Page 35 of Pining for You

12

CHLOE

I don’t remember driving home, or letting myself into my apartment, or undressing and running the shower, which I stood under until the scalding hot water grew cold. Eventually, my shivering forced me to turn off the water and grab my towel.

Every carefully planned discussion point that I’d come up with last night seemed wrong today. Okay, I told myself as I rubbed the towel over my hair, Brad’s a nice guy. He’s funny. I like our conversations, and his work ethic. He’s got a good job that pays well. He lives in a reasonable apartment, drives a truck that suits his job and from what I’d gathered, his income. I’d met most of his family and they seemed down to earth. His friends were normal too. There had been none of the red flags that I’d arbitrarily dismissed when I’d been dating—and married to—Tony.

I stopped toweling my hair and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Why was I avoiding him?

Because I was scared. Scared of being hurt again. Scared of being betrayed. Scared of having to face friends and family who would wonder how I had failed so hugely. Had such awful, terrible, bad judgment. Again. If I ended up being left in the lurch, left with hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt, I had nowhere to run. Port Paxton was my safe place, my haven.

I was judging Brad, assuming him guilty of being bad with his money, of being like Tony. Why? I’d made assumptions based upon snippets of a conversation. The way I’d run away from the party, from Brad, was an act I’d expect from a teenager, not a woman in her forties with a freaking business degree. I needed to be level-headed. I needed to talk with Brad, to ask him about the loan, and to not take it personally that he hadn’t mentioned it to me. I hadn’t mentioned any huge details to him, either. We’d never talked about any sort of deeper levels of commitment beyond the here and now, so why I was expecting answers to questions I had no right to ask?

I dried my hair, French braided it, and pulled on my favorite T-shirt and shorts. Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door, slung my purse over my shoulder, and left, assured that I was going to be a strong and capable woman.

Yet, for reasons I didn’t understand, instead of driving across the island to the other side of the lake where Perry Beach is located, I found myself pulling into the left-hand turn lane to the road that led to Marilyn Bordon’s house.

Marilyn was in her back yard, Henrietta tucked beneath her arm. The two of them stood next to a chicken roost that hadn’t been there last time I’d visited. Brad’s handiwork no doubt. Inside the run were five new chickens—one fully white with a red comb, a white-and-black one, and three golden birds.

She turned and greeted me with a huge smile. “Come to see my new girlies?” Without waiting for my reply, she pointed to each chicken, starting with the checkerboard one. “That’s Margaret Hatcher. She’s a Barred Plymouth Rock.” Her finger moved to the white one. “That’s Snowball. She’s a Chantecler. The three golden ones are Eggatha Christie, Amelia Egghart, and Quackers.”

“Quackers? But she’s a hen. Wouldn’t you call a duck Quackers?” I couldn’t stop myself.

Marilyn shrugged. “That’s what she answers to, so that’s what I am calling her.”

All righty then. “What does Henrietta think of them?”

“She’s not happy with me right now. Or them. I don’t know if I’ll be ever able to trust her to roost with them. But time will tell.” She stroked Henrietta who pecked at her.

“You get them for the eggs or for the pot?”

“Eggs, of course.” There was an “isn’t it obvious” snap in Marilyn’s voice.

Which it wasn’t, considering she’d brought a roast chicken to a potluck party we’d both attended the month before.

“I plan on putting a sign on the road if I end up with extra eggs. The cottagers might buy them. Or maybe I’ll set up a little stand at the farmers’ market.” She placed Henrietta on the ground and let her strut around the back yard. “Now, what brings you out all this way instead of staying home playing kissy face with your man?”

“Kissy face? Seriously?”

She waved a hand dismissively and headed back to the patio where she gestured to a chair underneath a faded umbrella. “Whatever you kids call it these days. What’s wrong, and why are you here instead of talking with your mom?”

Good question.

Because it was easier to talk relationships with Marilyn than it was with my mom, but I didn’t want to admit that. Mom had stood by me during the toughest days of my divorce and all the drama that entailed, so I didn’t want to dump more on her. Or admit I might be about to screw up yet another relationship.

What happened with Tony was not your fault. You didn’t wreck that relationship, he did, Amanda’s voice chimed loud in my head.

“I need an…outside opinion.”

“All right, shoot.” Marilyn sat down in the chair opposite me, crossed her feet primly like a duchess, and watched me, expectantly.

I explained about the conversation I’d overheard and gave her more details than I’d ever shared with anyone outside my family and Amanda about my marriage to Tony. “So you see, I don’t want to get into another relationship where the guy isn’t responsible with his money. I don’t want to end up responsible for all his debts, and Brad…”

“Brad what?” she prompted. “Brad went for a loan but didn’t tell you about it. And that bothers you.”

I nodded.

“Have you discussed your finances with him?”

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