“Trouble is tattooed on my ass,” I reply.
She follows me down the sidewalk to his house, her fluffy house shoes keeping step with my Converses. “My grandson, Milo, plays wide receiver. He’s really good, Nova, and we’re hoping he can get a football scholarship to UT next year. I need Coach to stay in town if it’s going to happen.”
“That’s wonderful that Milo’s talented,” I say gently as I recall a rambunctious blond-haired little boy who used to play with my sister. “I can understand that you want the best for him. You’re a good grandma.”
“Right. Let’s me and you go back to my house. I have this essential oil, lavender, that I put in a diffuser. It gives you calm, and I’ll fire it up; then we can have some tea and cookies. I can get out my apple jelly and give you a jar to—”
“That sounds fabulous. Some other time.” I march up the newly redone steps of the house to the porch, taking in the mounted ceiling speakers where the music is blasting. Nice.
I dodge around the dancing women. She follows, panting slightly.
Points to Mrs. Meadows for determination, but my roses demand recompense. Seeing them mowed down is a metaphor for my entire life, and now that I know he’s an ex–football player, I find it even more despicable.
Through the glass door I have a view of the kitchen that leads to an open area, a huge den where several women are watching a football game on the big screen. Some lounge on the kitchen stools, chatting as they sip drinks and munch on the appetizers on the countertop.
Not a man in sight.
Frowning, I pause, realization dawning. “You mentioned a special committee. Did they invite these women?”
“Yes, I planned it. I’m head of the Blue Belle Booster Club. In hindsight, I should have invited you. My mistake. I’ll be sure you’re at the next football event.”
“Don’t bother. You’re trying to get him married?”
She lets out a gusty breath. “How many times do I have to say it? We want him to stay, Nova. We’ve introduced him to some of the prettiest girls in town. Melinda Tyler is here. She was Miss Texas. Very good family. She might be the one.”
Ohh, a beauty queen. Only the best for a coach.
I huff out a rueful laugh. I’m not surprised at all by the machinations. When I was in high school, the Blue Belle Booster Club bought a new Escalade for our coach after he won state. Once they rented a $2,000-a-month billboard in Huddersfield—our biggest rival—with just 34–10 on it and kept it up all year. Everyone knew what it was. The score from the game where we’d decimated them. The boosters—and their special committees—will do whatever it takes to keep the team happy. Need a million-dollar jumbotron? Done. Want a college-size stadium? You got it. Want a wife in a small town? We’ll find her.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “He had a woman, but she lives in New York, and you know how those city girls are.”
“I’m a city girl.”
She harrumphs. “Not in your heart, dear. Anyway, she’s some model and never would have settled down here. She came to some of the games last year and was highfalutin, just plain old pretentious. That’s who took out your bush, dear. I saw her peel out of here, and if you let me, I can call a landscaping company to fix them, and I’ll even pay for it—”
“Aunt Lois! Great party!” calls one of the girls from the other side of the porch as she swings in the wicker seat. She waves. Round face, brown hair. Pretty. Chewing gum.
“How old is your niece?”
She bristles. “Twenty.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-two today. He likes them young.”
My teeth grit. “Well. I can’t wait to meet this fine, fine man.”
I murmur sweet words in Sparky’s ear and set him down on the porch. I adore my cat, the only male who’s never let me down, but he’s not a people person per se, which is why I keep a firm grasp on his leash. Straightening my shoulders, I open the door, step into the kitchen, and scan the room.
Eventually the women take notice a few at a time and turn to look. They are all younger than me and look fabulous: cute shorts and skirts, low-cut slinky tops, hair long and styled. I don’t recognize a soul. Most of my high school friends have moved on to bigger cities, or I’ve lost touch with them. Part of me wilts as I take in the fashionable crew—then I shove it aside. Not here to impress anyone.
One of them, a leggy redhead in a shimmery green pantsuit with a belted tie, arches a carefully manicured brow at me as she sips on a martini. There’s a small diamond headband on her head. Hello, Miss Texas.