Page 4 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

“It better,” Agnes growls, vibrating with barely checked rage. “Otherwise the Organizing Goddess will get a piece of my mind.”

“I wouldn’t risk it, Agnes,” Dorothy says, still inspecting the wound in the bark. She runs a ring-clad hand down the hard, smooth trunk. “There’s so little of your mind to begin with. Parting with any of it would be dangerous to your health.”

“Oh, go burn some sage and be quiet, you tree-hugging hussy.” Agnes stomps toward my front garden bed and glares at the riotous colors of the petunias bursting from my pots. At least none of my other plants were damaged. My sister’s favorite turquoise glazed pot remains unharmed.

But the tree wasn’t quite so lucky. A snarl curls my upper lip.

Dorothy ignores her and wraps her arms around the magnolia, probably to spite the other woman. “You’ll be okay,” she tells the green bark. “I promise.”

When she kisses the tree trunk, I decide it’s time for me to get back to work. I hook the van up to my tow truck, bid the ladies a pleasant and safe rest of the walking tour, and promise to have a beer with Mac later in the week. Then I make my way back to the garage and drop the van in the yard, resolving not to look at it until the honey-voiced devil woman ponies up some money. I’ll be damned if I’m doing her any favors.

Still grumbling to myself, I head to the elementary school to pick up my nephew from his summer day camp. While I’m leaning against the side of my truck, waiting, Danny runs out, dirty-blond ringlets wild around his head—just like his mother’s used to be. My heart squeezes.

“Hey, buddy.” I open the door for the ten-year-old.

“Remy! We played capture the flag and my team won!” He launches himself into the seat and bounces up and down in excitement. “I’m the one who got the flag! Everyone was cheering and we did a dogpile, but then Mrs. Wilson got mad and said dogpiles are dangerous.”

I chuckle and wait for him to clip himself in. “She’s probably right about that.”

“But we still won.”

“You did,” I confirm, then close the car door. I head around to the driver’s side and put my seatbelt on. “You okay with going to the garage for a bit? I have a few things to finish up.”

“Can I help?”

I grin, putting the car in gear. “Sure, buddy.”

“Cool.” His feet kick up as we drive, knocking against the bottom of the glove compartment in regular thumps.

My sister and her husband passed away nearly three years ago. I’d give anything to have her back, but I never knew how deeply I could care about someone until Danny came into my custody.

It was worth the heartache of the divorce, worth the hell that followed. That smile on Danny’s face is worth anything. After my sister’s death, I think Danny saved me from the ocean of grief that washed over me. Some days, I indulge myself in thinking I saved him too.

When we get to the garage, Danny jumps out and follows me inside. I complete an oil change for a regular customer and her beat-up Volkswagen that’s been on its last legs for a decade or two, then I bring Danny into the office to finish up some paperwork.

My nephew takes a seat on one of the boxes stacked against the wall, crossing his legs while he grabs a socket set from the shelf beside him. I rummage around the desk for the Volkswagen invoice, clicking my tongue when I can’t find it. It’s not in the folder where it’s meant to be, nor is it in my pile of Need-To-Organize paperwork that is usually a catch-all for all the things I’ve yet to file and which, if I were honest, would really be called the Will-Never-Be-Organized pile.

Finally, I find the invoice crumpled at the back of one of my drawers, behind some tools and a collection of pens that no longer work. I smooth it out in front of me, trying to keep the frustration at bay. Jeff Owens, the guy who owns the garage, used to have a bookkeeper and a cleaner, but he’s had to downsize in recent years. Now all of this is up to me, and I’m not keeping up the way I should be. It’s too much work for one man to take on, but unless I buy the place and run it myself, nothing’s going to change.

By the time I’ve finished the paperwork for the day, I’m antsy and frustrated, but I swallow it down and tell Danny it’s time to go. We head out into the main garage space and I head for my Chevy—and then I see the van.

My eyes drift over to the pink silhouette of the goddess leaning on the swooping font, and I discover I can’t just walk away from it.

“Hold on, kid. One more thing to do.”

“That busted-up van?” Danny asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“What happened?”

“She ran into our magnolia tree.”

Danny straightens, intrigued by that tidbit of information.

I guide him over to the van and pop the dented hood. “Grab that light,” I tell Danny, motioning to one of the work lamps by the wall. “Let’s figure out what’s wrong with it.”

Danny scampers to grab the light, and then the two of us get to work finding out why the Organizing Goddess of Heart’s Cove decided to use my tree to stop her car.

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