Page 72 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls

Yes, fine.

Will you think about me tonight?

Skye swallowed, ignoring her frustration. They’d figure this out.

Skye – 12:07 am

I’ve never stopped.

18

Somewhere in SoHo, an advertising manager was probably crying.

Celene followed most of her coping strategies, but even she acknowledged she’d given no leeway to that asshole. She’d filled a forty-minute spot at a morning seminar, conducting a roundtable discussion about engaging with what most of these executives snidely called “lazy interns.” One dude from ScrollCycle—she couldn’t point his face out in a lineup—uttered an off-color comment, and she dedicated several minutes dressing him down to size. The rest of the attendees gaped as he slouched helplessly in his chair, as pale as his overpriced suit.

He deserved it, Celene deduced during Byron’s session at the pickleball court. The scuffing of sneakers and rhythmic popping of the ball filtered through the air of four full courses. Her dad and his playing partner were winning or losing, she really didn’t care to ask the score as she sent emails on her phone. Occasionally, Byron would yell out, “Ya dad’s still got it!” and Celene awarded him the facsimile of a slow clap.

How could she give a damn about pickleball when Skye and her incredible lips existed? Driving home yesterday, she’d nearlyturned around twice, then carried on because she chose not to be frivolous with others’ time.

“We beat’em,” Byron announced, flopping into the bench next to her. He stretched one of his legs with a gravelly groan. His partner exchanged celebratory words with him, and they clasped their hands in salutations before he left.

Celene pieced on a smile beneath her sunglasses. “Congratulations.”

“Don’t sound so eager. I might recruit you as a cheerleader.” Byron bounced his big hands in a pompom fashion. “You’d do that for us, right?”

“Our reservation starts in eight minutes,” Celene said, refusing to humor the joke. “Will you freshen up or...”

“Nah, I’ll go sweaty. I’m heading home right after.”

She reminded herself not to sneer, especially when they sat at their lunch destination. Byron hadn’t stopped talking the entire walk over, and Celene’s patience was wearing thin. If only she could transport to the hammock about now, her hand tracking goosebumps onto Skye’s legs by blissfully tranquil Goldfinch Lane. Briana sent forty photos of the deck progress, and Celene still held her judgment for an in-person review. When the Vale house was empty again.

“My knee’s a little stiff.” Byron flexed his leg underneath the table, his blindingly white dad sneaker rotating with his shin.

Celene read out her meal choice to the waiter. Once he left, she yawned. “Get a physical therapist.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged like he hadn’t considered doing anything about it. “Your old man’s active. Gotta keep up with Theo when he’s running around.” A bleak look dimmed his smile and flickered away just as quickly. “Aren’t you glad they built that pickleball court?”

Sighing, she sipped her ice water. “Those courts weren’tbuilt. The city repurposed basketball courts that, by the way,were used regularly by a younger, local crowd.” Letting that hang uncomfortably, she brusquely snatched off her sunglasses.

“Right. I heard something about that.” Byron gulped his water and reached for the pitcher. “It took you long enough to answer my calls. Let’s get down to business.”

Expecting discourse about the house’s progress, Celene rolled her eyes when “About Elise...” trickled from his lips. He scratched his graying beard; his tell for discomfort.

“What about her?”

“Whose responsibility is it?” Byron went on, knowing Celene wouldn’t understand. “You and Elise aren’t as attached as I’d hoped. Never have been. Do we chalk that up to Edna’s parenting or mine?”

Celene didn’t appreciate the humor he sneaked into this, a superficial patch to a gunshot wound. “Elise is selfish.”

“Wanting to pass the house down to future generations is selfish?”

This was a losing battle. Now that he had someone else in his court—so to speak—this would go downhill. “Why are we meeting? What do you need from me?”

Perspiration speckled Byron’s temples, mixing with the darkness of his short haircut. “You’ve proven you have an impressive knack for bringing life back to the house. I know you insist on selling—Shanice agrees with you. But I believe Elise deserves a say, too.”

“What does Don say?”

“He won’t take a side.”