.
Mad at myself for even considering it, I left the kitchen. Bottle clutched in my fist, I marched it over to Henry’s.
I slammed the bottle onto the patio table. “I was cleaning and found this. Since you’re my babysitter, I thought I should turn it in to you. It’s still sealed, so be sure to report that to my brother.” I spun on my heels and started retracing my steps.
“Junie!” Henry called, but it did nothing to slow my retreat.
Back inside, I finished cleaning the kitchen with the burdening weight of that darn bottle of booze on my mind. I couldn’t quit thinking about it. Even with the bottle out of the house, I itched for it.
Hands shaking, throat burning, I felt my control slipping. Needing to get a grip, I called Gilbert.
“I’m having a bad day.” I rubbed my forehead. “I really want a drink.”
“I’ll make us a tee time. I’m on my way. Be ready.”
We both knew whacking golf balls at Topgolf wouldn’t fix anything, but at least it would be a good distraction. I was starting to realize that staying sober required lots and lots of distractions.