Page 10 of Silent Heart

The rough bass of his voice shot a bolt of heat scorching through my body. “Until next time, Harley.”

With that, he turned and stalked away.

“Okay, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” I mouthed to his broad, ink-stained back.

I spent a heartbeat too long memorizing the art he wore, before jumping into grandpa’s speedboat and starting the engine. Patting my face with the towel, I noted the cream and green bill tucked in the cupholder.

Was it the easiest hundred dollars? Hardly.

I snorted.

But was it wholly unpleasant?

I tipped my head back and forth in consideration as I puttered away from the dock and out of the no-wake-zone. Once in the open water, I floored the throttle, giving the ’78 Johnson everything she had.

The boat seemed to fly over the surface, hopping over the small waves.

I wonder if he’s ever been tubing?The random thought had me smiling as I pulled up to our dock. The way my more adventurous cousins and I whipped around the lake—especially when our German cousin or Minnesota cousins came to visit—was damn near suicidal. I rotated my shoulder, letting the hazy warm memories of summers past float through my mind.

There was enough time to clean up before I had to leave, but I still scrambled up the steep staircase carved up the shore. Sitting high and overlooking Red Lake, the farmhouse was one of the last of its kind on the lake. Most of the original farms thatsettled this area had been converted into cabins or mansions, built on strips of property so close that a boy could piss into the neighbor’s windows. Not that they probably tried. Had I been a boy, I would have tried. Why else would a builder put a house that close to the next one over? To pack as many houses onto the lake as possible? That was what they claimed. Meanwhile, our family had acres of land, and enough lakeshore to make this span of the water our own.

For decades, offers for their property poured into my grandparents’ mailbox. But here we were, proud to be the fourth generation living off our family’s land. The three-story house was built into the hill, so I let myself into the basement through the sliding glass door. It smelled damp and sweaty down here. The three boy cousins who worked the farm with grandpa lived on this level. Besides their bedrooms, they had a game room and a sprawling living room with a full bar set up in the corner. It was their own apartment of sorts.

I darted up the stairs, noting that grandma was in the kitchen on the phone, and grateful for the escape to the third floor where I had one of the two rooms across from the master suite. While I shared a hall bathroom with any guests who came to visit, it didn’t stink like boy up here.

“Shit,” I breathed, glancing at the clock on my nightstand. I hadn’t budgeted enough time for a shower. While there was rarely swimmer’s itch, especially this early in the summer, I would have lake hair all day. I managed to brush it into a high pony, dab on some makeup, and change in exactly seven minutes.

With a spritz of body spray, I threw the container into my tote with the change of uniform for the Landing tonight. It would be a long day straight from the clinic to the bar.

As I spun around the banister and snatched my boots, my grandma padded over. “That was Livia Clarkson.”

The supple, handstitched leather was worn to fit my feet and far more comfortable to spend the entire day wearing than any sneaker. I was a working gal, and these were my preferred footwear. I didn’t think that would ever change.

“She’s back north for the summer?” I asked out of politeness, but I did not have time for the local gossip.

“Her grandson is single, you know,” Grandma commented, not bothering to hide her trail of thought.

I pinned her with a look, hand on the door. “No, Gran. Absolutely not. He was a douche in high school and during his first marriage, and that hasn’t changed with his divorce.”

“Watch your language.”

“Sorry, Gran.” I grabbed my keys and moved out the door.

“It’s not natural, you workingtwojobs to run away from the farm to more college!” My grandma threw her hands in the air as she followed me out the front door.

A groan choked from my throat. “We’ve been over this.”

While my grandparents might protest that I was working too hard, the root of the matter was that they didn’t think Chicago was safe. Especially for a lone female. So they badgered me about the other aspects of my leaving.

“If you don’t like being a technician—which is a fine job by the way—there’s plenty of work to keep this farm running. What you need is to marry and settle down, not chase some expensive, unrealistic dream—”

“Grandma,” I snapped. “You were proud of me when I said I was going back to school. Don’t forget that!”

“I was—I am! But you’re being ridiculous. Leaving us during the harvest, not to mention being absent all summer. It’s not right, you hear?”

My grandfather slammed the hood of my car. He held a half-empty jug of windshield wiper fluid in his hand. “I topped you off, Harley.”

“Thanks,” I breathed, crossing my fingers that he didn’t join in the conversation.

---