Page 79 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

“How?”

“It would make Leia happy.”

He frowns again but says, “Go on.”

Summarizing what Avery told me a few weeks ago, leaving out a few details about Leia’s relationship with Travis, I explain how Trede’s relocation has exacerbated spiking home prices in Climax.

Eli shrugs. “I’ll just buy her a house.”

“I don’t think that’s really the point. Yes, Leia is worried that she’s getting priced out, but she’s also concerned about her friends and employees. Buying her a house doesn’t help—wait a minute.” My heart skips a beat. “That-that’s it.”

I’m on my feet and halfway out the door by the time Eli calls, “What’s it?”

“Sorry, I just figured something out. I’ll put together something more detailed, get some quotes, and circle back… um, later.”

“You’d better fix things with that Avery person,” he yells as I exit my office. “I need to stay on the mayor’s good side.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” I call over my shoulder as I sprint to the elevators.

ChapterTwenty-Six

AVERY

Bert Harmon has accompanied Percy to Playgroup for the past two weeks. Two days after we returned from the conference, he showed up, mumbling something about Frieda needing to stay off her ankle and Josh being swamped at work, but the real reason is obvious to me. Neither of them wants to see me again. Which hurts, especially because I felt such a close bond with Mabel, and I fall further in love with Percy every time I see him.

It makes the end of Playgroup both easier and harder to face.

For better or worse, I’m truly swamped at work. The mayor and the school superintendent are both so excited about the aftercare idea that they want to push it through for the spring semester. Leia used the opportunity to get the funding approved for another program admin which has freed up some of my time, but I’m still spending every free moment setting up systems so families can sign up, interviewing part-time hires to supervise the teen workers and lead enrichment activities, working with the school transpo people to reroute buses and drivers, marketing the program, and fielding a bazillion questions.

It’s not easy, but it’s fulfilling.

As well as a good funnel for the anger-fueled energy buzzing through me. I’m not letting the shirt-for-brains doctor or that son of a biscuit Peter make me feel like shiitake mushrooms anymore. Instead, at Daisy’s suggestion, I’ve started a gratitude journal.

This morning, for instance, I’m grateful for the chance to live on my own for the first time in my life. My brother has secured a spot for my parents at a retirement community with on-site medical services as well as lots of social opportunities and a bus that drives them to both. A realtor friend of my sister’s is eager to put the house on the market and my siblings have deposited a chunk of money in my savings account that just might be enough for a deposit on a small house in Climax.

The realtor also got me preapproved for a loan, so I’ve been trolling the real estate websites, ready to pounce on anything that seems doable, and secretly hoping my grandparents’ old place will go up for sale.

Pressing send on the email that ticks off the final item of the morning’s to-do list, I click over to check on listings before I take my lunch break.

And my stomach drops. “What in the halibut?”

“You okay?” Carl Conrad asks from the doorway to my office. “You look like someone died.”

I just stare at the screen, trying to understand what I’m seeing.

He steps farther into the room. “Seriously, Avery. Should I call someone?” When I look up, he blanches. “Oh, no. Don’t cry.”

I swipe a hand across my face. “I’m not crying.”

“Okay, well. Just in case.” A blindingly white, pressed handkerchief appears in front of my face. “Take this.”

I take it but return my attention to the screen. “How…?”

“Are you sure you don’t, like, need anything?” Conrad asks, sounding like he really hopes I don’t.

“What I need is for this forking house to not be sold after being on the market for, like, ten minutes.” I’m so angry, the words feel like daggers coming out of my mouth, but it doesn’t stop me from shooting laser eyes at Conrad. Just because he’s standing there, not because I think our facilities manager can fix this problem. “Can you do something about that?”

“Um. Well, maybe.”

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