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  By Sonnjea Blackwell

  Copyright 2013 Sonnjea Blackwell

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication:

  To my mom, Sheila Elliott

  CHAPTER ONE

  The man in front of me was losing his pants, and I was facing a good six inches of hairy ass and butt crack. Oddly enough, not my favorite way to start the day. It was six in the morning, I hadn’t had my coffee, and I was at the home improvement emporium, waiting to pay for my little basket of light bulbs and switch plates. I knew they were called switch plates because when I asked the guy for “light switch thingies” he rolled his eyes, pointed to an aisle about seven miles away and said, “Switch plates are on aisle four hundred and eleven, next to the blow torches.” He seemed awfully snotty for someone who had to wear an apron to work.

  As much as I wanted to turn away, I was spellbound by the crack. The guy was leaning on one of those heavy-duty rolling carts filled with lumber and boxes of nails in every size. Every time he inched the cart forward, the jeans dipped a little lower. He never hitched them up, and I began to wonder what was going to happen when he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. I spied a display filled with bouquets of flowers, impulse buys for contractors in trouble with their wives, and I imagined a flower arrangement in the crack. Not the whole big bouquet, of course, but maybe just a few stems of carnations and daisies, sort of Hieronymus Bosch does Home Depot.

  “Alex?”

  I froze, straining my peripheral vision in an attempt to spot whoever had spotted me. I didn’t get up at dawn to visit the megawarehouse because I enjoyed the view. I went at that hour because the only other people there were sleepy contractors who I assumed didn’t know me or at least wouldn’t recognize me. I was a tad conspicuous because I was about half a foot shorter than everyone else, and I had a wimpy little basket of switch plates and light bulbs instead of a macho rolling cart overflowing with power tools and enough wood to frame a house. But I was incognito. An Oakland A’s baseball cap covered my shoulder-length, straight-as-a-stick brown hair. Cool Nike wraparound sunglasses hid half my face. A big, shapeless gray sweatshirt over blue and white plaid pajama bottoms obscured my body, leaving my gender in serious doubt. Red flip-flips did nothing to disguise my size ten feet. I amused myself by pretending I was a famous celebrity, cleverly disguised so I could go out in public and not be pestered by my adoring fans.

  “Alex Jordan?” the adoring fan persisted.

  I pulled my gaze away from the butt vase.

  “Where?” I asked, looking around and mentally kicking myself for not painting my toenails or at least putting on a toe ring. Jack Murphy stood in the next checkout line over, inspecting me, his forehead creased with worry. I’m terrible with faces and can only recognize a handful of people I went to high school with, but one of those people happened to be Jack Murphy, a guy I’d had a huge crush on my sophomore year. He was on the swim team then, and he looked like he still worked out. A lot. He kept staring at me like he thought he knew me but I had aged really badly.

  “I know it’s you, Alex,” he said, finally convinced.

  “Hey Jack, how’s it going?” Just act casual, I thought.

  “Can’t complain. What are you doing here?”

  “Actually, I bought a house here in town, but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to anyone just yet because I haven’t had a chance to tell my folks. You know how that can be.” I shrugged and smiled. I’d lived within five miles of every member of my family for eight days now, and none of them had a clue.

  “No, I mean, here. In public. In that,” he nodded towards my ensemble. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  Oh, just kill me now.

  I flopped on the sofa, kicked my feet up onto the box marked MISC LIVING ROOM and surveyed my domain. Pretty fucking dismal, I thought. I was in my brand new abode, which was far from brand new. I had gotten it for a song because according to the realtor it was in need of “a little TLC”, which was like saying Chris Hemsworth has okay arms. The previous occupants had done some damage to each other as well as the structure in a domestic squabble that began with a drunken fistfight and ended with the wife pulling up floorboards in the master bedroom with the intention of stuffing her husband’s drunk ass under the house to sleep off his latest bender. When she got him half in and half out of the hole in the floor, she lost her train of thought and wandered off to set fire to the drapes. They both went to jail and the landlady dumped the house on the market, as-is, just so as not to have to associate with the riff-raff anymore. I’d convinced myself I was handy and wanted to renovate the place. The truth was it was all I could afford.

  As if that weren’t pathetic enough, the house is in my hometown of Minter. Minter is a small town in the middle of California’s San Joaquin Valley, the most productive agricultural area in the nation. That’s a euphemism for redneck country. There’s a creek running through the middle of town, a lake for families to hang out at during the blistering summer months, and plenty of sports to keep the kids out of their parents’ hair. There’s one mall and only two Starbucks. It’s the type of town that people say is a great place to raise kids, but the truth is, the economy is among the poorest in the state, opportunities are limited, the weather sucks and most of us kids who were raised there couldn’t wait to get the hell out, one way or another.

  Anyway, through no fault of my own, I recently found myself in the process of a divorce. I’m a freelance graphic designer and I do okay, but I wasn’t going to be able to afford to continue living in southern California, a place where kids actually want to be raised, and where mortgages reflect that. As I said, the divorce was not attributable in any way to me, except in the sense that I was the wrong gender, and Max, my almost-ex, had been fairly generous, either out of guilt or utter relief not to ever have to see another vagina, I’m not sure which. In any event, he kindly suggested we split the sale of our cute townhouse in Huntington Beach sixty-forty, knowing that would leave me enough money for a down payment on a place of my own, but also knowing that it would be far, far away from him and Raoul.

  I was startled by a knock at the door, and I went to let in Jack Murphy. I’d showered and changed since the Home Depot debacle, but central California in July is generally in the hundred and ten degree range, and I’d been playing at unpacking, so I didn’t have high hopes for my appearance. The air conditioner was on my list of things to have looked at. Lucky for me, that was Jack’s reason for coming over. Ever the professional, once he recovered from the astonishment of my woefully deteriorated appearance, he remembered I’d said the magic words: “I bought a house here in town.” Next thing I knew, he was offering to come over and take a look at it for me. He was sure he could make me a good deal, since we went to high school together and all. I scoffed. He or his brothers went to high school with everyone in this town, and if they made everybody good deals, Murphy & Sons Construction wouldn’t be in business. But I was desperate and I knew I couldn’t do all the work myself, so I invited him over to give me an appraisal.

  I opened the door and smiled my please don’t screw me over smile. “Come on in.”

  He gave me the once over and relief flooded his face.

  “Want to show me the problems, or you want me to take a look a
nd tell you what I find?” He seemed to be taking up most of my entryway, although I couldn’t see any fat on him. His jeans fit reasonably well, and I felt optimistic that when he bent over to work, I wouldn’t be subjected to an unsolicited view of his butt crack. That was a relief since I had no flowers. He was about six feet, three inches tall, muscular in a good way, and tan from working construction. He had wavy hair, medium brown like mine, and twinkly blue eyes. He still fell into the handsome category, although I could definitely see him as Santa Claus in another twenty years or so.

  “Well, the master bedroom is a disaster. I’ve just been working on the small stuff like removing the carpet and patching the walls and stuff. The AC doesn’t work. I think the kitchen is in okay shape. Oh, and there’s a squeaky floorboard in the hallway that’s driving me crazy. But I’d love to know what you find.”

  I gave him a quick tour. The house makes a circle, the entryway expanding out into the living room, which is separated from the dining room by an archway, and then a swinging door opens from the dining room into the small but functional kitchen. Another door leads out of the kitchen to the hallway, a medium sized master bedroom with its own bath, a small bedroom, another bathroom, another small bedroom in the front of the house, and then you’re back in the entryway. The thing I loved about the house, besides the price, was the set of French doors leading from the master bedroom to the backyard swimming pool. In Minter, swimming pools are de rigueur, not a sign of wealth or status or prestige. When fully one-sixth of the year consists of triple-digit temperatures, the cost of keeping cool isn’t considered a luxury. Only the very poorest neighborhoods were without pools, and even many of those sported inflatable wading pools on the front lawns.

  We were back where we started. “I’m looking forward to my bedroom being livable so I can wake up in the morning and step right outside to the pool.” Might as well make it sound like I intended to swim laps for exercise.

  He nodded and wandered off in the direction of the bedrooms, his tool belt clanking as he walked.

  My cell phone rang, and the display said “Parents.” Nothing good could come from that. I hollered after Jack, “Hey, you didn’t tell anyone I was here, did you?” He didn’t answer and the phone kept ringing, so I picked it up.

  “Hello?” Please be dad, please be dad, please be dad.

  “Hello, Alexis.”

  Aw, fuck.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  I’d been avoiding my family, not because they’re inherently evil or anything like that, but to delay the inevitability of my becoming, once again, the family disappointment. Having managed to acquire a spouse, I had spent the last few years in relative obscurity, leaving the parental regret to fall upon my brother Kevin. My dad is a math teacher at the junior college and my mom is a nurse, and they’re still married, to each other even, which makes me the first divorcee in the family. Brian is my oldest brother. He’s six years older than me, married to a woman who’s name I can never remember, has two kids that he insists are his but who I suspect were actually fathered by Satan, and lives to torture my other brother, Kevin, and me. Brian’s the child any parents would be proud of. He would never dream of getting divorced, or of failing in any other way. We’re not close. Kevin is only a year and a half older than me and would get divorced in a heartbeat, if only he could find someone to marry him first. At least he wasn’t living at home anymore. We had fought like Middle Eastern countries when we were kids, but basically he was the kind of big brother a girl would want.

  The next half hour sounded a lot like “blah, blah, blah, oh honey, blah, blah, your father and I, blah, blah, Brian would never, blah, blah, blah.” Somewhere near the end, I yawned. My mother got indignant.

  “Well, I’m obviously keeping you from something important, though it’s the middle of the day and you’re home, so apparently it’s not a job. But I’ll let you get back to whatever it is.” She knew I worked from home, so that was a dig about my career and my manners. My mother is great at multi-tasking.

  “Actually, I’m over here eating bon bons and boning the contractor.” How’s that for multi-tasking?

  “Alexis! Why must you say things like that?” She sighed the sigh, and I knew it was accompanied by the heavenward eye roll and the appeal to God, wondering what she had done wrong. “I have to go to work now,” my mom worked twelve-hour shifts, eleven a.m. to eleven p.m., five shifts in two weeks, “but come over tomorrow at two. We’ll have a family barbecue and you can tell us everything.”

  Sure, and while we’re at it, why don’t you shoot me in the head? That’d be swell.

  “Okay mom, sounds great.” I hung up, surprised to see Jack standing in the doorway smiling at me. I’d forgotten he was there.

  “What?” This was his fault, after all. I had specifically told him not to say anything about my being here, and now, not two hours later, I was on a collision course with my family.

  “I’m sorry. I always tell my secretary where I’m going in case there’s an emergency.”

  “Hunh. I’ve seen specials about those life-threatening drywall emergencies. Who’s your secretary?”

  He looked kind of sheepish and I knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “Doreen Smalley.”

  I could tell he felt bad, but still he had a hint of a smile playing on his lips that was pissing me off, even if it was moderately appealing.

  “Shit. Might as well have taken out an ad in the Sun-Herald.” Doreen was my mother’s age and Minter’s version of the town crier. She knew everything as soon as it happened and made sure everyone else knew as soon as possible thereafter, and she had never let a little thing like the truth slow her down, either. I could only imagine what horrible plight had befallen me. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “I really am sorry. Why don’t you let me buy you dinner tonight to make up for it?” He seemed to sense my hesitation and waved his clipboard around. “We can go over the proposal for your repairs.”

  I sighed. I hate that I’m so easy. “How’s seven?”

  I walked Jack outside and watched him drive away in his enormous navy blue Ford F-350 pickup. I knew it was practical for his trade, but still the sheer size of the thing made me wonder if he was compensating for anything. I was sort of enjoying picturing him naked, a pastime that had occupied a substantial portion of my tenth grade Spanish class as well, when my cell started ringing. Again.

  I went into the front bedroom that I had decided to use as my office. It was in pretty good shape. The computer was set up on the desk, with the monitor on the right and printer and scanner on the left, and all of my design books and magazines and Pantone color swatches and client files on the credenza behind the desk. From the desk, I had an excellent vantage point for watching the comings and goings on Shasta Drive. Plus, I could stare out the window and daydream when I was having trouble with a project. It was ideal. I sat down, feeling resigned, and answered the phone.

  “Alexis Jordan, there better be a goddamn good explanation for this.” It was my best friend, Pauline Horowitz.

  Pauline and I had met in second grade when some boys were trying to pull down her pants and I came over and kicked the crap out of them for her. In second grade, I towered over the boys while Pauline was a dainty, girly little girl. I had two older brothers and if I didn’t know how to defend myself, I would have spent a lot of time locked in our bathroom. Since I didn’t particularly like the bathroom, I learned how to fight and, when necessary, run like hell. Twenty-two years later, Pauline is still petite and classically beautifully. I, on the other hand, am more like classically okay. At five feet, six inches I’m too tall to be petite and too short to be tall. I’m not fat or thin, but usually could stand to lose about five pounds. Maybe seven or eight after the holidays. I don’t have big breasts or small breasts, long legs or short legs, full lips or thin lips. The only thing not average about me is my size ten feet. With the right makeup, a killer outfit and flattering lighting, I can be pretty hot. Or, as
evidenced this morning at the hardware store, I can be downright terrifying. In contrast, Pauline has never had a bad hair day in her entire naturally blond life.

  Apparently the rumor mill worked quickly. I hadn’t called Pauline yet either, not because I was avoiding her, but because I knew I didn’t need to. She was the kind of friend who you could talk to three times a day, or you could not call for three months, and either one would be okay.

  “Okay, but shut up and listen. Don’t ask questions till I’m done and don’t interrupt. I’m going to have to tell this story a few more times, and I want to try it out on you first. Ready?”

  It took about two hours because she wouldn’t quit interrupting. “What do you mean, gay?” and “She was going to shove him under the house? Is that legal?” and “Jack Murphy was in your bedroom already?” As if he hadn’t been in hers. Finally I got it out of her that in the version she’d heard, I had been cheating on Max with someone from Minter, driving the four and a half hours every weekend to have illicit sex in a peach orchard with a man whose identity remained cloaked in mystery. I had an unexplained mental illness that had contributed, along with the affair, to the demise of my marriage, and my family really did know all along that I had been in town but were too ashamed of me to tell anyone. Really, who could blame them? I had to give it to Doreen, she had a vivid imagination.

  We hung up when she informed me that she had to get back to work, and I called my brother. His voice mail picked up.

  “Hey Kev, it’s Alex. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I moved back to Minter. I bought a house on Shasta Drive, Max is gay, I didn’t have an affair, I’m not insane, Jack Murphy is doing repairs on the house, and you better be at Mom and Dad’s tomorrow or I will hunt you down and kill you. What’s new with you?”