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)
Sitting in my truck while I wait for my mom to bring Goldie to school, I scroll through the photos I have saved. Inadvertently, I somehow click on the folders and one I have dedicated to Lemon shows on my screen. My thumb hovers over the icon while my mind goes back and forth on whether I should click on it.
A horn honks, getting my attention. I look out my window at my daughter—the only female to hold the key to my heart—waving excitedly at me. I get out and put my phone in my back pocket. I don’t need photos of Lemon to remind me of what we had or how much I loved her. Hell, most of me still loves her, but I’ve resigned myself to accepting we’ll never be anything but a memory.
I open the passenger side of my mom’s car and wait for Goldie to unbuckle. She launches into my arms, as if she hasn’t seen me for days or weeks, not hours. There is nothing better than the love of a child. She completes me in ways I could never imagine.
“How was breakfast with Grandma?” I ask as I set her down.
“Good. She made me pancakes.”
“Grandma’s pancakes are the best!”
I lean into my mom’s car. “Plans this morning?”
“Not really,” she says. “I have a few articles to write but nothing pressing.” My mom is a writer for our newspaper. Not that much happens in Magnolia. The once-a-week publication is loved by everyone in town though, so it’s not going anywhere anytime soon, despite the internet trying to put print out of business.
“Meet me at Jitterbug Coffee?”
“I’ll go get us a table.”
I tap the top of her car and then reach for Goldie’s hand. It’s not my intention to walk her into school every day, but I will as long as boys think they can pick on her. Once I find out who it is, I plan to go to their house and speak with their parents. I won’t tolerate kids picking on my daughter, let alone other kids. That shit only escalates the older they get if it’s not nipped in the bud now.
After making my presence known in Goldie’s class and speaking briefly with her teacher, I head to the office with my bill in hand. After the morning encounter with Lemon, I made sure to add the overtime I hadn’t planned to bill the school for.
As luck would have it, Lemon’s standing at the counter when I walk in. I set the bill on the counter. “Ms. Walsh, here’s my bill for the garden.”
She picks it up and her eyes widen. “Wade, this is . . . well, way more than I expected.”
“After hours work is double my normal rate,” I tell her.
“You did the work this morning.” She points the obvious.
“According to my website, my hours are from eight a.m. to five p.m. I was on-site this morning at five in the morning, doing a rush, emergency job for you.” I take the invoice from her and jot down another number and cross out the total, changing it to reflect the now emergency fee I calculated in my head. “Sorry, I forgot to add the additional fee in.”
Behind her, Jean snickers. It’s very telling how she knows what’s up. Believe me, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that if the elementary school needs something, it’s Jean who asks, never Lemon. Moving forward, I’m going to break that cycle. She can’t continue to hide behind her secretary.
“This is way over budget,” Lemon says quietly.
“Oh crap,” I say as I pull my phone out and open my invoicing app. “Let me check the estimate I submitted when you inquired about the project.” I pretend to scroll, act like I’m frustrated, and then sigh. “Huh, that’s odd. I don’t see the estimate here.” I close my phone and look at Lemon. “Oh, right. Because there isn’t one.”
Lemon fights hard not to roll her eyes. It’s an expression I’ve seen many times. Back in the day, I used to think it was cute. Today, it pisses me off. “Why you are being like this?” she asks under her breath.
I shake my head. “Have a good day, Ms. Walsh.” I exit and then turn around. “Fix the bullying issue without embarrassing my daughter or I’m going to the school board.”
“Wade—”
I don’t give her a chance to give me some fancy pants rebuttal or lame excuse. On my way out, I peek through the window of Goldie’s class and see her at her desk, smiling. I hope her grin stays there all day and she can actually enjoy herself.
When I finally make it to Jitterbug Coffee, the morning crowd has dissipated. I wave at Emma Sullivan who is a barista by day and bartender at night over at River’s Edge, as I make my way over to one of the tables in the corner. My mom sits there, sipping on a cup of coffee.