Page 3 of A Class of Her Own

I ignored the involuntary way my traitorous ears seemed determined to love the sound of his voice. He always spoke carefully, his voice deep and almost hypnotic -- as though he’d been taught how to speak by a grandfather sitting on the front porch with all the time in the world. Sometimes, during HOA meetings, his words would slow down as he thought, and I had to cross my toes back and forth over each other to keep myself from trying to finish his sentences. Slowness was not a quality I admired.

“What do you want, then?” I asked, both of us knowing exactly why he was here.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at my turkey, standing proud and wiggling its bum at the world. He sighed, already weary of this conversation.

“Miss Atwood, the HOA bylaws clearly state you can’t have horrendous inflatable turkeys twerking in your front yard.”

I raised my eyebrows and took a bite of the toast he wasn’t going to eat. I didn’t bother with good manners, talking through my food as I replied, “Could you please explain what twerking is? I’m unfamiliar with this term.”

He blinked the slow blink of deep skepticism. “You don’t know what twerking is?”

I took another bite. “Sure don’t.”

He nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets, the movement giving me a sneak peek of that mystery tattoo near his collar bone before it disappeared again. He took in a deep breath and focused on me as I continued eating. I held his gaze as he tilted his head, watching him try to decide what angle to hit this from. Brooks VanOrman was a lawyer of some sort. I wasn’t really clear on what his specialty was, or whatever, but he was probably used to having to face down difficult people and argue his case.

“Miss Atwood,” he started, and I grinned.

“Please, call me Meredith. Miss Atwood sounds so formal.”

“This is a formal complaint.”

“From whom?” I asked, eyes wide as though I didn’t know that Hazel next door, loyal HOA board member and snoop extraordinaire, had to have called him at sunrise.

Hazel was in charge of distributing tickets to people who’d broken bylaws, and she loved her job with a rabid commitment I begrudgingly admired. She also loved her blue hair -- on purpose -- and telling everyone that her seventieth birthday was coming. Two things I admired less, mostly because I’d put her age closer to eighty-plus and her alleged seventieth birthday never seemed to materialize.

“Hazel,” Brooks answered. “She also texted me a picture of the exact bylaw you’re breaking.”

I brushed the toast crumbs off my fingertips. “Hazel knows how to text pictures?”

“She does,” he muttered. “And she seems to consider the bylaws good reading material.”

I was suddenly intrigued by just how many text pictures Hazel had sent him and what they were of. From where I was sitting, Hazel didn’t do anything but snoop and knit. I doubted Brooks was interested in pictures of her latest hot pad or of candid shots of neighbors going about their lives. I glanced at Hazel’s house, wondering how many pictures (with white lines slashing through them where her blinds got in the way) of me she’d sent to Brooks.

“Hmm. Maybe she’s the one I should ask about this twerking thing then? She seems to be pretty up-to-date on stuff.”

Brooks rolled his eyes. “Look, you and I both know thatyouknowthat this turkey thing is completely ridiculous. You did it to, once again, irritate me and waste my time. Are you going to take it down, or do I need to set Hazel free with her ticket book?”

I folded my arms. “First of all, Mr. VanOrman, I don’t spend all my time thinking up ways to irritate you, and I don’t care how you spend your time.”

“Right.” His tone was clipped, suspicious and annoyed.

“Second of all, I happen to love Thanksgiving, and this is how I choose to honor the day our great nation came together to . . .”

He held up a hand, and I stumbled to a stop. “Meredith?” He leaned slightly forward, close enough for me to catch the scent of his toothpaste. “The turkey is tacky, and you know it. What will it take to get you to remove it?”

Maybe stop treating me like roadkill at the HOA meetings and start discussing things of actual consequence, is what I wanted to yell at him. Instead I balled my hands into fists and met him head on. “You veto the idea of charging overnight guest fees.”

“This isn’t congress. I don’t actually have veto power.”

“But you do have sway. Charm them into voting against it.”

His head bobbed once, sharply. “Done.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

His hands came out of his pockets, and he tugged at one of his sleeves. “It would be great if we didn’t have to bicker every month.”

I smiled sweetly at him. “You’re the one who wanted to be president so bad.”

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