them at the beach flea market. She could make endearing little landscapes, coquina seagulls flying toward scallop shell suns. If she started now, she might be finished with the stacks by the time she was ready to draw Social Security. If there was anything in her account.
Tracy stared glumly at the tile. When she’d picked up the two additional installers’ estimates, her morning had gone from bad to worse. If she paid either man to tile her floor, one of her tenants would find her lying on it, toes curled, eyes staring into eternity. She would leave a note explaining that she had starved to death, while the installer grew fat off her savings account.
She would not explain how to find her family. She and Herb could thumb their noses together from the grave.
A more experienced penny pincher would have known to price installation before buying the tile. She had been so proud of finding a bargain, but she’d still been thinking like a princess. Snap her dainty royal fingers, and the tiles would simply find their way to the floor, snuggle in perfect alignment and affectionately ooze grout in every direction. She hadn’t given the realities a thought, but even if she had, she would never have guessed just how much installation would cost.
“How hard can it be?” she asked out loud.
The tile didn’t answer, which was one bright spot in a dreary day.
She was contemplating whether to look for additional estimates when she heard a vehicle slow outside her cottage. Hoping it was Lee, she rounded the side and saw a newish pickup. She prayed an apologetic tile installer had mistakenly added a zero to his final total. But the cargo bed wasn’t filled with a workman’s tools. She saw fishing rods, a plastic cooler, collapsible canvas chairs.
When a little boy tumbled out of the passenger seat, springing off the running board like a gymnast on a trampoline, she exhaled sharply. Catching sight of her, he came to a halt, and his eyes narrowed.
The driver’s door slammed, and Tracy was pretty sure who was going to appear. She had less than a moment to inhale and prepare.
“Miss Deloche.” Marsh Egan, clad in what looked like the same cutoffs and a T-shirt that read Every Day is Earth Day, went to stand beside his son, slinging his arm around the boy, who was now squirming uncomfortably.
“So, what’s it this time?” she asked. “Did I leave bruises when I detained Bay this morning? Are you planning to work that into a court case against me?”
“Bay…” Marsh looked down at his son, who didn’t look up to meet his father’s eyes. “You know what you have to do.”
“I still don’t see why.”
“Because it’s the right thing. And we do the right thing in our family.”
“Yeah? Tell Mom that.”
Tracy was watching Marsh, and in the fading light she actually thought she saw him flush. Was there really something on God’s green earth that could make the man lose his confidence?
“Bay,” Marsh said, just a bit more sternly.
“SorryIkickedyou,” Bay slurred in a low voice.
Tracy wasn’t sure what to say. The boy wasn’t sorry. He looked sullen, even angry. He scuffed his toe in the dirt like a kid who was afraid if he didn’t do something with his foot, he was going to kick somebody.
“Thank you, son,” Marsh said.
“Uh, I’m sorry,” Tracy said, “but what exactly did you thank him for, Mr. Egan? That wasn’t an apology. It was a computer-generated message.”
Before Marsh could answer, she moved closer and bent down so she was on Bay’s level, resting her hands against the fronts of her thighs. “Listen, I know I short-circuited your plans this morning. But get over it, okay? You’re a kid, and I stopped you from doing something that would make your life a lot worse, even if you don’t see it right now.”
“I would have made it to freedom if you hadn’t been there.”
She pictured his little body hurtling through razor wire. She made certain not to smile, although for a moment, it was hard. “Trust me, while I was limping around all afternoon, I was wishing I’d been somewhere else, too.”
“I didn’t kick you that hard.”
Tracy pulled up the leg of her khaki pants, and pointed to a black-and-blue spot the size of an egg. “Want to see your handiwork? Or should I call this your footwork?”
Bay shrugged out from beneath his father’s arm and came closer to peer at her leg. He bit his lip, but he didn’t