Page 8 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

DO GO ON WITH THE GOSSIP

Simon

When Lana arrives to visit with the boys early Wednesday evening, I’m battling a case of an overactive conscience.

Not because I’ve allowed the boys to climb the trees in the sprawling back garden of this estate, but because of the notes I’ve been scribbling all afternoon.

Though Lana’s displeased side-eye after her double take at Charlie’s leg hanging off a branch makes me reconsider if I should be allowing my conscience to feel guilty about multiple things.

“If they fall, you get to explain it at the hospital,” she tells me.

“We won’t fall, Mum,” Charlie calls. He’s intentionally chosen to call her Mum since some little twat mocked him for it in preschool, and he insists it adds to the charm of half of his heritage. He uses Britishisms at every opportunity for the same reason.

One might say he comes by the spite attitude naturally.

If one wanted to consider such things.

“We’re expert tree-climbers,” Eddie adds.

“Wait until you see us jumping branches like the squirrels.”

“We can’t be squirrels, numb-nuts. We weigh too much.”

“You weigh too much.”

“You’re an arsehole.”

Lana narrows her hazel eyes narrower at me. “And they’re cussing now?”

I clear my throat. “Boys, it’s fine to explore the proper use of all of your words while at home, but I expect you’ll use polite language whenever you step off this property. And at your mother’s house. And in her presence.”

They both giggle my rules.

I hear they’ll eventually outgrow giggling, so I soak in the sound, hoping it’s not the last time I hear it.

Though it would serve me right if it is.

I likely don’t deserve to enjoy the sound of children’s laughter.

Not with what I’m doing.

Lana shakes her head at the boys’ giggles and drops into the chair beside mine.

She’s barely five feet tall and always brings to mind the blond pixies in that old animated Peter Pan movie.

She’s also the one and only woman I’ve formed any sort of real relationship with in my entire life outside of professional circles.

I’d say that was necessary since we share two children, but she is a good friend.

A good friend who lost all romantic interest in me when she realized I’m a hopeless disaster in personal matters, which is just as well.

I’m a far better friend than romantic companion.

“That wasn’t the watch your language warning I would’ve used,” she says to me.

“Your American prudishness aside, if you stigmatize the words, you give them more power. Far better to maintain power over your words by understanding how to use them all.” I gesture to the teapot and cups on the tray between us. “Tea?”

“Is it caffeinated?”

“Of course.”

“Then no, thank you. I want to sleep tonight.”

“Ah. You’ve reached that age.”

She shoves my arm. “You will too when you get called back to London to put your parents in a home.”

“Oh, no. That will be the boys’ duty. They who inherit the kingdom must do the work.”

Her eyes go large as saucers, and when I crack another smile, she shoves my arm again. “ You are the asshole.”

“Indeed.”

The boys have gone suspiciously quiet, and we both look out at the large maple trees in the sizable garden beyond the brick patio.

“Eddie? Charlie?” Lana says.

One of them replies with a noise that sounds similar to what I expect a sick jungle bird might make, and the other hoots like an owl.

I sip my tea and smile.

Lana relaxes back into her chair. “I really will kill you if one of them falls out of the tree. I don’t have the bandwidth to handle broken bones on top of getting Mom prepped for moving into the home.”

“’Tis a risk one takes when one decides their children cannot live on electronics alone, and lucky for both of us, I have all the time in the world to play nursemaid if necessary.”

She points to the notebook balanced on my knee. “Did your computer finally die?”

Ah, the computer.

My lucky laptop computer.

I’ve written all of my best scripts on it, and it’s so ancient that it now runs at a speed that could be outpaced by a drunken snail who has forgotten how to move. It also randomly orders my equally ancient printer to spit out random web pages, old scripts, and the occasional email chain.

“She’s operating as well as ever,” I tell Lana.

“That’s not the flex you think it is.”

I smile.

“Is the fresh air helping with inspiration?” she asks.

The lovely thing about Lana is that I don’t have to keep up pretenses.

So I have no problem letting her see me grimace as I, too, look down at my notes. “I find myself in a conundrum.”

“That must be uncomfortable.”

“I’ve found a plot for the show the studio ordered.”

One of her delicate eyebrows arches. “And the problem is…?”

I could lie to her. Invent some ridiculous reason that this is a problem. Blame a cowriter.

But this could affect her too, and if there’s anything that I owe the mother of my children, it’s honesty.

Especially as I know the studio well enough to know it’s likely they’ll love this pitch and greenlight it immediately.

She’ll see the entire thing on television soon enough.

“It’s rather inspired by living…here.”

She purses her lips together and stares at me.

I shift in my seat.

“This house here?” she asks.

“Did you know that the former owner of this house held a week-long wake in the sunken living room for her husband when he passed? I was unaware that was a tradition here.”

“Zada Young used it as an opportunity to show off her house since no one had been inside for twenty years. I came to the wake.”

That was meant to be a distraction from confessing my sins, but instead, I scribble a note about the wake amidst my other notes. “Fascinating.”

“The wallpaper’s the same that I remember from that day. So are the fake flowers. You’re living with wake flowers.”

I note that as well.

“Simon.”

“Yes, Lana?”

“The house isn’t your inspiration.”

She says it as if she’s the boss of me, and heat that’s likely a manifestation of my conscience trickles over my neck. “Is it not?”

“You can’t lie to me, Luckwood. I’m raising your children, and you all have the same tell.”

“I haven’t lied .”

“You haven’t told me the full truth either. Also, I can see your notes from here.”

I flip my notebook over.

Lana clucks her tongue. “So you’re taking Bea Best to dinner on Saturday night so that you can get more information about her life to make a TV show about it.”

“You make it sound so filthy.”

“Have you told her why you want to take her out to dinner, or does she think it’s an I’m sorry for having you thrown in jail dinner?”

“She’s using me for publicity for her burger bus.

It’s fair. And seems necessary. This woman with the community theater and some murder mystery dinner—Lucinda Camille—has accosted me twice in public to tell me how terrible the burger bus is, and the lack of traffic when the boys and I went to apologize on Monday suggested that the community believes it as well, or is at least wary of even trying it.

Good burgers though. There’s a secret ingredient.

Fish that’s unexpectedly delicious too. All very tasty.

I see no reason that the burger bus shouldn’t have a queue down the street, and I’m willing to stake my reputation on it for her. ”

Lana stares at me as though I’ve no idea how big of a stupid oaf I am. “So you’re doing a burger bus date? Are you cooking? Or making her cook?”

“No, we’re attending a restaurant opening.”

Her face performs the same style of gymnastics that Charlie’s does when Eddie’s being a little prat and insisting that one of them doing their homework is the same as both of them doing their homework as a method of trying to copy Charlie’s work.

“What restaurant?”

“Something something Fig. By the lake.”

She makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh or that might be a gasp.

I’m not entirely certain.

But she finishes the noise with a broad smile. “I see.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see whatever it is that you seem to think you see.”

“Mom! Mom, want to see me swing like Tarzan?” Eddie calls.

She peers back out into the yard. “No, I want to see you with both feet firmly on the ground, with all of your bones intact, no blood, so that you can give me a hug and thank me for bringing you fried chicken for dinner.”

“Fried chicken?” Charlie echoes. “Which kind?”

“The kind from the little place on Secret Alley.”

“Did you get the mashed potatoes too?” Eddie asks.

“Am I the best mother in the entire world who would never deny my sons mashed potatoes when I know they’re their favorites?”

“She got the mashed potatoes!” Charlie crows.

“I’m gonna beat you down,” Eddie announces.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“I’m faster.”

“You’re uncoordinated.”

“But only young men who use their manners and don’t fight get the mashed potatoes,” Lana adds.

Charlie drops to the ground, lands in a squat, and rushes us. “Love you, Mum.” He bends over and hugs Lana as Eddie oofs to the ground behind him.

“No fair! You got a head start because you didn’t go as high, you idiot.”

Charlie grins and dashes for the house, his hoodie hood flapping along behind him. “Potatoes!”

“I’ve authorized Tank and Butch to separate you if necessary,” I call after them.

“Excuse you, hugs first,” Lana adds.

Eddie huffs, rapidly changes direction to give Lana the barest hug and a peck on the head, and then he’s off for the house too. Leaves cling to his hair, and a large smear of dirt mars the back of his shorts.

Lana rises.

I bolt to my feet. “You were saying, about my dinner on Saturday?”

“I wasn’t saying a thing.”

“Your face was.”

“That was me letting out all of the expressions I didn’t want to make in front of Mom all day.”

“What do you know about this restaurant? Or about Bea?”

She purses her lips together and looks up at the blue sky.

“Truly, Lana. If there’s something terrible, I should know.”

“For inspiration?”

“So that I may cancel the date if necessary.”

“Did Bea actually tell you she wants to use you for publicity for her burger bus?”