Six months ago, Mackenzie’s little stunt would have made him laugh and worry about her blood pressure. Today, it filled him with the urge to do something childish like put Led Zeppelin on the stereo and turn up the volume to bleeding-eardrum level so that it rattled her windows.
He released his breath on an exasperated exhalation. It didn’t take a psychologists’ convention to work out where the impulse stemmed from and who his anger was really directed at.
Edie.
Except she was a thousand miles away and he hadn’t spoken to her for more than three months.
Because he didn’t know what to do with all the anger Mackenzie had inadvertently triggered in him, he strode through the house and into the yard, aiming for the shed in the far corner. Nothing like a distraction to avoid dealing with his feelings.
Strudel kept pace with him, her whiskered face bright with doggy anticipation. At least one of them was getting something out of this.
He was struggling with the rusty latch on the shed when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen before deciding to take the call. It was Brent, his brother.
“You there yet or still on the road?” Brent asked.
“Got here a couple of hours ago.”
“How’s the place looking?”
“Old.”
“Coat of paint will fix that. I’ve been doing some research. Looks like the big-gun real-estate agent in the area is Dixon and Lane.”
Oliver gave the latch a thump with his fist. “It’ll be a while before I can call the agents in, mate.” The latch finally gave and he pulled the door open. “Bloody hell.”
“What?”
“The garden shed is stuffed with furniture.” His gaze ran over chairs, a sideboard, a dresser, a bed frame, all of it crammed cheek by jowl and covered with dust.
“Any good stuff?”
“I have no idea.” It all looked old-fashioned and heavy to him, but what did he know?
“We should get an evaluator in. One of those guys who specializes in estates,” Brent said.
“I guess.”
“You sound tired.”
“Lot of road between here and Sydney.”
“That’s kind of the point, though, right?”
Oliver shut the shed door and used his shoulder to hold it in place while he forced the rusty bolt home. “Yeah.”
“I’ll let you go. Speak again tomorrow, okay?” Brent said.
Oliver suppressed a sigh. Ever since he’d told his brother about Edie and Nick, Brent had been checking in with him daily. As though Oliver would “do something stupid” if he didn’t have his hand held.
“You don’t have to keep up the suicide watch, you know. I’m pissed off, but I’m hardly going to end it all,” he said drily.
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant thunder of surf.
“You’re not on suicide watch,” Brent said stiffly.
“Whatever you want to call it. I don’t need my hand held.”
“Excuse me for caring.”
Brent sounded pissed now. Oliver ran his hand through his hair.
“I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But you don’t need to babysit me.”
“Sure. I’ll speak to you later.” Brent hung up.
Oliver congratulated himself on being a dick. Brent was a good guy. A little fussy sometimes, but maybe that came with the territory when you were the older brother. Rewarding his concern with smart-assery was a kid’s way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.
Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Oliver promised himself he’d call Brent tomorrow. He surveyed the garden, looking for Strudel before he headed into the house. He frowned when he saw her doing the doggy meet-and-greet routine with the neighbor’s dachshund.
“How did you get over here?” He glanced at the fence that separated the two properties. It was silver with age, but it looked solid enough. Obviously there must be a hole somewhere.
“Strudel. Come here, girl. Come here.”
His normally obedient schnauzer didn’t so much as glance in his general direction. She was too busy canoodling with her new best friend, sniffing and dancing around and generally being coy.
Oliver went after her, scanning the fence line as he walked. Sure enough, he found a half-rotted board and a hole that was sufficiently large for a determined dachshund to gain entrance.
“Party’s over, buddy.” He reached down to scoop up the dachshund. The dog wriggled desperately, but Oliver kept a tight grip, only releasing him when he’d arrived at the fence. He squatted, pointed the dog at the hole and stood guard until the sausage dog had wiggled into his own yard. There were a few loose bricks in the garden bed nearby and Oliver used them to build a blockade. He’d