Olivia
I glance up the abandoned platform for possibly the hundredth time in an hour. Aside from the hanging baskets of Silver Bells and a giant clock that ticks loudly and is two minutes too slow, the bus station is empty. Greyson said he’d be here to pick me up at three, but it’s ten after four, and I’d bet my last dime that he isn’t coming. With a final glance along the platform, I gather up my cases and heft them toward the stairs.
There are a few things that the Cotton’s should know about me: One, I devote a good deal of my time to helping others. I rescue dogs from death row, and I pair them with broken Marines. It’s damn hard work, but I haven’t found a Marine yet who I couldn’t fix. The tougher the Marine, the tougher the challenge, and I ain’t ever been one to walk away from a challenge.
Two, I’m a southern woman, born and raised. That means I like my clothes pressed, my face made up, and my hair big. Three, my purse contains all the essentials and the kitchen sink. And four, I might have just the smallest itty-bitty obsession with nice lingerie.
I swear on all things holy it’s an expensive habit I’ve tried hard to break, but like my penchant for men who are all wrong for me, Snickerdoodles and Birthday Cake Oreos, I never could just stop at one. I’m a firm believer that a woman should be able to look in the mirror and appreciate her body no matter the size or shape in a nice pair of panties. So, all of this is to say that the cases I’m lugging down the platform steps are anything but light. I’m not even sure I know how to pack light.
I lug the bags downstairs one by one. There’s no one around—not even a clerk at the ticket dispenser. That’s Sundays in small towns, I guess. It’s the same in Fairhope, and anywhere else you might go in the South. Sundays are for church and family or in my case . . . for making love to my vibrator. After my last failed relationship, I’ve sworn off men for a while. There are more than a few upsides to this. For one, there isn’t anybody there to eat my Oreos. The downside? There isn’t anybody to eat my, er … Oreo.
After working up a sweat with my bags, I make it out onto the street, and surprise, surprise, it’s empty. If the apocalypse had torn through here last night, turning all of the good people of Magnolia Springs into zombies who shambled into another town, no one would have known. The buildings are old but well maintained, there are Black-eyed Susans and Purple Dome Aster in the flowerbeds, and there isn’t a single building that takes away from the town’s old-world southern charm. Magnolia Springs is a community well loved, and one well-kept, as the mayor had promised me on the phone. I don’t care how the town presents; I’m more concerned with the occupants of it.
For years, the Magnolia Springs bus station has transported fresh-faced boys and girls off to war, and I am betting more than half of those kids have never come home. The ones who have returned? Well, they’re mine now. At least, they will be, given time. The broken, the able-bodied and not-so-able-bodied, and the ones who find themselves here wandering around this modern-day war zone we call life not knowing why they returned or wanting any part of the living. Those men and women are my wheelhouses. They’re the reason I’m here.
My shelter, Paws for Cause, has rehomed abused and abandoned dogs, trained them up and paired them with more than five thousand ex-infantrymen. We’ve saved more lives than any free-standing organization associated with the military. Therapy dogs work, and I am stupidly excited about bringing the possibility of hope and companionship to the people of Magnolia Springs.
I just have to find Tanglewood, the big old plantation house on the outskirts of town that has been transformed into a bed and breakfast first. Tanglewood will serve as my lodging for the next month until I can get myself sorted with a rental. I booked a room there over the phone months ago, and Greyson, his wife, Pearl, and I have stayed in touch ever since. It’s odd that they didn’t show at the station, given that when we last spoke, they’d both been real excited at the idea of my coming to town. They have a son who needs my help, and after learning a little about the Marine, I didn’t argue with them. He’s off traveling around this great and vast nation, but maybe by the time the shelter is up and running, I’ll have the perfect four-legged traveling buddy for him.
Right now, I just need a bus, a taxi—hell, I’ll even settle for a damn lift from a stranger, because carrying these bags in this heat is murder. After a long bath and a decent night’s sleep, I can finally start work on the next chapter of my life.
I pull my phone out of my purse and bring up Tanglewood’s address, then I open another browser and punch it into Google Maps, just to see how far I might be walking. Three miles. Too far with these bags. I’m just about to call up a taxi service when my phone flashes its little memory bar at me like a warning too late, and the screen goes dead. Shoot. I didn’t bring my portable charger with me. Of course, I have the actual charger in my suitcases, but then I don’t see no power point to plug into. It’s late afternoon on a Sunday, and there isn’t another soul around. None of the businesses are open on Oak Street, so I take a stab in the dark about which direction I’m supposed to be heading, according to the brief glimpse I got on Google Maps. I pick up my bags and start walking.
What feels like three hours later, but is most probably only one, I stumble across Tanglewood Road on the outskirts of town, and find the huge Greek Revival-style plantation house. It’s crisp and white, and has these huge Greek columns with dark green shutters over the French doors, and what I swear is the longest oak-lined driveway in history. I drop my bags at the gate and pull my hair back off my face. I had my best friend Ellie cut and color it before I left. She’s a hairdresser, the best in Fairhope, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to manage it without her.
I walk through the gate, past the little swinging sign that says Tanglewood Bed & Breakfast, and I feel like smacking the damn thing. Walking three miles in the southern heat with more than half your weight in luggage entitles you to a complaint or two in my book. By the time I reach the front porch, I’m practically dragging my suitcases behind me in the dirt. Sweat trickles down my spine, my shoes are covered in dust, and my feet ache like the devil himself done gone and stepped on them. I leave my bags where they are and carefully navigate the stairs, wincing each time the hard leather rubs against my blistered flesh. I need to get these boots off before my feet swell so much I have to cut them free with a pair of gardening shears.
I grab the door knocker and bang three times. Nothing. No footsteps, no “just a minute.” Just … nothing.
I try again, knocking louder this time … because I want them to hear me, not because I’m almost at my wit’s end. I need a long luxurious bath. With bubbles. There had better be bubbles.
“Hello?” I shout to the brilliant white façade of the front door. “Pearl? Greyson?”
Still nothing.
I ring the polished brass bell next to the door, hard. Ding, ding, ding. No answer. I trudge down the stairs, and I’m fixing to lose my shit completely when a beat up white truck pulls into the drive and begins the long descent. It feels like it takes forever for the vehicle to stop in front of the house, and I’m practically accosting the man inside before he can make it out.
“Hi, I’m sorry,” I say, heading toward the truck. “I’m looking for—”
“We said no visitors.”
I frown and balk at his sharp tone. “Well, okay but I’m supposed to …”
He climbs out and slams the door behind him. The man is tall and built like a grizzly bear. He stands opposite me, and I thank the good Lord that the hood of his truck is between us because it’s clear that it’s more than just his build that’s grizzly. “What’s the matter with you? You show up here on a Sunday? Today, of all days? Whatever it is you want, whatever they owe, you can wait until they’re—”
“Okay, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot here.” I hold my hands out in a warding gesture, and I’m sure my eyes are as round as dinner plates. “I’m Olivia Anders. I’m supposed to—”
“Lady, I don’t give a shit who you are,” he says, leaning over the hood. “Now if you don’t get off this property I’m gonna call the sheriff.”
“Whoa,” I say, backing up a step. “Okay, big guy, I don’t know what your problem is, but I need to see Pearl and Greyson. I was told there would be a car waiting at the station to pick me up. I paid for that service, along with my room a month in advance, so I’d really like to speak with the owners of this house.”
“Then you’re gonna have to visit the cemetery,” he says slowly and clearly, as if I were a child who had trouble comprehending plain English.
“Oh, lord, it’s not their son, is it? Greyson said he was troubled. I’ve known plenty of vets who couldn’t be around their family after returning home. War is traumatic, and—”
“What do you know about it?” he says.
“Plenty, actually. It’s what I do—work with Marines. I pair them with service dogs, and from the sounds of things, he could really use my help.” I tuck my hair behind my ears because it’s a hundred degrees out and the tousled waves that I’d created this morning are practically sticking to my forehead like wet noodles. “I’ve dealt with a lot of men and women in denial about their post-traumatic stress disorder, but from what Greyson has told me, their son takes the cake. I’m itching to get my hands on him.”
“Their son’s just fine,” he snaps.
I frown. Lord. This guy needs to eat a Happy Meal or two. I make a study of where my bags are at, preparing to run as fast and as far as I can and get the hell outta here, devil feet or not, but a soft voice calls from the passenger seat, “Auggie, who’s that lady?”
Something about that name sounds familiar, but before I can put my finger on it, the jackass here is coming out from around the truck. Despite the heat, he’s wearing a clean, white button-up and a pressed pair of slacks. He walks toward me with an uneven gait and stops just inches from where I’m standing.
“That lady is leavin’,” he says to the little girl, only his eyes never leave mine. They burn with anger and impatience, and then it hits me like a sledgehammer to the face.
“Auggie?” I whisper to myself more than to him. Crap on a cracker. “Wait, you’re August Cotton?”
August is Greyson and Pearl’s son. Holy shit. August Cotton is standing before me, his dark blue eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth set into a hard line. Oh shit, oh shit. This is not how I wanted our first meeting to go.
“I’m August Cotton,” he says, folding his huge arms across his chest. I swear, if the baked Alabama earth would just open up beneath me, I’d gladly dive right into the fiery pits of hell to avoid the way he’s staring.
“Oh.” I clear my throat and smile sheepishly up at him. “I didn’t—”
“Mean nothin’ by it?” he finishes, sarcastically. And although I know I put my foot in it, this is not at all how I wanted to introduce myself to a potential client.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m sure today has been a bad day for everyone, but I just walked three miles to get here in a new pair of boots, so if you could just call the Cottons on your phone we can straighten all this out. The sooner I can get that sorted, the sooner I can relax in the bubble bath and just forget about this whole thing.”
He wets his lips. “Well, I’d love to help you into your bubble bath sooner, Miss Anders, but my parents are dead. We buried them today, not more than a half hour ago to be exact.”
“What?” I say, my brow knitting in confusion.
“Car accident, two weeks ago.” He lowers his voice. “Killed them both.”
“Oh my God.” My heart sinks, and my eyes well up. “I’m so sorry. Here I am raving on about having to walk a few miles, and you just … oh hell, I feel terrible. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He holds his hand up. “I don’t want your pity, and I definitely don’t need your help.”
“I understand … I’ll just …” I peter off, and with a deep sigh I pick up my luggage, even though my shoulders burn with the strain.
“Auggie,” the little girl says, and he pushes past me to get to her side of the car.
My feet ache. Tears come freely as I remember the countless hours I spent talking to the Cottons about Tanglewood and their son, and how excited they were about the prospect of Paws for Cause coming to town. With tears clouding my vision, I stumble on one of the tuberous oak roots peeking up through the pavers. I feel August’s eyes burning into me from behind.
The salt water coursing down my cheeks might seem like an overreaction considering the Cottons and I have never met face to face. But it isn’t just the news of Greyson and Pearl’s death that has me so upset—it’s everything, from these damn bags, my poor pitiful feet, and the fact that I have nowhere to go. It’s another three miles back to the station, I know there’ll be no more busses running this afternoon, and I don’t know where I’d go even if there were. I am royally screwed. And to make matters worse, August Cotton is a jerk. A hot jerk, but a jerk none the less.
When I finally make it to the end of the drive, I drop the bags. I can still feel August’s eyes on me, but I can’t hold the weight any longer, not even to save face in front of an angry Marine. He’s probably standing there laughing at me right now because I can’t carry three suitcases without throwing out my shoulder, but I don’t care. The last six yards of the driveway I shove and kick and practically throw my bags, so they’re no longer on Cotton property—okay maybe they are, because I’m pretty sure they own the land on either side of the house too, but that don’t matter. I’m officially no longer in their driveway. I move a little left of the gate and dump my large case, and sit down on it, wondering what the hell I was thinking bringing so many sets of matching bras and panties. They don’t weigh much, but the storage cases I keep them in do. I’m not messing up my La Perla for anyone or anything.
I take off my boots and rub my sore, blistered feet. Sniffing back tears and snot, I try to breathe, but my head swims. I liked the Cottons, but I do not like their son one bit. I kick the case nearest to me until it falls over in the baked grass.
“Stupid asshole, Marine.” I kick the other bag. It’s idiotic, really, because it hurts my feet like hell. That doesn’t stop me from jumping up and making that luggage pay. When my feet are numb, and I’ve successfully taken out all of my frustration, I turn around and about leap out of my skin when I see August Cotton standing there.
“You ’bout done?”
“What? Am I not far enough off your property?” I snap, folding my arms over my chest. I may be a little embarrassed at my outburst, but I don’t want him to see that.
“Bettina told me about the mix-up,” he says impatiently.
“Bettina?”
“The four-year-old in the passenger seat of my car.”
“Oh.” I sniff. “That’s little Bettina? She’s just as pretty as Greyson said she was.”
He nods. “With everything going on, I didn’t check the log books. I didn’t know we had a guest staying.”
“I didn’t know about your parents,” I say. “If I had, I would have booked somewhere else.”
His jaw ticks. “There is nowhere else. Unless you wanna walk the six miles to Foley.”
“Great,” I say sarcastically. My shoulders fall in defeat. “Just great.”
“So, if you’re done kicking the crap out of the case, I’ll take it into the house for you.”
“I’m not staying here,” I say.
“Well, suit yourself, but it gets kinda cold out here at night.” He shrugs. The gesture looks odd on someone so big and stoic. “You’d get eaten alive by bugs.” The corner of his mouth turns up a fraction of an inch. “If the coyotes didn’t chew off your toes first.”
“Fine, but I’m staying only for the night.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You can return my month’s deposit, and I’ll find a rental first thing in the morning.”
“Tomorrow’s a town holiday.”
“What?”
“Fourth of July,” he says impatiently, as if this is something I should know.
“But it’s only the first tomorrow.”
“Yup and the whole town closes down for four days.” He bends and grabs my two largest suitcases, hefting them with ease. Bastard.
Magnolia Springs isn’t that far from Fairhope. I could have stayed at home and driven the half hour each way to the shelter, but I’d wanted an adventure. I was restless and wanted to oversee every aspect of our new expansion. I already rented my house out to one of my employees, and I know staying in Fairhope won’t be tackling the problem from the ground up. They say it takes a village to raise a child—the same is sometimes true for healing a veteran. They need support, they need people in their corner, and I can’t be the person they turn to when I’m thirty minutes away and they have a gun to their head, ready to pull the trigger. I could always call Ellie or Jake to come get me until the Fourth of July holidays have passed, but I know how tough this holiday is for them, and with Spencer and little Maybelle, they have enough going on. Besides, I’d be right back to square one. I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it, even if it means living with the angry Marine for a few days. I’ve lived through worse.
“Come on. You ain’t going nowhere sitting here kicking your suitcases,” August says.
I scowl at him, but a pang of guilt worms its way through my chest. I’m not really mad at him. I’m angry at myself. Not only had I opened my big fat trap and insulted the man in perhaps the worst cause of foot-in-mouth syndrome I’ve ever displayed, but I was also stupidly selfish. August and little Bettina buried their parents today, the Cottons had lost their lives, and here I was crying over a few blisters and the thought of having to stay with the jerky Marine until this jerky town decided to open its businesses again.
August is already halfway down the drive when I grab the third case, the one that contains my super special La Perla that I keep for days when I’m feeling down. What I do has its shortcomings—aside from the shoveling of dog shit from the kennels, that is—but some of the Marines I work with have torn my heart out with their stories. And for a woman who hasn’t always been the happiest person walking the planet, for someone who spent a lot of time researching the best ways to kill herself, I can relate to their despair. I sometimes find it hard to leave work behind. Working with the dogs helped me, and now I help others, but it wasn’t always the case, and life wasn’t always easy. Life isn’t always easy. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’ve battled in my thirty years. I battle every day with who I am, with the woman I see in the mirror. I might not have been through combat, but I fought like hell to get here, just like our returned soldiers.
I watch August as he walks on ahead of me, carrying my cases as if they weigh nothing. His gait is pretty good for an amputee, which means he’s either had a really great physiotherapist, or he’s worked his ass off to make it that way on his own. He definitely has a limp, but to the untrained eye, it’s not obvious right away. I’d be willing to wager good money that the average person would never guess, unless he was wearing shorts. Of course, I’d be willing to bet everyone here knows about it. Everyone knows everything in a small town. Especially when there’s tragedy surrounding it.
It doesn’t make him any less of a man in my eyes, or any less gorgeous, unfortunately. Thankfully, he’s not a complete asshat. He could have left me out here to fend for myself. First thing Friday I am out from under his feet and into a rental. Hopefully.
August waits at the base of the stairs for me. His expression is stoic, but I’m pretty sure he’s mocking me on the inside, and though it kills me, I pick up the pace so he doesn’t have to wait too long. When I reach the stairs, Bettina sits on the stoop, just a few feet away. She eyes me warily for a minute. “You havwe wots of bags.”
I attempt a smile. “I sure do. I don’t like to travel light.”
“I nevwer been outside Madnowia Spwrings,” she says, and I can’t help but smile because her little lisp is the sweetest thing.
“Well, I haven’t been a lot of places either, really. I mean, there was that trip I took with my ex to Dallas, though that’s not much fun, and it wasn’t much like a vacation.” I’m rambling. August clears his throat.
“Mamma says you was stwarting up a dwog kennel.”
“Sort of. I help pair soldiers with assistance dogs.” I slide my gaze to August whose jaw is tight as he looks above my head, and down the drive. He’s probably thinking I talk too much, and wishing he’d left me outside the gate with the coyotes.
“I like dwoggies,” Bettina says, toying with the hem of her midnight-blue dress. She looked adorable with her peter pan collar and little cap sleeves. Her long chestnut hair falls down to her waist and is pushed back from her face with a headband adorned with a huge bow. This girl is going to break some hearts. A few more years and August is going to have to get real friendly with a shotgun again to ward away the boys. “Mamma says we can’t hawe one, ’cause all da people who stwayeded here might be allwergict.”
“Bett, go on inside and change out of your good dress,” August says.
“Bwut I don’t wanna.” She stands up and folds her tiny arms across her body—it must be a Cotton thing—and I know I shouldn’t encourage her, but I chuckle because she is the spit out of her brother’s mouth. August shoots me a disapproving glare, and I quickly shut up. “I wike this dress.” She stamps her foot and tears of indignation well up in her eyes. “And Mamma wiked it.”
“Now,” August orders, so that we both snap our heads toward him. “And hang it up. I don’t wanna find it on the floor of your room where you stepped out of it.”
Bettina screams, “I hate you!” and bursts into tears, running across the porch, inside and up the stairs, where a door slams. I cringe. I’m no stranger to meltdowns. Ellie’s son Spencer is autistic, and he has one every other minute, but it’s hard to watch any child’s feelings getting hurt.
“She’s taking it kind of hard, huh?”
“Her parents just died. What do you think?” August pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, and then he turns his rigid body toward me. “Come on upstairs. I ain’t much good at cookin’, and I guess that’s what was included in your board. I’ll happily refund that money and you can feel free to use the kitchen. I could run you into town tomorrow to pick up some supplies, though nothing’s opened but the diner and the gas station, and even then, they’ll be shuttin’ up shop at midday.”
I don’t know what to make of his generosity. I feel terrible that I judged him so harshly, and I don’t like that either one of us are in this situation. “That’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t mind walking.”
I really do mind. I can’t think of anything worse, but I don’t want to burden him anymore than I already am.
“Well, suit yourself,” he all but grunts as he picks up my bags and I follow him up the stairs and into the huge plantation house. It’s as gorgeous inside as it is out, with antique furniture and heavy damask silk curtains in robin’s egg blue. The sweeping staircase greets us, and off to the right there’s a formal dining room, and a sitting room off to the left. My greedy gaze catalogs everything, and I’m disappointed when August makes a gesture toward the staircase, indicating I should go first. I always loved these old antebellum houses; that’s what drew me to Tanglewood in the first place. With another glance at the ever-impatient Marine, I decide not to push my luck and I climb the stairs ahead of him.
I don’t turn to look back at him as he ascends the steps a few beats later, because I figure that will only make him uncomfortable. Stairs can be difficult at the best of times for amputees, but I guess he’d be used to these by now, given that he probably grew up here.
“Obviously, the bed isn’t made up, so I’ll need a few minutes to do that for you.” He moves ahead of me and stops outside of a room with a polished oak canopy bed with pink linens and upholstered chairs. There’s an antique dresser in the corner and French doors that lead out onto a balcony that wraps around the entire house.
“Oh, I don’t … are you sure this is the right room?”
“What? It’s not big enough? Sorry, princess, we’re fresh out of presidential suites this week.”
I frown. “I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it sounded. I just meant, I don’t need anything this fancy—just a bed and a locking door.”
He tilts his chin toward the bed and then reaches around and flips the lock on the back of the door, with a smirk on his infuriatingly handsome face. Smartass.
I set the case down on the floor and walk over to the French doors, peering out through lace curtains onto the balcony. Beyond that sits a huge yard, surrounded by trees. While I can’t see the whole porch, I’m secretly hoping that there’s a place to sit with my morning coffee and take in the view of the grounds. Assuming August doesn’t chase me off the property before the morning, that is.
When I turn around, he’s struggling to fold the heavy silk bedcover. Like everything in this house, it has an old-world charm and is indicative of the period in which this house was built. I’d bet good money that August’s bedding isn’t as complicated at this.
“I’m capable of making my own bed,” I say, watching him struggle some more with the four different panels. “Been doing it the last twenty-five years or so.”
All I get in response to that is a chin lift and a nod. No grunt this time, but no conversation either. August leaves the duvet cover on the bed and heads for the door. “Bathroom across the hall is mine, but I’ll share Bett’s.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“It’s the only bathroom with a tub.” It’s my turn to nod, and I stare at August who stares stoically back. “All I ask is that you keep it free from five until six; that’s when Bettina has her bath, and the people at child services told me to keep to her regular routine as much as I could.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll get you some sheets, but towels are in the linen closet down the hall. Use as many as you want.”
“Thanks.” Another nod and then he’s gone, out the door as it closes behind him with a soft snick. I sit down heavily on the bed, wincing as it squeaks beneath my weight. I kick off my shoes and lie back on the soft mattress and just breathe. What I wouldn’t give for a warm bath with bubbles and a pound of Birthday Cake Oreos right now. Oh, and a map to figuring out the angry Marine would be good too.