Page 3 of When We Were More (Aron Falls #1)

T illie

I love surprises. Normally. I do not love this kind of surprise, though. Bile rushes up my throat as I gag and turn my gaze away from the toilet in a rush to the sink to expel the sour fluid I just threw up in my mouth. Gross.

I rinse my mouth, wash my hands, and then head into my now-gutted kitchen.

At least the construction company was efficient and got it all ripped out in one day.

With the state of my bathroom, on top of finding soda cans and a few cigarette butts lying on the ground outside my house when I got home from work, my confidence in Aron Family Builders & Restoration is quickly waning.

Perhaps Gram shouldn’t have given Ruthie’s glowing recommendation so much weight when she was deciding between contractors.

The old bat may have liked them for something as ridiculous as how attractive the workers were.

For “ seventy-ish ” years old—as Ruthie likes to tell people when they ask her age—she still finds a lot of joy in objectifying men.

God, I can only imagine what she was like when she was younger.

When her sister, Sally, is with her, they’re practically uncontrollable.

I smile as I think about the two women. Ruthie and I may give each other shit, but underneath that crazy woman is someone who stepped up for me in a big way when I moved here.

Still, Ruthie and Sally’s ensuite bathrooms, which the same company renovated, are gorgeous, not to mention the work they did on the great room in their shared home.

When Sally’s husband died ten years ago, she moved in with Ruthie, and they’ve lived together since.

I’ve seen that the company is capable of doing good work, and that’s the most important thing. I guess…

Renovating this old farmhouse isn’t any old project.

It was Gram’s house—my safe spot as a child and as an adult.

I’m convinced I wouldn’t have gotten through these last several years if I hadn’t been here in Aron Falls, Gram’s hometown.

This small town and its residents wrapped me in the love and safety I’ve always experienced here since I was a child.

God, I miss Gram. I can’t fathom that she’s gone. My eyes burn as tears threaten to spill out when I let myself focus on the fact that she’s not going to see the house renovation. She was over-the-top excited about updating the kitchen, bathrooms, and the wraparound porch we spent many moments on.

There are two places where most heart-to-heart talks took place in this house: the kitchen table and the cedar swing on the porch. Those spots are where I feel most connected to Gram.

Moisture continues to build behind my eyes, and I force it away, shaking my head.

“Stop it, Tillie. You’ve got to get it together and make this call.”

At least no one else is around to hear me talk to myself. There’s no one to give me a hard time about it, which, except that it means Gram is gone, is generally how I like it. I keep my circle of trusted people very small. Life’s safer that way.

I grab my phone from the bag I left near the back door and go to the couch, snuggling into the extra-deep cushions.

My favorite afghan—the vivid purple one Gram made—rests on the back of the couch.

I drag it to me and cover my knees and feet.

I find the contact I’m searching for in my phone and press call.

On the second ring, a rushed, feminine voice answers. “Aron Family Builders and Restoration, can you please hold?”

“I—” Elevator-style music suddenly flows into my ear. Did she really ask me if I could hold but not wait for my answer before placing me on said hold? Why bother asking then? Strike two for this company.

I stare at the gorgeous, rustic, wide-planked hardwood floor in my living room while I wait.

It tells the story of all the lives lived here.

There’s the worn spot from the frequently traveled path between the living room and kitchen, the multiple small scratches from the zoomies Gram’s dog, Midnight, used to get, and the gouge I caused when I tried to move furniture by myself as a kid.

I still remember that day vividly. I wanted to make a fort with the furniture while Gram was outside, so I tried to push several pieces together.

It didn’t go well, and I damaged the wood floor.

I was afraid Gram was going to be furious with me, possibly even make me go back home to my parents early.

That’s not what happened. When I went out to her garden to tell her what I’d done, she simply glanced up at me, removed her gardening gloves, and wiped the tears from my chubby nine-year-old cheeks before pulling me into a hug.

I’ll never forget her words when she pulled back from the hug, tucked my hair behind my ears on both sides, and held my head tenderly while she smiled.

“While I’m not happy that it happened and you should have asked for help, mistakes happen.

There’s a difference between making a mistake, which is what this is, and doing something bad intentionally.

And you, my sweet girl, don’t have it in your precious heart to be malicious.

You’re a good girl who made a mistake, and you did the right thing by coming to me. ”

We went inside, and she checked the damage. Then she turned, kissed me on the forehead, and said, “Usually, we can fix mistakes, but let’s not even bother. It adds character to the room, and when I miss you after you go back home, it’ll be a reminder of you each time I see it.”

“Hello? Are you still there?” The voice is annoyed, somewhat nasal. It pulls me out of my daydream.

“Oh, um, yes. Sorry. My name is?—”

“I said hello twice.” Her tone is sharp, and she interrupted me. This company is in serious need of customer service training.

“Okay.” Let it go, Tillie. Let it go. I take a focused breath in, then release it. “My name is Tillie Evans, and I’d like to speak to a supervisor, please. It’s about my home that your company is working on over on Magnolia Lane.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I want to talk with a supervisor or foreman. Whatever you call them. Or directly with Holden.”

An amused snort accompanies a muffled chuckle from the other end of the line. “I definitely can’t connect you to Holden. What can I help you with?”

“I’m sorry. What is your name? I didn’t catch it when we started the call.” Because you didn’t give it to me is what I want to add, but don’t.

“Lucy. What can I?—”

“Lucy, listen to me, please. I’m a paying customer, and I have concerns about how my home was left today. I want to speak to someone with authority. Now.” She huffs.

“Can you give me specifics to pass on?”

“Yes, I can, but I won’t. Because I’ve asked you politely three times to let me speak to a supervisor, and you haven’t. I’m going to hang up, and if someone doesn’t call me back this evening, I’ll be here in the morning when they arrive to make sure I get to speak with someone.”

“You can’t—” I don’t hear the rest as I disconnect the call.

I make my way to my bedroom, eager to get out of my work attire.

I growl as I pass the violated bathroom, even though the door is closed and I can’t see the mess.

When I get to my room, I pull off my clothes and toss them in the hamper—well, except for my bra.

That I throw across the room. It’s my daily rebellion against the fact that I have to wear it in the first place.

I wish I could be one of those women I see out in cute summer tops that I’m sure they can’t wear a bra with, but they’re fine.

If I tried that, these ladies would be bouncing all over the place.

Next, I grab my trusty old sweats and well-worn college sweatshirt.

I like it because it’s large and, honestly, the only good thing I got out of my marriage.

Joe used to get annoyed when I’d steal and wear it.

That never made sense because don’t men want women to wear their clothes?

Isn’t it some kind of primal possessive thing they have ingrained in them?

I guess Joe wasn’t like most men in a lot of ways…

or maybe he was. Regardless, I need to stop thinking about him because we’re divorced, and no good ever comes from dwelling on those memories.

Still, it was my final ‘fuck you’ when I took the sweatshirt out of his drawer before I left the house we shared for the last time.

It’s thin, with a significant rip under one armpit, but I still love it because it’s comfortable.

When I get back downstairs and glance around my living room, I sigh.

Besides my usual furniture, it now holds a microwave, my refrigerator, and a little bookshelf I’m using as a pantry for the small number of groceries I plan to keep in the house during the renovation of my kitchen.

Yes, my refrigerator is in my living room.

I like my drinks nice and cold, so I didn’t want to try to survive with a little mini fridge during the several weeks—possibly months—while the restoration takes place.

I spot the peanut butter and bread from where I stand and decide that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich will probably be sufficient for dinner tonight. Right as I’m about to get my ‘cooking’ on, the doorbell rings.

Who the hell is here? I’m not expecting anybody. I didn’t invite anyone, and there are no workers scheduled to be here.

“What the…” I mutter to myself. I pad over to the door and don’t even bother asking who it is before I whip it open. There’s a man standing there, who I’ve never met before.

“Who are you?” My tone is abrupt, but my patience for frustrating things is at an end for the day. First, the bathroom incident, now some man shows up at my house at six p.m. Who does that without calling?