Page 17 of The Me I Left Behind (Tuckaway Bay #4)

Nine

Pulling up to the curb at the middle school, Maggie waved at Jason, motioning for him to get in the car. She watched as he stood with a group of boys—a couple of them she didn’t recognize—as they jostled about, pushing and shoving each other playfully.

At least she thought it was playful.

As Jason glanced her way, one kid pointed, then punched him hard in the shoulder. Jason stumbled, going down half-way on one knee. The gang of boys laughed.

The anger that immediately boiled up inside her was nearly all-consuming, and she wanted to shove the car into park, jump out, run over to that mob of stupid adolescent testosterone-fueled nonsense, and give them each a piece of her mama bear mind.

But she didn’t.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter, gritted her teeth, and counted to twenty while Jason ambled across the school lawn toward the car. She rolled down the passenger side window and could hear the shouts and jeers from the group of boys.

Jason jerked at the latch and plopped into the front seat, not looking at her.

“Are you okay?”

“Drive.”

She didn’t say a word, didn’t look at him either, and pulled out of the school parking lot.

Forget the art supplies. Another day.

No, she couldn’t forget the art supplies. Chloe needed them. But did she need them tonight ? What did that paper say? When was the project due?

Stopping at a traffic light, she reached into her bag on the console and pushed items aside. Where is the fucking paper? Not there. “Dammit.” Had she left it at the store?

“Don’t cuss, Mom,” Chloe called out from the back seat.

“Yeah, Mom,” Jason echoed. “Language.”

She looked at him, trying to assess his demeanor.

He was easily embarrassed, but this looked more like humiliation.

The boy who punched him had pointed at the car—or was it at her?

What had he said to Jason? Am I making a mountain out of a mole hill?

Lately, she wasn’t sure which Jason she was going to get—the amenable, loving, big brother to Chloe, or the lethargic, musing, and maybe depressed adolescent teenager.

A horn honked behind her. She glanced in the rearview mirror, then at the light. Green. She pressed the accelerator.

“I need to go downtown for a few minutes,” she said to Jason. “Chloe needs art supplies. Okay with you?”

Pulling his headphones out of his pocket, he plugged them into his phone, then put them in his ears, dismissing her. “Fine.”

Turning at the next light, she headed downtown and found a parking place not too far from the art store. She turned to Chloe. “Let’s go, pumpkin.” Tapping Jason’s knee, she added, “You coming or staying?”

He made eye contact then. “Staying.”

Fine. “We won’t be long.”

His eyes closed and his head dropped back against the headrest.

As she and Chloe entered the store, she glanced at the enormous clock on the wall. Three-twenty-seven. Plenty of time.

“Wow, Mommy. This is a great store.” Chloe’s eyes widened as they stepped into the aisle she’d visited earlier.

“I know. Look at all the colors,” she said. “I just love the colors.”

“Me, too.” Chloe ran forward, straight for the rows of paint tubes. “Can we get these?”

“Those are oil paints, sweetheart. I think, perhaps, you should start with acrylics. Those are over here.”

“Okay.” Chloe joined her. “Are these good? I need paintbrushes, too.”

“You really want to use paint? Not markers or pencils or crayons?”

“No.” She looked at Maggie. “I really want to paint, Mommy.”

Her heart swelled. Me, too . She did not know Chloe was so interested in art.

Oh, she’d always loved the little crafty projects they did around the house, but it hadn’t dawned on her that her baby girl might have inherited her love for all things artsy.

That notion thrilled her to no end. “Maybe we’ll get enough supplies for both of us. ”

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Maggie turned. A college-age girl, wearing the same artist’s apron as the man this afternoon, approached. “May I help you?”

The paper. “Oh, yes. I was here this afternoon and spoke with a gentleman about my daughter’s school project, and I think I left the paper with the instructions with him. Do you know if he is still here?”

“That would be Mr. Ryan, and no, he is gone for the day. I think he may have left this for you, though.” She reached into her apron pocket. “Mrs. Anderson’s second grade selfie project?”

“That’s it. Oh, thank you.” Maggie took the paper. “No, wait. This isn’t ours. It has a list clipped to it, and something else.”

The young woman leaned in. “Yes. Mr. Ryan attached a list of supplies for you. Just some suggestions, he said. Looks like he added a class schedule, too.”

Classes? They do classes here? She quickly scanned the list and dates. Watercolor for Beginners. Mastering Oils. Pen and Ink Landscapes. Acrylics Refresher. The list went on.

“That was very nice of him. Please tell him thanks.”

“I will. Now, can I help at all with finding supplies?” She looked directly at Chloe.

Chloe beamed. “Yes! I want paint. Lots of paint. Did he put paint on that list?”

“I believe he did. Let’s go look at all the kinds we have.” She glanced back again at Maggie. “I’m really good with kids. Do you mind? I’m an art major. I want to teach younger kids.”

Maggie smiled and suddenly felt the sting of tears. A very long time ago, she’d wanted that, too. “Of course. Thank you.”

The two girls meandered down the aisle.

Maggie smiled at how happy Chloe looked, then glanced again at the paper in her hand, scanning the list of classes.

The first thing Maggie noticed as she turned down their street were two pickup trucks at her house. One was Logan’s, parked on the street. The other truck was angled in the driveway, blocking her from getting to the garage. Both things pissed her off.

She turned into her driveway, pulling in behind the mystery truck. She stared at the house momentarily while trying to get a grip on her anger.

“Somebody’s gonna get into trouble,” Jason sing-songed.

Maggie rotated toward him. “Whose truck is that? You know? Does Logan have friends?” Unless Maggie was home, boys were not allowed in the house with Carol. Alone. That was the rule.

“Nope. No clue.”

“Mommy, let’s go inside. I want to paint.”

She cracked her door open. “Jason, stay here with Chloe.”

“Sure.” He grinned then, apparently eager to watch the drama unfold.

Stepping out of the car, she looked toward the house as the front door opened. An older gentleman moved onto the porch, chatting with Carol—who caught her eye and waved frantically. Logan followed.

“What the hell?” Maggie slammed the car door and sprinted for the porch.

“Mom! He’s here for a house inspection. Did you call him?”

The man approached with an outstretched hand. “I’m Matthew Riley,” he said. “I’m with Final Look Home Inspection.”

Maggie shook his hand. “Home inspection? I don’t understand.” She glanced at the kids. Carol looked frustrated. Logan stood there looking a little sheepish.

The inspector gave her a puzzled look. “This is the Oliver residence. Correct? Max and Maggie Oliver.”

“Yes. I’m Maggie Oliver.”

He glanced over the paperwork on a clipboard. “We had an appointment scheduled for four o’clock this afternoon to do a pre-inspection on the house.”

“Pre… What? Authorized by who?”

He glanced at the paper again. “Mr. Oliver, I believe.”

“What? Why?”

“Sometimes people do inspections before the sale, so they can see what needs to be fixed before it goes on the market.”

Maggie watched Carol’s eyes fly wide open and felt hers do the same. “On the market? What sale?”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.” She turned to the gentleman. “Do you mind… May I see that?” She gestured toward the clipboard.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She took it and scanned the information on the sheet. The person requesting the inspection was indeed Max. He’d listed his address in Brisbane and a phone number. Not his cell phone number. Goddamned motherfucker. “Carol, do you have your phone? Mine is in the car.”

“Yes.” She moved around the inspector.

“Take a picture of this page, please.”

The inspector stepped forward, reaching for the clipboard. “Now, wait. I’m not sure….”

Maggie jerked the clipboard out of his reach. “Look. It’s my house and my information on this page. I have a right.” She thrust the clipboard out, away from the inspector.

Carol quickly snapped several pictures of the form. “Got it.”

“Great. Send me those.” She handed over the paperwork and peered at the man. “No inspection today, Mr. Riley.”

He cocked his head. “Now, I’m going to get into trouble if I don’t get this done today. We have a tight schedule and lots of business—I just can’t pop in here on a moment’s notice.”

“We’re not getting an inspection. I’m sorry for your trouble.” Maggie held eye contact with him for several seconds. “Max Oliver doesn’t live here anymore, and this is not his house.”

“But he’s already paid.”

“Then deal with him, not me. Not my problem.” She glanced toward his truck. “Now, please move your vehicle so I can get mine in my garage. I’d appreciate it.”

“But what do I tell Mr. Oliver?”

Maggie chuckled and looked him square in the eye. “Look. I realize this is an inconvenience… And I don’t want you to get into trouble… But if Mr. Oliver asks about the inspection, tell him I said to stick it up his slimy, shitty ass.”

Matthew Riley stared back, looking rather dumbfounded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He was on his way within seconds.

“Mom was such a badass, Jason. You should have seen her.”

Maggie set two large pizza boxes on the kitchen island and glanced at Jason. He didn’t seem too impressed with his mother’s confrontation skills—or lack thereof.

“Not a badass,” she said. “Just confused and frustrated. You all know how I get a potty mouth when I’m upset or angry.”

“You must have been both,” Jason said. “I heard you from the car.”