“Adorable,” Hattie said. “Do you get to see her much?”
“You just missed her. She loves ‘helping’ play store here.”
“Lucky you.” Hattie took the envelope and tucked it in her pocketbook. She held out her hand, and he took it, closing it between both of his.
“Davis … I…” She bit her lip. “Anyway, thank you.”
“Glad I could help out.” He released her hand. “And if you ever want to grab a bite of dinner, or have a drink? I’m your guy. Totally.”
“Okay,” she said.
Davis plucked a business card from an ornate gold container on the display counter and scribbled on the back of it. “Here’s my cell. Give me a call. Let me know if you get the house.”
11
Daddy’s Girl
She felt her jaw muscles clenching as she pulled off the paved highway and onto the bumpy dirt road that led to her father’s place. Sensing her anxiety, Ribsy, who’d been happily riding shotgun with his head sticking out the passenger window, stretched across the bench seat and placed his muzzle in her lap.
“Good boy,” Hattie murmured, scratching his ears. His tail thumped the vinyl upholstery. At least someone was enthusiastic about this mission.
She’d called Woodrow Bowers late in the evening, after an agonizing session of number crunching, when she’d realized even the funds from her pawned engagement ring would not be nearly enough to buy and rehab the Creedmore house.
He’d seemed happy, if surprised to hear from her, and readily invited her to the cabin for lunch the next day.
“You cook now?”
“Hell yeah, I cook. How do you think I’ve been eating all these years?”
“You never cooked before.…”
“Before I went to prison,” Woody finished the sentence for her. “It’s okay to say it, Hattie. Prison. When you get to the gate call me, and I’ll ride up on the golf cart and let you in.”
Hattie rehearsed her proposal on the thirty-minute ride from Thunderbolt to the camp. She hadn’t slept much the night before, already second-guessing her decision to turn to Woody for money. But she was out of options. Her father was her last resort.
She put the truck in park when she reached the cattle gate and reached for her phone. There were no-trespassing signs tacked to trees on either side of the gate, and a utility pole nearby bristled with security cameras.
“Hey, Dad. I’m here,” she said when he picked up.
“Be right down.”
She hadn’t been to her grandfather’s old fish camp in decades. She’d visited here often while the old man was alive. It was PawPaw who’d gifted her with her own set of tools, so that she could hammer and saw in the barn right alongside him as he tinkered with woodworking projects. Back then, Woody had been too busy to spend much time at his father’s camp, always impatient to get back to town for meetings, or fundraisers, or work.
PawPaw died when she was fourteen, and the visits to the fish camp abruptly ended. It wasn’t until Woody’s release from prison that he announced his plan to restore the camp and live there full-time.
She heard the golf cart’s near-silent approach on the road. Woody’s English cockers, Roux and Deuce, sat beside him on the front seat, and they began barking when they caught sight of her.
He parked the cart, gave her a nod in greeting, then unlocked the gate and swung it inward to allow her to pass. She drove through and he relocked the gate, testing to make sure the lock held.
Woody had gotten paranoid since his release from prison. He never elaborated on who or what he thought was threatening him, but he changed his cell phone number often, and had his mail sent to a post office box in town. Except for the times he ventured out to pick up mail, groceries, and supplies, as far as Hattie could tell, he rarely left the grounds of the fish camp.
She followed behind the golf cart as it wound through a half mile of heavy woods, then past a fenced pasture where a graying donkey and a chestnut-brown horse grazed, and finally, down the narrow dirt road to the camp.
He waved her to park next to the cabin, and when she got out of the truck, he gave her a brief, awkward half hug. Ribsy jumped down from the truck and the cockers circled him, sniffing the newcomer and wagging their stubby tails in approval.
“Cabin looks nice, Dad,” Hattie said. She’d remembered it as a primitive wood hut, with a sloping roof over a covered front porch where a stray cat or two always lounged. But now it was a snug cottage, with real windows with dark green–painted frames and shutters.