Page 2 of Too Close To Call

Nope. I’m not going down a rabbit hole that’s taken years to dig myself out of.

“Now, are there any questions?” Hershel asks, bringing me back to the matters at hand.

This time when I look at my phone, I’m surprised to see I’ve been lost in my head for almost an hour. My stomach rumbles, reminding me how close I’d been to that pizza.

Melanie Winters raises her hand and Hershel calls on her. “What about the treasure hunt? You didn’t mention anything about that.”

“Well, Melanie, I’d hoped to have a representative from the research vessel in attendance tonight to give us an update and to answer questions. I don’t know all the particulars, but I’m sure you’ve all heard of what they assume to be a Spanish ship discovered off the east end of the island. I’m not familiar with the process, but I do know that they are waiting on permits to dig the site for confirmation.”

Martin Cowell pushes to his feet and asks, “But it’s been a long time. What’s the holdup?”

“Bureaucracy, evidently. Hopefully, next month we’ll know more,” Hershel replies.

Treasure. I just don’t get why people go crazy for this stuff. They should be thinking about the problems we’re going to have with all the poking around they’ll be doing. The water quality will be silty from all the digging and the added traffic, both on the island and in the surrounding water. This will cause headaches that everyone will have to deal with. And how will it affect the fishermen in the area? Yeah, everyone is so anxious and excited, but wait until reality hits.

There are half a dozen more questions and my seat is getting harder and harder. I sigh and shift around on my chair. Bode leans over and whispers, “Want to go to Brewster’s for a beer afterwards?”

The thought of wings and beer makes my stomach happy. Brewster’s has incredible hot wings, so my answer is “Sure.”

CHAPTER 2

TORI

While juggling a dog on a leash, a book bag filled with assorted items to keep a child occupied, an oversized handbag, and an extra-large insulated cup of coffee, I try to hurry my un-hurry-able five-year-old. “Come on, baby. We’ve got to go or I’m going to be late for work.”

“I know, Mom, but I can’t find my left shoe.”

I glance down and, sure enough, there’s one pink, sparkly Mary Jane missing, but there’s another problem. “That’s your right, sweetie. Your left shoe is on your foot.”

Then I say something that I know will cause pushback, but we’re already supposed to be at the track. “Daisy, just this once, will you please wear your sneakers?”

Daisy puts her hands on her hips and quirks her precious little head in mortification. “But, Mommmm, I can’t wear sneakers with this dress. I need my heels desperately. The pink, sparkly pumps compliment the pleated tulle rainbow skirt. If I can’t wear my pink heels, I’ll have to change my outfit.”

“No!” I snap a bit too quickly and loudly. Having been through this scenario many times in the past, I know I’ll be at least an hour late for work if that happens. How I created such a girly child, I have no idea. Probably payback from my mother, who’d always wanted a daughter to dress up, but got a grease monkey instead.

With no options left, I drop the leash—which literally releases the hound—the pink sequin unicorn backpack, and set my coffee and handbag on the kitchen bar while I scour the house for the missing shoe.

My head is buried under Daisy’s bed when I hear “I found it, Mommy!”

“Oh, good gravy,”I mutter as I crawl from under the bed and pull the elastic holding my now wonky ponytail, hopefully straightening it. I don’t care if all my hair is falling down, I don’t have time to fix it. I check the time and see I’m now ten minutes late.

Another ten minutes pass before I catch Bella, restack everything in my arms, shoulders, and fingers, and walk out the door, down the driveway, and into the building that houses my office. I love that my commute to work doesn’t involve driving in traffic.

Miss Priss walks beside me, her tiny heels tapping on the pavement with every step, while keeping up a steady pace of chatter. Her topics are varied—a bird flying over which Daisy says is looking for breakfast worms for its baby birds, a dream she had about Bella finding a Leprechaun, and a butterfly dress she’d seen on a cartoon that she wants to draw, or ratherdesign,with her markers. Yeah, I know how lucky I am to have this incredible kid as my daughter.

I’ve no more than stepped inside the building housing a garage, classrooms, and offices before my garage manager greets me.

“Hey, boss, your class is waiting. I have them reading the release forms,” Woody says as he shuts the Dutch door between my office and the working garage.

He takes the dog leash and turns Bella loose in her fenced enclosure while I put Daisy’s office supplies/book bag on her desk. I stick my handbag in my bottom desk drawer, slam it shut because it sticks, and take a sip of my coffee. The last one I’ll get for the morning. “Sorry, Woody. I know I’m late. Thanks for covering for me. I could say it won’t happen again, but we both know that would be a bald-faced lie.”

“No problem. Good morning, Princess Daisy. How are you this fine morning?” Woody helps Daisy unload the book bag and arrange her desk in precise order with her markers, papers, coloring books, and about twenty other things she packed to bring to work today.

Daisy takes her place in the miniature office chair and slides under her tiny desk. The guys in the shop made the set and Daisy loves them—the desk and the guys. They even put a phone on her desk, one that luckily isn’t connected to a live line. I can only imagine Daisy calling Christian Dior and asking if the new line is going to include pink sparkly unicorns. What kid even knows who Christian Dior is?

Mine, evidently.

“I’m good now, but I had a most harrowing morning,” she explains to Woody.

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