Page 3 of Poppy Kisses (Return to Coal Haven #3)
I typed out a reply. No problem thanks for letting me know. I typed my name and reread it. Read it again. Then sent it.
I tucked my phone into my pocket. “Time to go, bud.”
“I’m not done!”
“Eat and run.” I had a little leeway. His teacher, Miss Whitfield, knew he had tutoring this morning, and she was easier going than his past teachers. She hadn’t assumed shitty parenting for my son’s reading struggles like his last teacher had.
Two minutes later, I was in jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and we were on the road.
A dust cloud kicked up behind me. The pastures around my house were leased out.
The cattle roaming them weren’t Hollis beef.
Mom shut down the ranch not long after Dad died.
The fenced-off area by the old barn no longer held horses.
I missed the sight. I had always thought I’d bring my family back and raise them where I had grown up. I had, only it was just me and Auggie.
The familiar pang of longing tugged at my heart. I missed being married, but I didn’t miss the arguing. Or the long absences. The lack of communication. The suspicion. I didn’t miss my ex, just the idea of marriage.
We passed the motel. A metallic-blue SUV was sandwiched between two dusty white work trucks that were probably oil field workers of some sort. It had to be Poppy’s.
How long was she in town? Had she changed since we’d been friends?
Who the hell hadn’t? I’d been through the wringer thanks to my ex.
I was finally settling into a quiet life with my son.
The familiar scratch of panic scraped across the back of my neck.
But I’d be driving one of those work trucks to the mine, the refinery, or the oil fields if I couldn’t grow my cabinet business.
I pulled into the drop-off lane at the school. Three other cars were turning and burning at the same time, all of us butting up against the morning whistle. The playground attendant narrowed her eyes at me. I gave her a wave as Auggie scrambled out and I pulled away.
Before I went home to work in my shop, I had to stop at the grocery store.
I went through the aisles, my empty cupboards and sparse fridge shelves flashing through my mind.
I was combing through cereal options that didn’t feel like I was giving my kid dessert for breakfast when I heard, “Have you tried Jensen Hollis?”
I pulled to a stop. Me?
“Yeah.” The woman didn’t sound thrilled. Her voice was vaguely familiar. “I mean, I liked his work and he has good recommendations, but he writes like a fourth grader.”
Shame burned hot in my chest. My handwriting had been critiqued longer than how I strung a sentence together, and the sting never went away.
“He doesn’t need good grammar to work with wood,” the other woman said.
“He even spelled his name wrong.”
I winced. Fuck. Had I? When?
“And he kept calling me Isabull when he took the measurements,” the second woman continued. “Even this morning, he had no punctuation in his one sentence with his misspelled name.”
“Wow, that’s too bad.”
My cheeks were burning and a brush fire swept over my skin. Childhood embarrassment mingled with adult humiliation. If they saw, I’d feel ten times worse. Biting back a groan, I pivoted with the shopping cart.
I had not called Isabel Isabull.
Had I?
I’d check that damn reply.
This wasn’t the first time I’d lost a job because I’d jacked up something I’d written. An email, a promotional brochure, typos on my website. It was like Whac-A-Mole, only half the time, I didn’t notice the mole.
Since my divorce, I’d had to bootstrap expenses.
I had done my own printing materials until I realized I was hurting myself more.
Then I had relied on word of mouth, but the more new people moved to Coal Haven, the less they knew my real reputation.
I could build the shit out of anything. I might have nearly failed high school because of English, but I never messed up a measurement.
Well, not never, but the customer wasn’t usually standing right next to me to see me fix my mistakes.
I grabbed a brightly colored box of cereal and tossed it in my cart before beelining to the checkout.
Delores beamed at me from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Howdy, Jensen. How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. How ’bout you?” I dug out my wallet. Down the aisle across from the register, two women sauntered around the corner, pushing carts. One had a baby carrier and the other had a toddler playing with cans in her cart.
Isabel glanced at me. Her eyes flared, and her gaze skated away.
I clenched my jaw and tugged the brim of my hat down. Delores chattered about how busy it’d been all morning and she couldn’t wait to see her grandkids.
“They’re going to help me move,” she said.
That got my attention. Delores had been working the checkouts for as long as I could remember. “You’re moving?”
She beamed, the apples of her cheeks pushing her glasses up. “To Indiana, where Kellie and the kids are. She has crazy hours, and I can watch the kids.”
“That’ll be nice, but we’re going to miss you.”
She shrugged and hit the total. “I want to give her the help I wished I had when I was younger. We could all use an extra hand, and you know, we all deserve it.”
I tapped my debit card on the machine and tucked my wallet back. My gaze caught on the retreating back of Isabel.
Isabull. How had I said it wrong? “Thanks, Delores.”
“Anytime, Jensen, and if I don’t see you again, take care.
Good luck with Hollis Cabinets. I tell everyone about you.
” She’d been saying that for years. Hearing best wishes about my cabinet business would have left me with more optimism any other day, but after overhearing why I’d lost a nice contract, it was a dash of salt on an open wound.
Now I was down one more advertising avenue.
“I appreciate it. Have a great time with your grandkids. Tell Kellie hi.”
I pushed my cart out.
How did I keep fucking up? I checked and triple-checked my work. And errors still got through. Errors that didn’t matter with the work but with the customer service. I was nice, dammit.
Yet it wasn’t enough.
Where did a guy go to get help with shit he should’ve learned in school? With basic speaking and writing?
How fucking humiliating.
I had not said Isabull.
At least Auggie was getting help so he wouldn’t face these issues when he grew up. I got in my pickup and drove toward home. I hit the highway, and as I passed the motel, the blue SUV caught my eye. Was that Poppy’s?
Poppy, my son’s tutor. Poppy, who might be moving to town. Poppy, who might have some insight on how to keep me from sabotaging my business.