The Grump Who Doesn't Belong Next Door

Chapter One

Lottie

Lost for words does not apply. Not to me. Not ever.

Except for right now.

I must have heard wrong. Must have.

“What did you say?” I need to know if I’m the problem here. Has my hearing or mind gone a few decades too soon? Or is Doris delirious? Wait—did she have a stroke, too?

Her look is one of great exasperation, not faulty neurons. “I said, it’s time to call Camila’s son.”

Phewf. It’s not me, then. I heard right. So it’s Doris whose mind has gone.

“By son, you mean the workaholic lawyer who hasn’t visited in five years?”

Doris taps her chin where a misplaced white hair sprouts from her face, feigning deep thought. “That one.”

“Doris, that’s Camila’s only son. Of course that one. But why on earth should we call him?” Maybe it is my brain at fault here. I’m clearly not computing.

Doris reaches a wrinkled, weathered, work-worn hand to touch the equally wrinkled but less weathered hand that rests on the white sheet of the nursing home bed. Camila. The sweetest next-door neighbor I could ask for. Doris is my neighbor, too. But she’s not sweet. A cantankerous delight, yes. But not sweet.

My stomach bottoms out as I gaze at Camila’s placid, sleep-slackened face wreathed in white curls, nestled on a plump pillow.

“You don’t think she’ll make it?” Perish the thought. The doctor said her stroke was mild. That she would only need a few weeks in the care home before she could come back to the little blue house next to mine. Why bother her can’t-be-bothered highfaluting attorney son? If he hasn’t deigned to visit since Camila moved back to her hometown, I see no reason he’ll come now.

“It’s what she would want.” Doris’s barely-there springy white eyebrows rise with lofty superiority. “I know my sister.” She rummages in her handbag, only to jab me with a scrap of paper. “Here. The first one is Anthony’s cell phone. The other is his work. Call him when you get home.”

I make no move to accept the paper. I’m the helpful neighbor. But not that helpful. “Why me? He’s your nephew.”

She pries open the jeans pocket below my hip—what happened to personal space?—and shoves the paper inside. “Anthony and I—we don’t see eye to eye.”

Imagine that.

“So you think a total stranger calling him up with the news that his mother had a stroke is a better idea?”

“Precisely.” She reaches over to pat my cheek. “You always were too smart for this town, Lottie. If anyone can handle Anthony, it’s you. Now, go on. Shoo.” She’s pushing me toward the door into the shiny, sterile hallway, and I have no choice but to let her. Her thin frame is so frail, I’m afraid I might break one of her bones if I resist.

“Let me know how it goes,” she calls out before I round the corner and disappear to the lobby. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

“I’ll bet you will.” I make my way through the lobby of Accurate Care and Home of Red Rock Place, calling hello to Bree at the front desk and waving to three CNAs. I know everyone in this town. I love everyone in this town.

In my truck, I smooth the crumpled paper on my jean-clad thigh. I don’t have to wait until home because I, unlike Doris Brugman, have a cell phone. Most residents of Red Rock Place have grown with modern times. A few refuse to adapt. Doris is one of those few.

The numbers are hard to make out due to Doris’s shaky hand. No doubt she copied these numbers from the Rolodex beside her landline phone. Some museum somewhere would probably love to get their mitts on that Rolodex. Isn’t it an ancient artifact by now?

As I key in the first series of numbers, my stomach does a little dance—until the call goes straight to voicemail. The voice barking at me to leave a message is none too pleasant, and I hang up.

How did I, the sweet and innocent non-relative neighbor, get roped into this?

Because you care too much, Lottie Alden. I can almost hear my ex-husband’s voice. He didn’t always hate how much I care about people. But I don’t have time to rehash that right now. I have an uppity lawyer to disturb.

“Thank you for calling McDuff and Associates. How may I help you?” a perky voice answers on the first ring when I dial the work number. Camila’s son isn’t McDuff, so I can only assume he’s an associate.

“Yes, I’m calling for Anthony Lucio. Is he available?”

I hope she’ll say no and offer to pass along my information. I’d rather leave a detailed message in the hands of a cheerful front-desk receptionist than speak to the cretin I’ve heard Doris disparage too many times to count. To be fair, Camila’s never said one negative thing about her son. Back to that sweetness I love about her.

“Can I have your name?”

“Charlotte Alden. He’s not expecting me. I’m calling on behalf of his mother.”

There’s a pause, and I hold my breath. Maybe he’s gone to lunch. What’s the time difference between Iowa and Atlanta, anyway?

Darn it. One measly hour. No one goes to lunch this late. Not even workaholic attorneys who make secretaries show up at the office on a weekend.

“One moment, please.”

The line beeps before a deep, masculine, not-perky voice says, “Yes?”

Isn’t he all warm fuzziness? I can see the puppy dog eyes from here. Not.

“Hello, Mr. Lucio. My name is Charlotte Alden, and I’m your mother’s next-door neighbor. I’m calling with the unfortunate news that Camila had a stroke.”

The line is silent for half a beat. Then—

“When?” His voice is sharp as a blade. I wouldn’t want to face this mister in court.

“Yesterday. She was hospitalized overnight, and today she was placed into Red Rock Place’s senior care center for her convalescence.”

Yes, I’m purposefully choosing the biggest words I can. I don’t want this man to assume I’m some ignoramus country-bumpkin farm girl because I’m from Iowa. Country-bumpkin farm girl I am—and proud of it. But I am not ignorant.

“How bad?”

Does Anthony Lucio know how to speak in full sentences? I’m starting to wonder just who the ignoramus is in this conversation. How does he represent clients if he can’t speak grammatically?

“Doc says recovery should be about three weeks.”

His sigh is like an avalanche straight into my ear canal. Ouch. I pull my phone away half an inch.

“Doris asked me to call you.”

Another ear-pulsing sigh. “Thanks for the information. What was your name again? Charlene?”

Really? My eyes roll to the ripped padding that dangles from the ceiling of my 1999 Ford F-250. This thing just might achieve eternal life on earth.

“Charlotte. And you’re welcome. If you’d like to speak to your aunt, she’s at the care center right now, but leave her a message on the home phone. She’ll be home soon.” I hesitate. Here I go, caring too much again. “Or I could pass along a message.”

I hear the sound of keys clacking on a keyboard. “Thanks, but I’ll make plans and confirm with her.”

Great corn husks. This man does speak coherent language. “All right, then. I guess we’re done.”

“Take care.”

“Bye now.” I drop my phone onto the passenger seat, dust off my fingers, and drive home. My job is done.

In my bedroom, I change out of my church dress into jeans and a tank top. It might only be mid-June, but Iowa summers bring the heat early. And there’s precious little shade to be had on the farm. Since I went straight from church to check on Camila, I hope my family saved me some lunch.

A growl gurgles through my stomach as I stuff my feet into my work boots on the front porch and hop back into my truck.

As I drive south out of Red Rock Place, eating up the two miles between town and the farm that’s been in my family for four generations, I can’t help wondering about Mr. Anthony Lucio. What kind of man ignores his mother for five years?

Okay, fine. He doesn’t ignore her. They speak on that blessed landline twice a week, and he does fly her to Atlanta every Christmas. Perhaps I should hold my final judgment until I’ve met the man. Doris’s witness might be considered biased.

Is he actually coming? I’ll make plans and confirm. Sure sounded that way. I might get to make my own assessment of the grumpy lawyer just yet.

I signal for a right turn onto a long gravel drive, bumping over the cattle grid that marks the boundary of my brother’s property. Huisman and Sons, the sign reads. My dad only had one son after four daughters, but even that wasn’t enough to make him stick around.

Now my brother is the last Huisman to run the farm. He needs to get busy making sure he has someone to pass the farm on to when it’s his turn to hand down the legacy. But as the baby of the family, he’s got time. The rest of us…not so much. But let’s just say I’ve been burned. The evidence is in the redhead barreling down the drive on a collision course with my truck when I come into view of the enormous white farmhouse where I grew up.

“Mom, Mom, Mom!” I hear her despite the wind whipping across the soybean fields, and I wave her aside with my hand, then slow to a stop. She jerks open the passenger door and jumps inside.

“Who gave you permission to come this far?” I give her my best scolding mom-look, but she only giggles, bouncing in her seat sans seatbelt.

“Grandma. She was getting inpatient with you.”

“Impatient. And it’s good for Grandma to practice her patience.” I park in front of the barn and run a hand through my rumpled locks. “Where’s the food, anyway? I’m half starved.”

“In the kitchen. Come on!” Felicity has gotten around to the driver’s door and tugs my arm so hard I start to fall out. My brother appears from nowhere, catching me. Years on the farm have made him stronger than the lone oak that stands in our backyard.

“Thanks.” I give Easton a hug. “Always saving my skin.”

He only shakes his head and leads the way into the house he shares with my mom and older sister Blaine. The oldest, Amelia, lives in town like me. Daphne, my youngest sister, only one year older than Easton, is off on the west coast somewhere “sowing her wild oats,” as Mom says. We worry about her. She assures us she’s being a good girl. We all wonder.

“So…Lottie.” Easton turns around, walking backward into the spacious kitchen where I ate every breakfast and dinner until the day I graduated high school and got married. “I saw Clay talking your ear off before the service today.” He wiggles his thick brown eyebrows enticingly. “When’s the big day?”

I leap forward to shove him, but he’s as sturdy as that oak tree, too. His body barely budges, while I nearly ricochet into the wall.

“Easy, sister.” He reaches to steady me. “Don’t want you leaving me off the invite list.”

Of all the stupid things Easton has done, his recent fixation with setting me up with his farmer pals is enough to drive me from town.

“Oh, lay off of it, Easton.” That’s Mom, speaking up for me from her place at the sink. Suds are up to her elbows as she scrubs at a black kettle. “Clay has the gift of gab, that’s for certain. But he’s not good enough for Lottie, and you ought to know it.”

Easton winks and slides a fully prepared plate across the table toward me. “I’m teasing. She knows that. Don’t you, Lottie?” The repentant pout of his lips tugs at my heart. There are only two men in my life I’m capable of holding grudges against. Everyone else gets a free pass. Even Easton.

“Whatever.” I dig in. I’m a good cook, but no one makes breaded tenderloin like Ruby Huisman. My mom is famous for it. Not only in Red Rock Place. The whole county knows, and they count on her having a booth at the county fair come July.

“How’s Camila?” my mom asks as she wrings out the dishtowel and drapes it over the long neck of the faucet. Easton had the kitchen remodeled last year, and it’s a dream. Especially the farmhouse fireclay sink. He’s going to make some woman very happy one day. In the meantime, it’s my mom who’s happy. She deserves it after all she’s been through.

“She was resting. Doris was there.” I throw back my head with a slight laugh. “She is something else, I tell you. She got me to call Camila’s son and tell him the news. I don’t know what kind of law office is open on the weekend, but that’s where I got ahold of him.”

“He really is a workaholic then.” Amelia takes the chair beside me. She doesn’t come to the farm often like I do. She has her reasons. But she doesn’t miss Sunday lunch with the family.

“I think he’s planning to fly out.”

Well, look at that. Even the dishtowel stops dripping. I’ve rendered the kitchen speechless. Apparently, I’m not the only person who’s been passing judgment unseen on Anthony Lucio.

“Maybe he has a heart after all,” I say as I scrape my plate clean.

Mom’s blue eyes sparkle. “It will be good to have some fresh blood in town.” Her gaze lights on Amelia beside me. “I wonder if he’s single.”

“Mo-om!” Amelia buries her face with her hands. “Would you stop?”

“Camila’s seventy-two. I’m sure her son is much too old for Amelia,” I say to save Amelia.

Easton harasses me about my relationship status, but his teasing is all in jest. My mom is seriously on the hunt for a husband for Ames. She’s thirty-three now. My mom had five kids by the time she was thirty-three. She was also a single mom to all by then, but that’s not the point. The point is, Mom wants Amelia married. Amelia insists she’s perfectly content the way she is. I’m not so sure, but it’s also not my business.

“Mom, can I go see the kittens with Aunt Blainie?” Felicity materializes at my side, and I wrap an arm around her. My mom took her to the farm from church, even got her changed. What would I do without my mom? Without this family?

My eyes search out Blaine. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway in overalls and mud-coated boots.

“There’s kittens?”

“As of yesterday.”

Blaine’s always had a bleeding heart for animals. My dad raised beef for the meat industry, and she became vegetarian at age seven just to spite him.

“Of course, sweetie.” I tilt my head to indicate Felicity can go with Blaine. “Have fun.”

Our banter continues after they leave. Easton has five more names to throw at me and test my reaction. Honest to goodness, I’m not interested in any man on the planet. I can’t be. And he knows it.

“Here.” I follow my baby brother when he heads for the door. Time to start afternoon chores. There’s no rest on a farm. The wad of cash that has weighed down my back pocket rests in my palm between us. “For the farm.”

He stares at the stack of bills, then holds his hands up like a shield. “Lotteeeee…” He draws my name out same as my mother did when I’d get in trouble as a teenager. “I told you I don’t want this money.”

I shuffle the ends of the bills with my thumb like a deck of cards. “But you need it.”

His eyes are tortured as he reaches slowly to take the cash. “You shouldn’t keep giving this to me.”

“Why not?” I have the right to do what I want with this money. My ex is obligated to pay it, and I’ll have it go to good use. No one will ever convince me otherwise. It means I can’t remarry without losing the flow of cash. But that’s a penalty I’m willing to pay to help save the family farm.

“It’s for Fel. And you.”

“We’re fine. The farm isn’t. Take it for the farm, Easton.”

His lips firm into a straight line. “I don’t feel right about this.”

He says that every time. I’ve been giving him my monthly support check for a year now. When he told me the farm was about to go under, I knew what I had to do. We can work on Felicity’s college fund later. But there’s no saving the farm later if it needs saving now.

“Talk to my attorney,” I say flippantly as I turn, then grin. My joke holds more truth than I realized. “It appears I just might have one living next door to me for the foreseeable future. That might come in handy—if I can get past the persnickety exterior.”