At least we got to say goodbye. At least she knew my name until the end.
So I honored her. When a sweet woman in line behind me at Walmart told me that I could be a beauty queen, I listened like she was an angel sent by my mom.
A couple of years later, I won Miss Bluffton. Then I won Miss South Carolina, making it into the top ten in the Miss America pageant later that year.
But by then, I didn’t care. I had bigger problems than cellulite, the cost of my evening gown, or remembering how to play the “Cluck Old Hen” song on the fiddle my dad taught me to play.
Because he couldn’t remember where he was the night of the pageant, getting angry and confused in our hotel room in Las Vegas.
The next day, through my tears at slowly losing my father, not a stupid pageant, Gentry Evans proposed to me.
I still don’t know if he did it out of pity or with a plan. But in my weakest moment, I thought Gentry would take care of my dad and me.
Careful: that’s how it happens. Care, in evil hands, is also control.
If I could go back, I would’ve wiped away my tears long enough to read the paperwork I was signing.
Gentry’s mom slid a stack of contracts before me and said, “You’re one of our family now, dear. This will protect you.”
Protect me? No.
It protected every asset Gentry owns. Even as his wife, I get nothing but what I brought into our marriage—my sweet dad—who was everyone’s favorite softball coach.
Love for my dad is all I have left.
And he doesn’t even say my name anymore.
Still, I will see him tomorrow morning or Gentry’s getting laxatives crunched into powder in his V8 juice.
Trick #2: If you use a lighter, you can re-weld the plastic lid of a bottle closed again, just enough to make it seem freshly snapped open.
But not even that plot for revenge lifts my broken spirit as the doorbell rings promptly at ten o’clock.
Opening the door to Ford, Mateo, and Luke, “Good morning,” I plaster on a fake smile.
I didn’t have a dirty fantasy about one of them last night. I just fell into darkness, blanketed by isolation.
Ice shivers across Ford’s blue eyes. “Mrs. Evans.”
Great. He’s faking it too. Big smile. Polite words. Angry tone. Mean eyes.
Why be such an asshole when I didn’t do anything?
They step into the foyer, each carrying a black utility bin with supplies, I assume.
“Ma’am,” Ford clips with tight lips, “we need to determine the order of our work so that we don’t disrupt the wife of the senator’s household.” He glances around. “Is he here? Since he’s in control?”
It almost breaks me. Gentry’s cruelty. My loneliness. How I fake being happy while misery thins my burning breath.
And Ford’s cruelty now?
He’s right. Gentry is in control. And it hurts like hell.
“He’s not here.” Tears bite at my eyes. “Sorry, but you’ll have to work with me.”
Mateo winces at his boss’s harsh tone. He explains, “We like painting one room at a time so we stay out of your way. Where’s the best room to start?”
Mateo’s smile is warm. His eyes are kind. It only contrasts with the pain in my heart, my ribs aching to break with a sob.
“The dining room is fine.” I gesture to it on my right. “Then, I guess, the parlor over there.” I point left to the stately room on the other side of the foyer, but I can’t hold it back anymore. I’ve dealt with enough assholes to last a lifetime. “Excuse me, please.”
I turn and race for the kitchen, willing my tears not to fall.
“Dude.” I hear Luke hiss low, chastising Ford. “Why are you being such a fucking dick?”
I’d like to know too.
Why can I put up with Gentry’s shit for years, but now, after two days of not seeing my dad and then one minute with a man who clearly hates me for living; why is it breaking me open?
Forcing tears back, I start baking muffins for tomorrow, opening a can of pineapple tidbits to drain while I peel a zucchini.
Rips of tape and snaps of plastic begin to fill the air as the guys prep their first room. Their easy banter fills the quiet house. I can hear Luke’s jokes and Mateo’s quips in response.
“Dude, I’m doing the trim today.” That’s Luke’s deep, scratchy voice.
“That’s what she said.” I chuckle at Mateo’s baritone joke.
Slowly, while I peel a carrot, I’m softly smiling at the sound of the fun they’re having. I can’t tell you the last time I joked around like that. That used to be me. I used to be confident and silly; I remember that girl inside me.
Their fun is contagious, and, fuck Ford, another asshole’s not ruining my day.
I double my muffin recipe, and in thirty minutes, my confidence returns as I fill a serving tray for my house guests.
“Gentlemen, would you like a quick break?” I ask, carrying the full tray into the dining room.
Luke’s smile is instant, making mine lift too.
Mateo quickly reaches to help me with the tray. “Yes, ma’am.” He sets it on the dining table covered in plastic. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I ignore Ford, keeping my eyes on the two lovely, hot men—not the mean, cold one.
But Ford taunts, “Thanks for your service, Mrs. Evans,” taking a warm muffin as the others do too.
It’s salt, stinging my open wound as I smile so big at him, cooing, “Why, you’re welcome, Mr. Alexander.” But as every Southern woman is trained, my eyes say, “Fuck you with a rusty chainsaw, asshole.”
“Damn, these are good.” Luke talks with his mouth full. Ford snaps him a look. “Sorry, sir,” Luke mumbles. “Excuse my language, please, ma’am.”
“I don’t fucking care.” I laugh. “Fuck, shit, hell, pussy, damn: say whatever you want in my house.”
Ford’s eyes slice toward the camera by the front door, monitoring all who enter.
Well, at least the sexy shithead is observant.
“It’s video only,” I tell him. “No audio. So y’all can curse and carry on. Play music, too, when it’s just me. I like it. It’s usually too quiet around here.”
“No music.” Mateo wipes his mouth with a napkin from the tray. “We never agree on what to play.”
Luke reaches for another muffin. “‘Cuz your jazz can tranquilize an elephant.”
“And your pop crap makes me lose IQ points,” Mateo jokes reaching for another muffin, too.
But I’m meant to catch it. How Ford neatly wipes his mouth with a napkin after only one. Like he ate it just to barely be polite to “the senator’s wife.”
“You can eat another muffin.” So I poke the polar bear. “They’re good for you. I sneak vegetables and fruit into them.”
“Nah, Ford’s not a muffin man.” Luke laughs. “He’s a glazing-a-donut man.” Mateo chokes, and Luke quickly corrects, “I mean, he’s a glazed-donut kinda man.”
But I caught the naughty slip, wanting in on their banter. “Why… is that so?”
Ford thinks he can intimidate me? He has no idea what I’m used to.
Turning my pageant smile again to Ford, I bat my lashes. “Do you now? Do you like making creamy glazed things to eat, Mr. Alexander?”