Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Goldie nods. I hand her backpack to her and remind her that my mom will pick her up from school. I wait until she’s at her desk before thanking Britt and making sure she has my number on hand, just in case.
As soon as I step into the hall, I hear my name, and flashbacks from high school flood my memories. There was one too many times when a stern voice bellowed, and I had to tuck tail to the principal’s office. I turn and find Jean, the school’s secretary, coming toward me.
“Shit,” I mutter, only to realize I said it loud enough for another kid to hear me. I fully expect him to stick his hand out, as if he carries a swear jar with him, by the look he’s giving me.
“Sorry.”
He shrugs. “My dad says worse.”
Lovely.
“Wade,” Jean says again, this time out of breath. “You’re a hard man to track down.”
Right away, I pull my phone from my back pocket and look at my missed calls. There are none. And like a petulant child I shake my phone back and forth to show her.
“I didn’t miss a call.”
Jean frowns, looks over her shoulder, and then shakes her head.
“Ah, I see.” If someone else in the building was supposed to call, they didn’t. I think Lemon would rather lie on a mound of fire ants than speak to me. Nothing hurts a man’s ego when a woman they once loved—still love—asks if they know you. Especially after you spent a majority of your life following her around, carrying her books and backpack, holding her hand, and promising to marry her someday. But then, maybe it’s a coping mechanism to deal with all my charm. Thinking she may have been flustered by me makes me smile.
“Wade?”
I startle and clear my throat. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you have time to till a garden bed for us today?” Jean asks.
Even though most of my schedule is memorized, I still open my calendar to look. Most of my day is green for my long-standing appointments. Purple for clients who booked two weeks out and blue for those who booked one week ago. Red is left for those like the school, who want me to fit them in or drop what I’m doing to service them.
“I’m not sure, Ms. Jean. I’m pretty booked. I can probably squeeze it in later in the week when I’m here to mow.”
“We need it today.” Her sigh is heavy and dramatic and matches the displeasing expression on her face.
I’m sorry, no one woke up this morning and decided the elementary school needed a garden tilled. No one in the school district works that damn fast.
“Look, I was out last week with the flu. Ms. Walsh was supposed to call you and set it up. I get it, she didn’t. But we have fifth graders going outside tomorrow to plant carrots, lettuce, collards, kale, and who knows what else. This has been in the works since last year and I’m desperate.” She gives me the prayer hands, but I’m still shaking my head.
“The earliest I could even consider it is this evening, and that’s a big if. I’ll need to check with my mom and see what their plans are for dinner and if they’re okay with Goldie staying there.” I’m totally blowing smoke because my parents will drop everything to spend time with Goldie. However, Lemon doesn’t know this and needs to understand my time is valuable.
“I’ll call your mom,” Jean says.
“And my rate is time and a half after five.” I’ve never charged overtime in my life, but because of Lemon, I’m doing it.
“That’s fine. I’ll authorize whatever you need, Wade. Just please tell me you can do it today.”
“This evening,” I tell her. “Show me where you want it.”
Jean launches herself into my unsuspecting arms. Before I can awkwardly hug her back, she lets me go and all but pushes me toward the exit. On our way to the back of the school property, she talks about her husband, kids and grandchildren and how she’s ready to retire but isn’t ready to park her lawn chair in her front yard and be nosy like Linda. Funny how she thinks Linda became nosy after retirement. According to my grandma, Linda was born this way. Ironically, there isn’t a soul in town who would change her.
Jean shows me where they want the garden. I have her stay there while I jog back to my truck for a handful of stakes and flagging tape, and then Jean and I mark off where I’m going to dig for them.
“Okay, this evening,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she says again as we head toward the school. “Make sure you invoice us for all your time and those supplies you just used.”
I won’t but I tell her differently. “And my gas. Hell, I might even throw on fish fry since this will take up my dinner time.”