I heft the container up and start for the gate that leads to the sidewalk of the neighborhood. Her house is the smallest in our cove, a bit run down but charming, with faded-cream bricks, soft-blue shutters, and a wide stone front porch. In the driveway is a pale-pink Cadillac. I used to see Mrs. Morgan in it, a tall lady with dark hair. She brought me strawberry jam the week I moved in, and that was about the extent of our interactions.
I get to her front porch, then pause at the flower beds, my jaw grinding. Jenny. Dammit. An acquaintance of Tuck’s, I met her a few months before I moved to Texas last year.
A long sigh comes from my chest as I bend down and check out the two taller bushes, her birthday plants. They took the brunt of the Jeep, their stalks bent, bright petals littering the mulch.
After everyone left last night, I replayed Nova’s words several times, unable to sleep. Insomnia is a regular occurrence, but this felt different. Around two in the morning, I took Dog for a walk, but it was too dark to see her flower beds from the sidewalk. I stood there for half an hour trying to figure out why meeting my neighbor made me antsy. It was guilt, I decided, over the roses. I came home, googled yellow rosebushes, and went down a rabbit hole for an hour.
Leaving that behind, I rap hard on the door. “Jolene,” by Dolly Parton, comes from the house as the door opens slowly. I lower my lids as I take her in. Messy long blonde hair, one side flattened. Sleepy sky-blue eyes. Drool on her cheek.
Tall, maybe five-eight, she’s wearing what look like men’s boxers and a white tank top. A slice of her stomach is revealed, tanned and toned, and a pink feather boa is around her neck. My lips quirk at that; then I freeze when I see her nipples pressing through the fabric, erect and hard. I force myself to move back to her face. She takes a slow sip of the coffee in her hand, a bored expression on her face, but I don’t miss her nose flaring or the slow, steadying breath she lets out.
She leans against the doorjamb, cool as a cucumber, and her voice has thickened since last night, a slow Texas drawl. “Goodness. Ronan Smith at my house. Long time no see—like for real, you have no idea. Is residential cat catching part of your job description as head football coach?”
She’s got a mouth on her.
“I was worried this ugly thing would get eaten by my Irish wolfhound.”
“Huh.” Moving with grace and a good deal of I don’t care, she steps out to the porch with long legs, sets her coffee on an outdoor end table, and then takes the bin from my hands. She puts her face up to the clear plastic and talks in a baby voice: “Poor wittle Sparky, got caught by the big bad football coach.”
He puts his paw up and makes a “Help me” meow.
“He isn’t ugly; he’s an adorable Donskoy of Russian heritage,” she says, the accent gone, her tone flat. “They’re affectionate, clever, and protective. They’re the dogs of the cat world.”
“He scratched me.” I show her the dried blood on my forearm.
“Should we call the boosters for medical help?”
So. It’s going to be like that, huh? All right. Fine. I was dickish last night. I had good reason. I thought I’d be spending my birthday with Skeeter and some of the coaches watching football at Randy’s Roadhouse. We did that for about an hour; then they cut it short, and we drove back to a houseful of people. Then Jenny showed up—surprise—saw girls in the pool with me, and had a meltdown. A twenty-two-year-old model, she pushed back the loneliness in New York like a few women have. When I moved here, I told her long distance wasn’t feasible for me, but then she claimed she was in love and started showing up in Blue Belle.
After I got out of the pool, I took Jenny to my office, where she announced she was dumping me to date a Wall Street guy. I told her good luck; then she marched upstairs, found a dress she’d left, and stormed out.
I’d just recovered from that episode when Nova appeared in my kitchen. I assumed she was another candidate for the future Mrs. Smith.
“Thanks for the concern. I’ll live.” I stick my hands in the pockets of my Nike shorts, then change my mind and pull at the collar of my shirt. Still twitchy, I tug my hat down lower on my head and glance away from her, giving her my scarless profile. It’s become a habit—not that I’m vain, but I know they’re ugly.
“Your dog-cat was in my backyard,” I say curtly. “You should watch Sparky better.”
“There’s an old dog door at the back of the house. He must have slipped out before I got up.” She places the bin down, and Sparky jumps out, walks through the open door, and then jumps up on the back of a chair in one of the front windows. He stares at us with a smug look.