Page 3 of The Broken Heart Playlist
“Do you see a woman with him? Children?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agrees. “They could be arriving later.”
I make a noncommittal sound, worrying my bottom lip. I hope it’s a family moving in, although that’s no guarantee ofnormality. We’d looked like an idyllic family once. Handsome, successful husband with his adoring wife and beautiful little girl.
“Is the new neighbor attractive?” Tess asks.
I frown. “How is that relevant?”
“It’s totally relevant,” she insists.
My sister is like a matrimonial hunting dog, forever trying to sniff out potential husbands for me. Now that she’s newly married, her determination to hook me up with someone has accelerated.
“Well, is he handsome?” she demands.
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly.
She lets out a pleased gasp. “Look, you know the nickname for your street isGeriatric Lane,” she reminds me. “It’ll be nice to have a younger,handsomeperson around.”
“Jenna lives here,” I point out. “She’s forty, only nine years older than me.”
Tess groans. “Let me guess, she’s already brought her almond cookies and D cups to your new neighbor.”
“She’s delivering both right now.”
“Figures. Look, are you worried about your new neighbor?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you worried,” she says firmly, and I feel a tug of affection toward her. Tess has this protective streak when it comes to me, which is ironic, considering I’m older than her by nearly two years. “I’ll ask Mevia about him. See what she can dig up.”
“Thank you.”
Mevia is the receptionist Tess used to work with before my sister started her own greeting card company with her two closest friends. Nothing happens in our town without Mevia knowing about it. Everyone simply accepts her disturbing, mafia-like abilities, no questions asked.
“You working today?” Tess asks.
“Yes,” I reply absently. “I have a local photo shoot.”
My job as a freelance food stylist allows me to choose my projects and control my hours. Before my daughter came along, I worked as an assistant food stylist on TV commercials. Few people realize the enormous amount of work that goes into a thirty-second commercial. Even though the hours were longer and the pressure greater, I loved the challenge and craziness of it all. But I haven’t worked on a TV or film project since Lisset was born. Now I opt for print photo shoots mostly. I’m determined not to fail as a mother in the way I failed as a wife.
“For what it’s worth,” Tess says softly, “I’m glad you moved back here.”
“Me too.” It’s partly true. Yes, I moved to Brown Oaks to be closer to family, but I also moved because I didn’t want to run into my past everywhere I turned. What I didn’t bank on, though, were the memories chasing me all the way to another town.
I glance at my watch. It’s time to take Lisset to school. “I have to go. Let me know what Mevia’s able to dig up.”
“Will do.”
I end the call with Tess and pull my shoulders back, shoving my new neighbor to a dusty corner at the back of my mind. He’s a problem I’ll deal with later.
CHAPTER TWO
[MESSAGES]
Tess:His name is Gideon Walker. He’s 35. No criminal record.
