Page 20 of The Second Dance
“I don’t know what struts are, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Need me to get you turned around so you can leave?”
It takes her a few beats to understand my question. “You’ll drive?”
“Yeah.”
The lane really is a muddy mess. It’s going to take some finesse to get this little car out of here without getting it stuck again.
She hesitates, obviously reluctant to accept my help. With a sigh, she hands me the keys. “Yes, please.”
12.
Andy
The days pass, and my agitation grows.
I’m doing this for grandma.
It’s for grandma.
I pull up to the Thomas house and throw the car into park. I cast my eyes upward, towards the patchy clouds overhead. “Grandma? I hope you appreciate all this effort.”
Climbing out of the car, I gather up my paperwork and peer up at the house.
A lot of farmers have McMansions. The big farmers, anyway. Showy, to the point of tackiness, but devoid of all personality.
But this house defies all expectations. For one thing, most farmers build their houses by the road. Somewhere prominent so that everyone can see how successful they’ve been.
This house was hidden behind a gated entrance, at the end of a long, winding lane.
It’s massive. Heather and Chad only had two kids. What could they possibly have done with all this space?
Trying not to be over-impressed, I march up to the front door and ring the doorbell.
Chad appears a few minutes later. No doubt, he had to trek across his sprawling home to find the front door.
Quite possibly got lost along the way.
I remember Chad Thomas from church, but my memories are vague. I never really paid attention to the guy.
But as I’m staring up at him now, forty-something isn’t looking so old anymore.
Our parents used to strike me as dinosaurs. Ancient.
But the older I get, the younger they seem. And Chad Thomas is a very young forty-six-year-old. He’s taller than Bo, which is saying something, but blue-eyed. I belatedly realize I’m checking the guy out, which is just tit for tat, because he’s not being subtle about the way his eyes are roving all over my body.
I hold a manilla folder between us like a shield. “I’m here with the Songbird Foundation.”
A smile crinkles his eyes. “I figured. Come on in.” He steps to the side. “You’ve been dealing with my son. He’s told me the gist of things. But he didn’t paint a full picture.” He turns and smiles at me. “That sneaky little devil. You want something to drink?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure? I’ve got bourbon. Whiskey.” He tilts his head. “You strike me as a white wine kind of girl.”
I am, but not with him. “I’m absolutely fine. Thanks for asking.”
He walks me into a massive kitchen, gesturing for me to sit on a barstool by an oversized kitchen island. Getting me a glass of water, he pours himself a glass of bourbon and leans back against the counter. There’s a serene confidence in his posture that I find a little infuriating. Looking for an entitled white male? Look no further.
