Page 10 of Starting Over

Now, here is where it would be smart and not tell the biker I just met where the house I would be living in was, but if the town was as small as I believed it to be, he’d know soon anyway.

“Out on Dawson St.”

“Dawson? You didn’t buy the old Sullivan place, did you?”

“Um, I don’t know who owned it previously, but it’s a white clapboard house with five acres. A two-story with three bedrooms and two bathrooms.”

King looked at Tank, who winced.

“Lady, that place is awful,” Tank said.

“What do you mean? The pictures looked great. It might need a little work, but I’m looking forward to making it my own.”

“It needs more than a little work. The place has been gutted; it needs a complete overhaul. Kristy must have shown you old pictures.”

“No, they were recent. I saw the studs.”

“And you still bought it?” Tank asked. The way he stared told me he thought I was crazy.

“Yea. I came here to start my life over. To make it mine. It was only fitting that the new house I bought got to start over too.” I smiled at the incredulous look they both gave me. Tank shook his head as he walked toward the back of the truck to hook up my car to be towed.

“Do you know what you’re doing? I mean, do you know how to fix stuff?”

“Believe it or not, yes, I do. I may have been a housewife for the past thirty years, but I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.”

“Thirty years? Where’s your husband?”

“He passed away last year,” I uttered.

I wouldn’t elaborate that he was murdered. I wouldn’t even elaborate about my life before now. As far as I was concerned, Maureen Murphy died in the street alongside her husband.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Um, how old are you?” King asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

I tilted my head, raising one eyebrow in question. Didn’t he know you never asked a woman her age?

“How old do I look?” I asked, my hands planted on my hips.

“Fuck, I ain’t answering that,” he said with a smirk.

“I’m forty-eight,” I answered.

“Damn, woman. I wouldn’t have guessed that. I would have thought forty at most,” King admitted.

“Thank you, but I’m at the age I don’t succumb to bullshit.”

“I ain’t bullshitting you.”

Before I could say more, Tank let us know he had Betty hooked up and was ready to leave.

King said he would follow us to the motel, so I climbed into the tow truck with Tank.

We drove in silence for a few minutes before Tank spoke.

“He ain’t so bad, you know.”

I turned to look at the big man next to me. “Who? King?”

“The sheriff.”

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