Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

I shrug. “Mom prepares at least two of these each month, so she has enough pieces to replace one if it gets ruined. I’m sure she gifted a few to your mother, as well.”

Ellie pats the pillow and places it on the bench again. “She sure loves to embroider, then.”

I suddenly remember that it was Dad who launched Mom into her obsession with needlework. One day, he came home with presents for both of us—I received a pair of sports shoes, and Mom got a beautiful sewing kit.

“Everything okay?” Ellie asks.

“I just had my first positive memory about my father in…a while.” Or, more likely, ever.

Ellie’s eyes widen then she smiles. “That’s terrific. It’s a sign that your mind is ready to heal.”

Just as I’m about to ask her what exactly she means by this, the house door creaks.

Is Mom home, then? I turn, expecting to see her signature, simple chignon bun. My mother claims that the less time she spends gussying up, the more time she can spend honoring the Lord and enjoying life.

However, it isn’t Mom who steps out. It’s Martha, my mother’s neighbor, avid book club buddy, and the street’s unofficial pet feeder.

It’s been over three years since I saw Martha, but she’s changed little. Her face is just as round as I remember—or perhaps even chubbier—and her odd preference for sleeveless, dog pawprint shirts is apparently still a thing. I bet she still makes her husband prune their backyard shrubs into puppy shapes.

Martha freezes when she notices me. Her cheeks pale, despite the thick layer of pink blush smeared on them.

“Wyatt? My dear boy! What are you—” She pauses and clears her throat. “I mean, what a delightful surprise to see you here!”

She opens her arms, and though I’m not big on embraces, I accept her hug and squeeze her soft body to me.

I like Martha. She and Ellie’s mother kept Mom company after my father disappeared.

Martha pulls back, and her glance wanders to Ellie. “And you? I thought you weren’t coming home until the end of the month. That’s what your mom said.”

Ellie’s face pulls into a startled grimace. It’s almost as if she didn’t know what to do if someone else besides my mother spotted us together.

She shifts her weight from one leg to the other, wringing her hands. “I…well…Wyatt wanted to visit his mom, so I took advantage and tagged along. To see my folks.”

Martha’s brows furrow. “But your parents are on Cape Cod. They left Saturday afternoon. Didn’t they tell you?”

Ellie taps her forehead and laughs nervously. “Ah, shoot. I totally forgot. Well, no biggie. We’ll just visit Cristina then.” She points at our house door. “Where is she?”

Now it’s Martha’s turn to fiddle.

She smooths her shirt collar, rakes through her impossibly yellow curls, and adjusts her poodle-shaped earring. “Cristina went out.”

“Out where?” I ask.

“To…uhm…to Prescott. I just came over to water her garden.” She rattles our house keys in her hand. “With this heat, you need to give the flowers some moisture three times a day. At least.”

Martha, like most elderly women in sleepy Kingman, is a gardening fanatic, but I’m not interested in her lecture on how to keep plants alive in the arid Arizona summer. I want to know what Mom’s doing in another city when her leg’s injured.

“What about the strain?” I ask.

“Strain?” Martha’s eyes widen.

“Didn’t Cristina fall down?” Ellie chimes in.

Martha’s glance darts to her, then she bobs her head. “Ah, yes, the strain, of course. Cristina’s fine now. All healed.”

Ellie smiles at me. “That’s good news, right?” Then as if she’s just remembered why we drove to Kingman, her forehead creases. She turns back to Martha. “Did she say when she’d be back?”

“Or why she even went to Prescott in the first place?” I ask.

Martha picks at her nails, avoiding my gaze. “The Heaven Valley Lavender Farm moved its products to their farmers’ market. Your mom must have run out of her favorite bath oil.”

I narrow my eyes at our neighbor. “Did she go alone?”

Martha brushes a hand on her prominent belly, almost as if caressing a poodle on her shirt. “She…she went with Wendy.”

“Do you know what time they’ll return?” I repeat Ellie’s question.

“Probably late.” Martha’s voice is a bit shaky, and beads are collecting on her forehead.

Ellie blinks at me. “We should’ve called her before we left Phoenix.”

“Yeah, we should’ve,” I reply and am stunned by my sharp tone.

It’s not like Mom needs to render me a full account of what she does. I shouldn’t be irritated that she’s out.

But I am.

And not just that. The pit of my stomach is woozy, and I don’t really know why, which bothers me even more.

Martha eyes us then glances at her watch. She gives out a theatrical sigh. “Oh dearie, look at that. It’s late. I really oughta go. My husband will be back from his golfing soon, and I still gotta iron our shirts for tonight.”

“Are you going out?” Ellie gives her a questioning look. “Somewhere special?”

Martha’s posture relaxes as if she’s glad we skipped to a different topic. “To the Boot Scootin’ Bash. Where else? The Mayor postponed the celebration from Saturday to tonight because the weather channel predicted a dust storm.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course, we had no more sand than on any usual weekend.”

My eyebrows jump to my hairline. “There’s a dance tonight?”

“Didn’t you see the giant posters when you drove into town?” Martha asks.

No. I probably missed them because of the aftermath of my Zen break with Ellie. But in that case, it’s even weirder that Mom went to Prescott exactly today.

“Do you know which band is playing?” Ellie squeaks, and her excited voice reminds me that she used to be part of our high school’s line dancing team.

“Charlie’s Country Heart. My hubby secured them.” Martha grins at us.

I’ve never heard of this group, but the utter pride on Martha’s face tells me these musicians must be at the top of their game—at least as far as small-town, western musical