“Who’s Glory?”
“She’s the prettiest yellow Lab you’ve ever seen. Smart as a tack.”
That made me smile. “You’re mixing your idioms. Don’t you mean sharp as a tack?”
“That too.”
I knew I really shouldn’t go with him—if I did, he would know that I wasn’t unaffected by him. But he already knew that. Dak was smart as a tack himself. Thing was, I wanted to go. I wanted to see if his house looked like the one he and I had always talked about. Rustic with big windows that showed the lake from every room, a stone fireplace, and heart pine floors. Maybe double swings on the porch and window boxes full of bright blooms.
He lifted a shoulder. “Wanna see?”
I knew in that moment that he wanted me to go because he wanted me to see all that he’d done. The bar was his public persona—slightly brash and down-home—but his home was who he truly was. Dak wasn’t the sort to invite someone in capriciously. So this was big for him.
I looked back at Cricket. Then at the opening door, through which walked my big, good-looking cousin, his eyes zipping straight to Cricket. “Yeah. I would love to see your place.”
“Cool.”
So after I texted Cricket that I was heading out, I climbed into Dak’s truck yet again, and in ten minutes we were skirting the lake, the waters peeking through the newly green trees at me. We hugged the northern part of the lake, small communities of clumped single ranch houses clinging to the edges of larger gated homes on the water. When we got to a huge turn, Dak pulled down an almost-hidden gravel road that dipped down toward the water. Thick bushes were side bumpers for his truck, and when we broke from them, before us was a tree-dotted span of lawn and a brown cedar home with window boxes and a red door.
“Oh, it’s so pretty, Dak,” I said, my eyes feasting on the hideaway house with the snapdragons and pansies ta-daing in front of the wide windows and stacked-stone columns.
“Wait till you see the back,” he said, pulling into a sort of porte cochere that connected a smaller part of the house to the larger area. We climbed out and entered the bigger part of the house, which was an open expanse of kitchen and hearth room with a huge fireplace. The entire back wall had banks of windows that showcased the waters of Cross Lake. A huge yellow Lab came bounding from a back room, barking and leaping in delight at the sight of her owner. She immediately reared up and set her paws on my chest, her dark nose snuffling against my shirt.
“Down, Glory,” Dak commanded, and the dog reluctantly dropped down and sat, her tongue lolling out, her brown eyes ecstatic. Had to say, nothing greeted you at the door like a dog.
I gave her a pat on the head for her compliance and begrudging use of good manners. “Hi, Glory.”
Her tail whipped out a merengue on the stone floor.
I stood and looked around at the large kitchen with the cypress cabinets, white marble, and soft-beige paint, then on to the living area with the leather couches and the Santa Fe–style rug under the beautiful long pine table. Random landscapes and the faux deer-hide rug told me that Dak had used a decorator, and that decorator was good. The overall rustic vibe still had polish. But the pièce de résistance was the lake itself, hauntingly pretty with the cypress close to the shore and the smooth waters stretching out toward the bridge. “Wow, Dak, this is amazing. I know you love it.”
If beaming were truly a thing, Dak was good at it. “I do. After so many years on the road and living in a tiny apartment, I have something that gives me comfort. Not to mention, I bought a boat, and there’s a nice boathouse to keep all my rods and gear. Come on. Let’s let Glory out, and I’ll show you the pier and boathouse.”
We spent the next half hour throwing the tennis ball for Glory and admiring the gentle lake lapping at the shore. The boathouse, holding the flashy red bass rig, sported the swing Dak and I had always talked about sitting in to watch the sun set each day. My ex had really done well for himself, and I was happy that he had a place that brought him such peace.
Finally, we climbed back into his truck, and Dak started the engine, glancing back with a scowl as Glory’s head popped up at the window, smudging the pane.
“You’ve done what you said you were going to do, Dak. You played in the league, and now that you’re retired, you’ve built a nice life.”
He glanced at his house and then over at me. “It’s what I thought I wanted. I mean, I love my house and the bar, but, you know . . .”
“What?”