Page 5 of Poppy Kisses
I typed out a reply.No problem thanks for letting me know. I typed my name and reread it. Read it again. Then sent it.
I tucked my phone into my pocket. “Time to go, bud.”
“I’m not done!”
“Eat and run.” I had a little leeway. His teacher, Miss Whitfield, knew he had tutoring this morning, and she was easier going than his past teachers. She hadn’t assumed shitty parenting for my son’s reading struggles like his last teacher had.
Two minutes later, I was in jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and we were on the road. A dust cloud kicked up behind me. The pastures around my house were leased out. The cattle roaming them weren’t Hollis beef. Mom shut down the ranch not long after Dad died. The fenced-off area by the old barn no longer held horses. I missed the sight. I had always thought I’d bring my family back and raise them where I had grown up. I had, only it was just me and Auggie.
The familiar pang of longing tugged at my heart. I missed being married, but I didn’t miss the arguing. Or the long absences. The lack of communication. The suspicion. I didn’t miss my ex, just the idea of marriage.
We passed the motel. A metallic-blue SUV was sandwiched between two dusty white work trucks that were probably oil field workers of some sort. It had to be Poppy’s.
How long was she in town? Had she changed since we’d been friends?
Who the hell hadn’t? I’d been through the wringer thanks to my ex. I was finally settling into a quiet life with my son. The familiar scratch of panic scraped across the back of my neck. But I’d be driving one of those work trucks to the mine, the refinery, or the oil fields if I couldn’t grow my cabinet business.
I pulled into the drop-off lane at the school. Three other cars were turning and burning at the same time, all of us butting up against the morning whistle. The playground attendant narrowed her eyes at me. I gave her a wave as Auggie scrambled out and I pulled away.
Before I went home to work in my shop, I had to stop at the grocery store. I went through the aisles, my empty cupboards and sparse fridge shelves flashing through my mind. I was combing through cereal options that didn’t feel like I was giving my kid dessert for breakfast when I heard, “Have you tried Jensen Hollis?”
I pulled to a stop. Me?
“Yeah.” The woman didn’t sound thrilled. Her voice was vaguely familiar. “I mean, I liked his work and he has good recommendations, but he writes like a fourth grader.”
Shame burned hot in my chest. My handwriting had been critiqued longer than how I strung a sentence together, and the sting never went away.
“He doesn’t need good grammar to work with wood,” the other woman said.
“He even spelled his name wrong.”
I winced. Fuck. Had I? When?
“And he kept calling me Isabull when he took the measurements,” the second woman continued. “Even this morning, he had no punctuation in his one sentence with his misspelled name.”
“Wow, that’s too bad.”
My cheeks were burning and a brush fire swept over my skin. Childhood embarrassment mingled with adult humiliation. If they saw, I’d feel ten times worse. Biting back a groan, I pivoted with the shopping cart.
I had not called IsabelIsabull.
Had I?
I’d check that damn reply.
This wasn’t the first time I’d lost a job because I’d jacked up something I’d written. An email, a promotional brochure, typos on my website. It was like Whac-A-Mole, only half the time, I didn’t notice the mole.
Since my divorce, I’d had to bootstrap expenses. I had done my own printing materials until I realized I was hurting myself more. Then I had relied on word of mouth, but the more new people moved to Coal Haven, the less they knew my real reputation. I could build the shit out of anything. I might have nearly failed high school because of English, but I never messed up a measurement.
Well, not never, but the customer wasn’t usually standing right next to me to see me fix my mistakes.
I grabbed a brightly colored box of cereal and tossed it in my cart before beelining to the checkout.
Delores beamed at me from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Howdy, Jensen. How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. How ’bout you?” I dug out my wallet. Down the aisle across from the register, two women sauntered around the corner, pushing carts. One had a baby carrier and the other had a toddler playing with cans in her cart.
Isabel glanced at me. Her eyes flared, and her gaze skated away.
