But I did supervise—so that must count for something. Right?
Why didn’t I just pay someone to pack up Charlotte’s place? If I had done that, then I could have stayed in Beverly Hills and continued with the parties and the red-carpet lifestyle I’m used to. Paying someone to do the work for me would have made more sense—to most people.
But that’s exactly why I decided to come here. Ever since the accident, the invites to the parties and the dates to hang out have dried up like a prune in the Sahara. I can’t dance like I used to. I can’t party like I used to.
And, as Tiffany carefully explained to me, I’ve become a bit of a drag because of my leg.
She’s right though, even if the truth does hurt. I can’t keep up with my friends anymore. While they were out having fun, shopping, clubbing, vacationing, I was working hard on my physical therapy, just so I could walk again.
So why did I come to this tiny town?
I need to figure out what to do next with my life—a person can’t spend their entire existence partying, despite what some of my friends might think.
I also need a break from the reminders that I wasn’t pretty enough or good enough in bed to keep my boyfriend from wandering. And I need a break from the reminders that guys are turned-off by my limp.
Granted, a break at a five-star resort would have been more preferable, but I’m all for a little adventure…even if it means slumming it for a bit.
As long as I’m not expected to camp in a tent with bugs crawling all over the place, I’ve got this.
And the other reason I’m here? The reason none of my relatives know about?
“You know there’s more to life than living in a mansion and having staff wait on you so you don’t have to clean the house, do the laundry, or cook,” Aunt Charlotte had told me. I was nine years old the summer she had visited my family in LA. Everyone else was too busy with their activities to spend time with her, although I suspected when it came to my stepmother and stepbrothers, it was because Aunt Charlotte wasn’t their relative. She had been my mom’s aunt.
“Like what?” I asked, my eyes wide with awe, eager to hear everything she had to tell me. From the moment she walked through the front door, I instantly liked her. She was interesting, she didn’t try to suck up to anyone, and she loved to tell me funny stories about her life back home.
About some of the adventures she’d had in places my parents would never dream of visiting.
About how she volunteered at the local library, helping kids learn to read.
About how she entertained the kids at the library with her puppet shows.
“Like making puppets out of old socks and scrap fabric,” she said. We then spent the afternoon having fun creating sock puppets…and making a big mess.
A few days after Aunt Charlotte left Beverly Hills, my stepmother discovered them and threw them away because people in our position didn’t make puppets out of discarded junk. We bought the finest puppets money could buy.
And she did exactly that.
Three days later, I found several expensive new puppets on my bed, but I never loved them the way I had loved the ones Aunt Charlotte and I made.
The other reason—the biggest reason—I’m here is because I want to see the place that my great-aunt had loved so much and to learn more about her. Because deep down, I’ve always regretted that she and I never got the chance to spend additional time together after that summer.
“You’re selling the house?” Tilly asks, sounding a little surprised at my news. She and Meg exchange looks. Maybe it’s my imagination, but they both seem disappointed.
“Mr. Oliver didn’t tell you?” I ask, stating the obvious. Maybe his lack of comment on the topic is part of attorney-client privilege.
They shake their heads.
I repeat my earlier question. “So, do you know anyone who is looking to buy a horse or two?”
“Can’t say offhand that I do,” Meg says. “Not older horses, anyway. But we can get the word out that Lady and Scoundrel are looking for a new home.”
I smile. “Thank you. That would be great. I don’t suppose you know anyone who would be interested in working as a stable hand?”
Both shake their heads. “But we can ask around, if you’d like.” Tilly gestures to the front door. “Would you like a tour of the house?”
I nod and mentally cross my fingers—and my toes—that the interior isn’t as bad as the outside.
She opens the front door and waves me inside. I step into the main foyer and I do my best not to openly cringe.Oh, Lord Almighty, there really is a hell.
