“Has he been home recently?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked at me with a confused expression. “I’m positive.”
With a smile, I wrapped my arm around hers and pushed away the stupid feeling. “I’m sure he and his daddy will make up.”
“And you? Will you ever forgive Anson?” she asked. I could hear the sadness in her voice.
“If Anson wanted to truly make up, why is he not even bothering to call me?”
She lifted a brow. “Says the girl who has his phone number as well. And ignores his cards.”
I let out a sigh of frustration. “What we had is all in the past, and I’ve moved on.”
“But you haven’t forgiven him? It was a song written out of anger, Bristol. We all do and say things in anger that we don’t mean.”
“It’s not about the song anymore. I was angry, yes. I felt betrayed, and I wasn’t ready to forgive him. It’s just, I never really thought he would give up the fight like he did.”
With a thoughtful look in her eyes, she nodded. “A woman needs to know she’s worth the fight.”
I laughed. “I guess so. But that’s all water under the bridge.”
Ida stared at me for a few moments and then smiled. “Let’s go eat dessert.”
“Mrs. Meyer?”
The voice startled us both, and we turned to see a man and woman standing on the steps of the porch.
Ida smiled. “Yes, may I help you?”
They both looked from Ida to me. “Are you Ms. Meyers?” the man asked.
With a chuckle, I shook my head. “No, my name is Bristol Overmann…Is there something we can help you with?”
It wasn’t uncommon for history buffs to stop by and ask Ida and Irwin about the house they lived in.
“Yes, I was wondering if we might have a few words with Mrs. Meyer,” the man said.
The woman kept quiet, but I realized she was holding something behind her back.
“Is it about the house?” I asked.
“No, about her grandson, Anson. Do you know Anson Meyer as well—Ms. Overmann, was it?” he asked me with a smile.
“Yes. We went to school together, and I’m sorry, the Anson family doesn’t grant interviews.”
“What about you?” the woman asked.
My smile instantly faded. “No.”
“No, you won’t answer a few questions for us?”
Ida replied before I could. “That’s what you heard. If you’ll kindly leave the property before I introduce you to my Smith & Wesson. And if you don’t know what that is…it’s a gun. And you’re on private property and have been asked to leave.”
Now I saw what had been behind the woman’s back when she pulled it out and snapped a picture of me and Ida. Then she turned and walked back down the porch steps. The male reporter stared at me a beat too long.
“Sir, if you would please leave.”
“Of course…Ms. Overmann.”
My heart started to pound. How much of my conversation with Ida had they heard?
As they both walked away, the male reporter turned and glanced back over his shoulder to look directly at me. “Enjoy the day, Bristol.”
Anger pulsed in my veins at his causal use of my name. Dickhead.
Ida grabbed hold of my arm and tugged me into the house. “Oh, dear. I think we need to call Anson.”
At that very moment, my cell phone rang. When I looked down and saw his number, I nearly dropped the phone.
“It’s…it’s Anson,” I whispered.
Ida ushered me into the house as she reached for my phone and answered it.
“Hello?” Ida said, her voice a little panicky.
“Yes, Sweetheart. No, you called the right number. Of course, she’s standing right here!”
What in the hell were the odds Anson would call me at that exact moment? After all these years.
Ida handed me the phone.
“H-hello?” I said, my voice sounding weak.
“Bristol? What’s wrong?”
The concern in his voice nearly brought me to tears. I closed my eyes and let the timber of his voice settle in around me. I’d heard him occasionally on an awards show or during an interview, but his voice always sounded so serious, with a sharp edge to it. This, this was the Anson I had fallen in love with so many years ago.
I snapped out of my daze and forced myself to speak.
“Nothing. We just had an incident on Ida’s porch. Two reporters. They took a picture of us, and they might have overheard a conversation we had … about you and me. Or what used to be you and me. Um, if that makes sense.”
“Fuck. I was calling to warn you that there’s a reporter I got into a … disagreement with early on in my career. He’s popped his head back up and is snooping around Comfort. I think he’s trying to find you.”
I swallowed hard. Was that the person my mother had seen when she thought it might be Anson? “Well, I think he just did, and I’m pretty sure I just offered up my name for him as well.”