Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

“You’d do that?” Uncle John glances at my dad and then back at me.

“Well, yeah, of course. That’s about fifty percent of what I did when I was working in Chicago. I dealt with the client questions so the people who did the actual work could manage that aspect.” Project management is basically the same, no matter what field it’s in.

“Well, hell yes, please, then. I need to be able to get moving on this, or we’ll be even more behind, and every single decision requires a freaking FaceShield call.”

“Do you mean FaceTime?”

Uncle John throws up his hands. “How’m I supposed to know? They have those expensive tablet things that are bigger than my head, and they walk around and talk on them like it’s freaking normal. All I have is this.” He waves his phone around in the air. Based on the size of it, I’d have to guess it’s fairly old and likely doesn’t have many of the apps and updates it needs to function properly.

I make a mental note to check their phone and data plans. Sometimes the internet can be slow and sketchy out here. It’s not like Chicago, where there are satellites everywhere and everyone is plugged in all the time. This is farther off the beaten path, and that means some days service goes out. It’s better now than it used to be back when I lived in town, but whenever I visited for holidays, I made sure I brought a pocket Wi-Fi device so I could send emails without them taking twenty minutes to load.

My parents even have a landline, because in the winter you can lose power for a few days at a time, and then the only way to call anyone is if you have a rotary dial phone.

“When’s the next time you’re discussing finishes with her?”

“We have to swing by this afternoon,” Dad says.

“Why don’t I come with? I need to stop in town and grab some office supplies anyway.”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

“Perfect. I’ve already looked over the project specs, so if you can fill me in on the budget and what all she still needs to choose design-wise, I can go in with a plan of attack.”

Two hours and a very practical conversation later, Lainey Bowman makes a decision on what flooring and cabinetry will work best with the existing design and will preserve the rustic quality of the room. She signs off on the materials and the cost, and I manage to do it all electronically, without even one piece of paper to file.

On the way out, I stop to talk to my dad, who’s already back to work on the pool-house project. “Want me to check Harry’s to see if they can order this stuff in, or go directly to your contacts in Chicago?”

My dad taps the side of his hard hat and sighs. “I don’t think Harry’s going to have any of this stuff, except maybe the paint, but you can give it a shot? I’d at least try to give him the business, but he’s usually only got the basic stock, not the real high-end stuff these folks are looking for.”

“Okay, I’ll pop in on the way through town.”

“Great. Thanks, Darlin’. You’re a real godsend.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze and goes back to measuring two-by-fours.

I hop into the “good” pickup truck, the one that’s used more for advertising than it is for hauling building supplies. Unlike the “work” trucks, the interior is clean, there are no coffee cups or wrappers littering the floor, and it smells like fresh pine with a hint of sawdust.

I pull out of the driveway and pass more mansion-style homes with long driveways, all either paved with formed concrete or interlocking stone. The garages are generally bigger than most of the houses on the south side of the lake. And every year another McMansion pops up on the north side, changing the landscape and edging the neighborhood out to the east and the west. The marina and downtown area stop them from swallowing up the townies completely.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the money they bring in. Tourism is the reason our community stays afloat during the winter months, but I can’t pretend it didn’t burn my ass when those rich summer kids strung along my townie friends. Or how easy it was to fall into the trap of wanting something you could never have. Even I wasn’t immune. I only made the mistake once, and it was only one impulsive kiss, but I’ve never forgotten it—not the feel, the smell, or the bitter taste it left in my mouth when someone reminded me where my place was, which was nowhere near those rich kids.

When I was young, I believed that life was easier when you had money. And after moving to Chicago, I learned all about the grass on the other side being greener, and how wide the divide was between me and those who had more than average. Even in college there were cliques. They wore brand names and drove around in sweet cars I’d have to work a lifetime to afford. No matter where I was, or where I worked, there would always be a hierarchy that I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to get close to the top of. Back then, it was easier for people with everything to have more, and harder for those of us at the bottom to secure a place a few rungs up the ladder without being kicked back down. Being back here is a reminder of that.

I turn onto the main road and head into town. The first stop is Harry’s, on the off chance that he has everything I need, including the office supplies.

Harry greets me with crinkled eyes and a wide smile. “Well, if it isn’t wee Dillion Stitch. I heard you was back in town!”