Shock - Marie Johnston Page 0,42

company maintains the pool, but Maggie monitors it in case of algae blooms. It’s easier to cut her a deal than to keep bringing each contractor out. She planned to be the one to do the work, but Ford is always here helping her. It’s gone a long way toward whittling down the debt his stepdad left.

Ford straightens from the rock-filled flower bed he’s weeding and wipes his brow. “Are you okay with that?”

As if I have other plans on a Sunday night. Even if I did, I’d rather be here. “That’s fine.”

I’m enjoying my time. So far, I haven’t gotten to visit with Maggie much. She’s been in full grandma mode, and that’s been its own joy to watch. She was on the floor, crawling around with her grandson. Ford brought a Sunnyville EMS tote bag full of toys over and a pair of tiny swimming trunks.

I expected stuffed animals or something, but there was only one. Half the toys make noise and hold Jayden’s interest for maybe five minutes. Then there are the building blocks, both the Duplos and some plain wooden ones with letters and shapes etched into them. Jayden gnaws on them both.

Ford takes his work gloves off and nimbly steps out of the rocks to the grass. “Hey, Mom, mind if we take Jayden in the pool before supper’s ready?”

“Not at all. I’ll get him ready while you change.”

I look down at my dusty shorts. I haven’t sweat through my T-shirt material, so I’m still presentable, but I didn’t bring a swimsuit.

Humor mixes with suggestion. “You can strip down to your bra and underwear.”

“That will go over well if Cass finds out.”

He chuckles and picks up the bucket of weeds we pulled. “I’ll be in the water with him and we’re staying in the shallow end.”

“I can sit on the edge.”

Ford disappears into the tool shed on the other side of the twinkling blue pool and cleans up everything while I swat the dust off me, then go inside to wash up.

When I’m done, I check with Maggie in the kitchen. “Do you need help with anything?”

She’s showing Jayden all the different ingredients she’s going to use for the meal. She leaves him with a colander and a wooden spoon and crosses to me. “Not at all. You’re going swimming?”

“They are.” I point to my clothes. “I’ll spectate.”

“I’m so glad you could come today.”

The happiness in her eyes drags on the blanket of deception I’m hiding under. I’m lying to this wonderful woman. I was never nervous around Maggie the few times I met her before, but her delighted expression makes me want to run.

I default to the deflection-by-flattery tactics I used for talking with my mom’s donors. “Thanks for having me over. Whatever you’re making, it looks like it’ll be delicious.”

She glances at the fresh vegetables piled next to the box of pasta. “Don’t those tomatoes look too good to eat? I think they call them heirloom tomatoes, but they were too pretty not to buy.” She sighs wistfully. “It’s so nice to be able to splurge every now and then.”

I’m glad Maggie reached the buy farmer’s market tomatoes level of splurging, but that’s not a huge impulse purchase.

“I also bought the lettuce there, too. They were actually cheaper than the supermarket, and I bet each leaf has so much more flavor.”

My parents used to have the best produce delivered on grocery days. Our housekeeper would accept the delivery and put the load away. I heard her once when I was a teenager muttering about how much better the one percent eat.

I didn’t know at the time what the one percent was. Living on my own, making my own meager wage, I get that now. Just like I get Maggie’s thrill at being able to buy local and pay a little more for quality.

The first month I lived on my own and enrolled in the EMT program at Sunnyville EMS, I blew a large chunk of savings. A new, if plainer wardrobe, sparse furniture, and the EMT course—it wasn’t cheap. I was coming off a job that paid well and I no longer had incoming money or someone to share expenses with. Of course, my fiancé both shared our living expenses and employed me, which made lining up my own career that much more important.

I’m finally building savings again. The thought of What next? has popped up more than once. I’ve never had an answer.

What next?

I love Mrs. Rosenthal, but she’s not going to