On the Shore （Cottonwood Cove, #3）
Laura Pavlov
one
Brinkley
The sun was shining, and a light breeze bustled around us. It was a beautiful day to be outside.
“So, the moral of the story is… when life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” I said.
“Ohhh. I love lemonade, Auntie!” Gracie clapped her hands together and bounced up and down. My niece was turning five years old soon, and now that I was living in Cottonwood Cove, I was able to spend lots of time with her. I’d picked her up from pre-K and brought her to my place to have lunch and do some gardening with me.
“Well, I do have lemonade. Let’s take a break and go inside, okay?” I dropped the hand shovel on the ground and swiped at the sweat rolling down my forehead. I glanced around to see the fresh dirt covering the four planter boxes I’d built over the last two weeks.
Two weeks. That was how long I’d been home.
That was how long I’d been unemployed.
Well, technically, I was working for myself. I was currently a freelance sports reporter, and I’d already submitted an article covering the truths behind the arrogance of professional athletes. But I’d had one particular athlete in mind when I’d written the article.
I thought it was my best work. I’d already heard back from Football Live magazine, and though they’d loved the article, they felt it was too obvious that I was speaking of one specific athlete.
Lincoln. Mother. Freaking. Hendrix.
I guess calling him out as the GOAT of the NFL in the article was a dead giveaway.
They didn’t know that the man had gotten me fired from my last job because he’d had a childish meltdown on a public stage. Most people weren’t aware that I’d lost my job; they’d thought I’d just been kicked out of a press conference.
So, Football Live requested that I make some tweaks. Make it sound more general.
Don’t reference anyone in particular.
Maybe tone down my anger.
Their words, not mine.
I was just fine with my anger.
I’d put that article on the back burner because the truth was, I couldn’t write it without pointing out that man in particular.
As much as I wanted to prove that I could make it as a freelance writer, I wasn’t at a point in my career where I could financially pull this off for very long. I wasn’t well known at all, and I’d been working for a horrible man at a small press, trying to make a name for myself over the last few years.
I needed to focus on one strong story that would be easy to sell and land me a position at a large publication.
One where people would actually read my work.
Football Live suggested I write an article on the trials and tribulations of professional football players.
I reached for two glasses and opened the refrigerator, pulling out the pitcher of lemonade.
My mind wandered to thoughts of Lincoln Hendrix.
Trials and tribulations, my ass.
That bastard was the highest-paid football player in the league. What did he have to be upset about?
The damn golden boy of football.
“You looks kind of angry, Auntie.” Gracie sat in the chair at my kitchen table, and her chubby little hands were folded together. We wore matching overalls, as she’d loved mine last week, so I’d gotten her a pair of her own so we could be twins today.
I’d rolled two bandanas and tied one around my head and then did the same to hers. Two little space buns with oodles of curls sat on top of her head, where the pink fabric gathered in a knot and the ends stuck straight up like rabbit ears.
She was adorable.
“I’m not angry, baby girl. I’m just thinking about something that bothered me.” I set her glass down and took the seat beside her.
“What’s you thinking about?”
“Well, remember I told you I moved back home because someone did something that wasn’t very nice to me?” I shrugged. My family was sick of me cursing the bastard’s name, so if a four-year-old wanted to hear about my woes, I had no shame in my game.
“Yep. And that’s why you’re living in Bossman and Auntie Georgie’s house, right?” Her voice was my favorite sound in the whole world. She spoke with almost a southern accent, which we all found hilarious seeing as we lived in a small town in northern California. It was all sweetness and innocence, and Gracie Reynolds was probably my favorite person on the planet.
She was my oldest brother’s little girl. Cage was raising her on his own, so in a way, she was all of ours.
“Yep. I’m living in their house and starting a new job, working for myself until I find the right magazine to work for this time. The last one wasn’t a good fit anyway. It was time for a change.”
“And you’re going to grows all your own foods, right, Auntie? And you make the magic boards now.” She looked around the small space. Piles of seeds and a few potted plants sat on the counter, while two canvas boards with magazine clippings and a bottle of Mod Podge sat on the coffee table.
What can I say? I wasn’t used to having this much time on my hands. I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
So, I’d grow my own food.
Spend time on my vision boards and decide what my dream job looked like now that I had the time to do so.
Originally, when I’d been hired by Athlete Central right out of college, I’d been thrilled. But working for a complete asshole had been uninspiring.
And being fired by him had been humiliating.
“Yep. They aren’t magic boards; they are vision boards. They hold all my dreams,” I said with a chuckle.
“I love my dreams. You knows what my teacher says? Mrs. Appleton’s a real smart lady.” She smacked her lips together after she took a big sip of lemonade and smiled at me. “This is so yummy.”
“It is good, isn’t it? Soon, we’ll be making it with our own lemons from the garden.” I had no idea how long that would take. Hell, I’d never planted anything in my life. But right now, I was going to enjoy this time away from the long hours and do things I’d never had time to do. I was channeling my inner Martha Stewart. Tapping into a new side of myself. “Tell me what your really smart teacher says.”
She pushed back in her chair and moved to her feet before holding her arms up for me to lift her onto my lap. Gracie lived with my brother, who was a self-admitted grump, yet he’d managed to raise the absolute sweetest kid on the planet. Her hands found each side of my face as she settled on my thighs.
“Nobody’s perfects. If they say sorry, just give them a hug.”
Riveting advice, Mrs. Appleton. Perhaps you’ve never been publicly humiliated.
“Hmmm… that’s great. But what if the person did something really mean to you?” I asked, looking down at her giant chocolate-brown eyes that studied me like this was the most serious conversation she’d ever had.
“She said you give hugs, Auntie. Nobody’s perfects. All the peoples makes mistakes.”
Was her teacher seriously quoting a Hannah Montana song? I swear I’d heard lyrics that said something very similar to this before. I called bullshit on Mrs. Appleton, but I wouldn’t burst Gracie’s bubble.
“Well, I’ll think about it. But in the meantime, we’ll keep planting and hanging out, and next week, I’ll help you make your own vision board, okay?”