Page 17 of The Way Back Home

“But I haven’t told you what I’m looking for yet.”

“We don’t have anything at all.”

“Really?” I ask in disbelief.

“Mmhmm, no rentals at this very moment, but there’s a little hunting shack about five miles out of town that’s coming up for rent in a few weeks’ time. If the current tenants don’t sign on for another year, that is, you’d be welcome to come look at it then.”

My heart sinks. “Well, if you hear anything, will you let me know?”

“You got it, girlfriend,” she says, overly bright as I stand and head toward the door. The sting of it hitting my ass on the way out hasn’t even subsided before she’s picking up the phone. Probably calling Kathy Abernathy.

This is a huge blow. Not Georgia activating the gossip tree—I could care less about that—but my lack of an apartment. It means I’m stuck at Tanglewood far longer than August and I expected.

Still, I’m determined as ever. This town needs my help. August Cotton needs my help, and I’ll be damned if I let a little thing like a roof over my head stop me from doing my work. Paws for Cause is stronger than ever, and if I can get enough of the community’s support behind me, I can make this work. Though that may prove difficult now that I’ve given the mayor and all of Stepford a serious tongue-lashing.

My feet ache as I walk through town. I need a mode of transport that doesn’t involve them carrying me six miles a day. Before long I’ll need a car, but seeing as there’s no dealership here I’ll have to head up to Mobile and find my own way with something secondhand. I left my van behind in Fairhope because Paws for Cause needed it to transport animals to and from nearby shelters and veterans who aren’t mobile, so I’m left with one option: walking.

I’m tempted to head out to the shelter right now, but it’s the middle of the day and walking another two to three miles out of my way doesn’t hold that much appeal. Besides, it’s not like I have a set of keys to get in. Instead, I buy a bottle of water, some sunblock, and a wide, straw-brimmed hat from the local market before I make my way back to Tanglewood.

I’ll likely be the color of a lobster by the time I hit the Cottons’ long drive, but there’s nothing to be done for it. As I walk down Magnolia Drive, I come across a yard sale and decide to stop in because the lawn is shaded by a beautiful big old live oak, and it’s at least ten degrees cooler in the shade. I pick over chipped china, baskets full of costume jewelry and knick-knacks that I have no intention of buying, and then I see it: the answer to all my prayers—or at least all my prayers right at this very moment. A bike for sale. It’s powder blue, well loved, and has one of those little baskets on the front covered in flowers. It also has a flat tire and a busted chain, but I pull out a few dollars from my purse and pay the woman for it anyway. She tells me it was her mother’s bike, and she wishes she could sell it to me in better condition, but that no one has been looking after it for all this time. I’m not fazed by this. I’m a single woman who’s lived alone for most of her adult life. I’m self-sufficient when I need to be, and I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty. I’ve fixed all kinds of things, and a rusted old chain and a flat tire won’t stop me.

I push it out the front gate and along the road, and Lord have mercy if I don’t lose my shit and nearly toss the thing several times on the way back to Tanglewood when the chain seizes and the wheels stop turning and I practically have to drag it through the sticky summer heat, but make it to Tanglewood I do. Shortly after I’ve walked up the drive, I throw the damn thing to the ground and kick it some, just to make myself feel better, and then I take a deep breath and look up to find Bettina watching me from the balcony. I shrug and give her a “What are you going to do?” face. She giggles and scurries away from the landing.

I wipe the sweat from my brow, and I’m just about to head upstairs to change my clothes when my gaze lands on August standing on the front porch, watching me closely.

I frown. He frowns, and I start up the steps. “That Miss Maple’s bike?”

“Yep, her daughter sold it to me.”

“It’s a damn wreck. You woulda been better buying a new one.”

“I can fix it,” I say through my teeth.

“You can, huh?” He smiles.

“Sure, I can. I mean, how hard can it be?”

“You tell me,” he says. I push past, careful not to touch him in the slightest and stalk up to my room, flinging my hat down on the bed along with my sunblock.That man is so infuriating. I quickly change into a white tank and a pair of jean cut-offs that I had no intention of wearing in front of others, but it’s hot outside and I’ll be damned if I’m going to fix this bike in a nice dress.Besides, it’s not like anyone here is looking.

When I head back outside, August is looking the bike over. He straightens and turns to face me. His gaze rolls over my body from head to toe. His shoulder’s slowly rise and fall, as if he’s taking in a deep breath. He wets his lips, and my own breath catches in my throat because it’s been a long while since I had a man look at me that way. I dated a guy from Monroe a little more than a year ago, but it was an odd pairing, and he certainly didn’t look at me the way August is now.

August doesn’t say a word, just shoves the bike toward me by the handlebars so I have no choice but to take it or have it fall on my feet, and then he stalks up the front steps, and I’m left there wondering how the hell I’m supposed to get through to this man when he can’t even look at me without wanting to push me away.

I push the bike over to the garage that sits off to the side of the house and stand it up in the shade, then I get to work. Only, I’ve never fixed a bike before, and I don’t have the faintest idea of what I’m doing. After staring at it for a good twenty minutes or so and hoping that the solutions to my problem will just automatically manifest in my mind, I take the liberty of using a screwdriver from the tool box in the shed and I pry the chain off. It snaps and comes away in two heavily rusted greasy pieces.

“Goddamn it,” I shout to the empty room and throw the chain over my shoulder. One lands with a thud against the concrete, but I spin around to check the other, terrified I’ve hit something important. Not something, but someone, it seems. August stands behind me holding the grimy piece in his hands.

“You’ll need a new chain now.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I say, and then I feel bad because I did just throw a bicycle chain at him. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You caught that midair?” I glower in disbelief and mutter under my breath, “What are you, a ninja?”

“Marine, actually.” He laughs. I give him a stern look, and he wanders across to the other side of the garage. “I think I have one here somewhere. Can’t do much about the brakes though, sorry.”

“What’s wrong with the brakes?”

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