Page 23 of Upshot

“I rented it until the paperwork is finished, and I’m licensed to do my own inspections. In California anyway, but the owners weren’t picky.”

“Wouldn’t think so. They’ve been trying to sell it for a while. Rumor is there’s a ghost—” I hold my hand up before he can finish that sentence. I don’t want to hear some story about a wholesome family of five being brutally axe murdered by an escaped convict in this home.

Reed grins at me. “It’s supposed to be a ghost cat.” What the fuck?

“What?”

“Yeah, I guess you can hear it prowling around and eating at night. They even say you can hear it purr occasionally. It’s supposed to be the old lady’s last cat before they put her in the nursing home. The lady, not the cat.”

I just stare at him blankly. What else do you do when someone’s telling you that your new house is haunted by a damn cat? But then, I’ve never had a cat, so that might be nice.

“Anyway, I should get home before Austen sends out the troops to look for me. Keep the beer.” Reed looks around at the mess. “Are you staying here?”

“Not until the water is back on. I’m at the hotel on the edge of town.”

“What room did you get?”

“The John Wayne room?” I assume that’s what it is. “Or the cowboy room, maybe?”

“That’s not bad. You should see the Hill Country Hunting room. It’s impossible to sleep with so many eyes watching you.” He shivers. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it sounds horrible. “I think there are at least twenty mounted heads. Anyway, see you later.” He waves and walks out the door.

I’ll call a plumber tomorrow. Then I can buy a mattress to sleep on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I don’t want to move to a room with heads watching me. I’ll take the ghost cat every time over that.

nine

RAND

I’ve been here a week now. The house is coming along. Reed showed up the next night with not only beer in a cooler of ice but friends. It was like a frat party with hammers. The house is looking better though, so I can’t complain.

Tonight I have one group sanding the living room floors so I can re-stain them. Reed is helping pull out the tile in the master bathroom shower. Peter sent me some preliminary drawings. He’s showing up next week to walk through the house to help.

I appreciate the help, but at some point, I want to go it alone. There’s something I have in mind for one of the upstairs bedrooms. It’s painfully obvious that, if I don’t want everything I do to be fodder for the gossip in town, I have to do it on my own.

I wonder if I could convince one of the guys to call my father. How much beer would it take? I doubt there’s enough in the world to convince someone to willingly drop that bomb.

The floor sander shuts off, and everyone gives a collective sigh of relief. I drop to my knees and run my hand over the unique wood. Pecan? This will be amazing once the stain is on.

I wonder if Brontë will like it. I run my hand over another area. It has to be perfect. I don’t want our baby to ever get a splinter while he learns to walk. Or she. Not sexist here.

“Man, that looks nice,” Reed says from the stairs.

“Yeah, I think that’s it for the night. Did you get the tile pulled out?”

“Bringing the pieces down now. Y’all put that in the dumpster on the way out,” he adds, turning to the men coming down the stairs. Each one has a bag full of debris. The men say good night as they all filter into the night. I stand and stretch my back. “She’ll like this.”

“Do you think? I haven’t told her yet.”

“I know. I’ve sworn the guys to secrecy, but we can’t hold out forever. Austen is threatening to withhold sex if I don’t tell her where I’m sneaking off to soon. I’m a strong man, but we all have our limits. Don’t wait forever.” He claps me on the back and follows the rest of the guys.

I grab the beer they left me on the kitchen floor. Walking into the living room, I slump to the floor. Reed’s right. I need to tell Brontë that I didn’t go back to San Francisco as she expected. The fact I haven’t run into her around town is a miracle in itself. I doubt my luck will hold much longer. The problem is, I don’t know what to say to her.

The labs came back last week. I’m definitely the father. I guess the least I can do is tell my parents they’re about to become grandparents. This is a phone call I’m looking forward to as much as I’m looking forward to my next prostate exam. I pull my phone out and toy with it for a few minutes before pressing their number.

“Rand? Where are you?” my mother says when she answers. I figure I’ll start with her and work my way up to my father. “Hold on, your father is here. I’ll put you on speakerphone.” Well, crap. I hear it click over, then my father’s voice booms through the speaker.

“Where are you?” he demands.

“I’m still in Texas.”

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