“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?”
“It’s just missing something.”
He shifted the truck into reverse and backed out, not saying anything more.
Of course, I knew what he was talking about—he was missing someone to share all this with. I knew that empty spot myself, but I hadn’t been in a hurry to fill it. Just trying to move myself forward in a life I had tanked. Dak had done what he said he would do. But I had sidestepped so often that I was virtually sideways. Things were looking up for me. I had a good job. I had a friend in Cricket. I had $80,000 sitting in my bill stack.
Was I ready to take a chance on love again?
That, I wasn’t certain about.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CRICKET
I had left the bar with a plan. Or sort of a plan. I would let Juke do an investigation on Donner Walker’s company, and I would go home and spend one more night pretending to be the dedicated wife of the Caddo Bank executive vice president and the respected mother of Julia Kate Crosby. The next day, I would turn the photographic evidence over to my attorney, who had already filed the divorce papers. I still wasn’t sure what to do if Juke learned that Scott was involved in a scheme. And I wasn’t sure how to get back the money Scott had hidden. Maybe I could blackmail him or something? Say I was going to go to the Feds with the information. But I wasn’t even sure who the Feds were. That was just what people always said in the movies. And though I had disguised myself as some biker chick and straddled Griffin—no, not Griffin, the motorcycle—I wasn’t cut out for blackmailing someone. Lord, this whole thing felt like something out of a John Grisham novel.
Was the man who had rubbed my feet when I was pregnant really planning on leaving me and our daughter for a life with a tennis pro? All this time I had been trying to protect myself and Julia Kate while Scott was feathering a nest that had no room for even his own baby bird. I couldn’t reconcile this Scott with the man who had always prized his stellar reputation. In fact, next week, Scott was supposed to receive the University Club’s Man of the Year Award at a luncheon. Integrity, honor, and service—the hallmarks of the award—didn’t describe a man who did what Scott was doing.
I was baffled. No, I was angry. I wanted Scott to pay.
I pulled into my garage and noted my mother’s car in the circle. Sure enough, Marguerite sat at the kitchen island. I stepped inside, having changed from my rocker duds but still sporting the tattoo that I needed to remove with baby oil. My mother’s gaze zipped to the heart and sword like an eagle spotting a struggling field mouse. Suddenly I was a teenager again, trying to hide the evidence.
“Catherine Anne, what have you done to yourself? Have you taken leave of your senses? A tattoo? Do you want everyone in town thinking you’re trash?” Her voice rose an octave with every query.
“Well, first, having a tattoo doesn’t make you ‘trash.’ That’s a bit elitist, judgmental, and some other offensive thing I can’t think of right now. Besides, on some people tattoos are sexy.” My mind went immediately to Griffin and my inordinate interest in what other tattoos he might have on his body and the specific locations of imagined tattoos. Which was crazycakes.
“Piddle. Tattoos are for sailors and women of—”
“Watch it,” I interrupted, setting my big purse on the marble. “You are reverting to your roots.”
She looked at me, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“Well, I’m just saying that your sassy open-mindedness from last week was appreciated. No, it was desirable. You actually seemed human, Marguerite. Please return to the previous version of yourself.” I made my request light because that’s how I got mileage out of my mother.
Marguerite made a face. “Just because I have a certain way of believing doesn’t make me a monster. I don’t like tattoos. Simple as that.”
“You don’t have to like tattoos. You just have to not cast aspersions on people who have them.” I walked to the cabinet and fetched a large glass, filled it with ice, and poured a sweet tea. Calories be damned. Sweet tea was the balm to the soul to southerners. And probably northerners, too. Everyone who appreciated the good things in life. “Plus, this was just a fun one Ruby and I were playing around with. It comes off with baby oil.”