Page 21 of Dahlia Made A List

A sigh floated out of the phone. “Heavens, I miss your granddad.”

I bit my tongue. I missed my granddad, too. My inability to decipher letters and words didn’t embarrass him like it did my parents. He and Grams were the ones to get me tested, much to the shame of my overly proud Weston father. Their confirmation that it wasn’t stubbornness slowing my reading down, but severe dyslexia, came close to severing their relationship with my parents.

My grandparents had two daughters, my mother who married a Weston, while the other married a Pendleton, and the Conroy name would die with Grams. But in Granddad’s day, the Conroy name had as much influence in 3C as Weston did. He’d been a pillar of the community, mayor several times, and on the Weston Mill town council for as long as I could remember. Proud of his heritage and glad to serve the residents as his ancestors had done before him, he would tell me. Proud of me, too. When even my parents turned their heads away in embarrassment.

“What’s up, Grams?”

“I’m gonna sign these papers turning his drive-in over to you, but you’re gonna do me a favor first.”

The back of my neck itched. The needling kind of itch you got after a mosquito bite. “What’s that?”

“Help Dahlia Whitcombe out with her list.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m already teaching her to drive.”

She inhaled, sudden and sharp enough that the sound carried from her phone to mine. I was surprised she didn’t already know my involvement in Dahlia’s driving.

“That’s wonderful, Wy. Thank you so much. I gave her Easy Wade’s information. Figured if anyone would have the patience, that woman would seein’ as she puts up with that wild brother of hers and now Arlo Beck, too.” Grams sighed again, this time the sound echoing with contentment. “But you’re an even better choice.”

And that’s why I’d be agreeing to whatever she asked of me. Grams didn’t see a defective grandson. She saw a grandson who didn’t let her down.

“Dahlia’s got a whole list in front of her and a lot of determination but no one to call on for help.”

The prickling on the back of my neck turned to a burn. The ember inside me flickered into a tiny flame. I ran my hand over my skin as if I could smother the burn. Shoved my ball cap off and scrubbed through my flattened hair, as if I could scrub away the awareness the woman roused in me. “I’ll do what I can.”

We finished our call, I paid for my purchases and headed back outside.

Wes Stratton, the new chief of police and resident pain in my ass, stood on the sidewalk eying my Silverado. Wes and I went way back, all the way to seventh grade when Darcy Hillbanger invited me to the Sadie Hawkins dance instead of him. He hated my guts. The feeling was mutual, since Stratton was a fuckin’ clown.

“Your truck’s half on the sidewalk, Weston. You can’t be parking like this.”

I ignored him, rounding the hood and yanking open the driver’s side door.

“Next time I see you parked like this, I’m writing you up!”

I gave him a two fingered salute as I revved the engine and drowned out whatever shit the asshole had to say. How he got appointed head of the police, I would never understand.

Two minutes later, I pulled the Silverado into a streetside parking spot smack in front of Maia’s Beauty Spa, irritated that I knew when the place closed. Irritated that I knew her schedule. Irritated that I cared about the woman getting off work in the middle of the night after another spring storm.

I thumped the steering wheel, but then the door swung wide and Dahlia appeared. She wore a short black and white polka-dotted skirt that stopped so far up her legs, I found myself glad we had no wind in the air today. Her cotton-candy hair hung in fat curls around her shoulders and down her back. My mouth watered and I ripped my gaze from her to dig in the truck console for one of the Werthers I kept stashed there.

She bounced over to the passenger side of the truck and I cursed. Somehow, the sight of her made me forget my manners. She pulled the door open and grinned up at me. “I beat you!”

She tossed her bag on the floorboard, then settled two insulated totes people liked to use for grocery shopping and hauled herself inside without waiting for an invitation. “I didn’t expect to see you outside the door of the salon. Figured we’d meet up at my apartment.”

I kicked my thumb toward the backseat. “Had to pick up some things.”

“I’ve been going over recipes online all day between clients,” she said, fastening her seat belt. “Tonight we’re having pan-fried chicken with green beans and cherry tomatoes.”

I grunted.

“I asked the girls and I feel like I want to stick to Southern dishes, but with a modern spin. I found this amazing website that is just overflowing with ideas, everything from breakfast to dessert. It’s just perfect.” She motioned towards her feet and grinned over at me. “I got all the fixin’s during my lunch break. Really glad I don’t have to walk home with such a load. Thanks for the ride, Wyatt.”

With a flex of my jaw, I crushed the Werthers between my teeth, the buttery caramel flavor filling my mouth and enough of a distraction, I managed to put the truck in gear and get us to 26 Redbud.

She jumped down and stood on the sidewalk as I hauled my toolbox out of the bed of the truck. She eyed the Ace Hardware bag dangling from my other hand. “Stairs need work,” I said to her unspoken question.

“They do?”

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