Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

When I get back to Grammy’s place—I’m still struggling to call it mine—I drop the groceries on the counter, then go back to close the front door.

I find an envelope on the floor with my name scrawled in neat writing on the front. I carefully tear it open and find a check for a grand inside and a note from Dillion asking me to let her know what this month’s porn charges are so she can cover those too. I feel mildly bad that I’m going to accept her check. Unfortunately, being unemployed means I have reason to be concerned about the cost of the cable bill.

I rub the space between my eyes and sigh. I have no idea how I’m going to clear my name, or find out what happened to that money. The foundation was supposed to make a hefty donation in the next few months, and if that falls through, the literacy program might not be able to run at all. I hate all this sitting and waiting for something to happen. Especially since now no one will tell me anything, and I don’t have access to any of the foundation’s financial records, having been removed from the board.

I’m not particularly hungry anymore, but I make myself two turkey-and-cheese sandwiches with the horrible fake cheese my parents would never buy when I was a kid that I secretly loved.

Grammy Bee always had it in the house because it made the best grilled cheese sandwiches. And she bought the Velveeta kind, in block form, which she said was better than the individually wrapped slices.

After lunch I step out onto the new front porch that has yet to be stained and head to the garage. I’m saving the staining for the evening, since it’s quiet and won’t get me yelled at by my neighbor. Although, knowing her, I’m sure she’ll find something to yell at me for. I smile just thinking about her. I don’t know what my fascination with her is, other than her being a welcome distraction from my life.

Over the past few days, I’ve managed to make some headway on cleaning out the garage, which is saying something, since it was practically stuffed full of Grammy’s treasures and Grampy’s old tools. It’s a big space, and I’d like it to have a function other than being a hoarder’s dream.

I’ve looked into some of the building bylaws, and it’s pretty tough to get permits for new structures, so I’m thinking my best bet is to turn it into a second living space, once I’ve cleaned out all the junk. With some modifications, it should be big enough for a one-bedroom loft above the garage space, which it was something Grammy Bee used to talk about but never had the chance to do.

It’s also an excuse not to tackle the actual cottage, which is daunting. Grammy Bee’s house is the only place I’ve ever been sentimental about. It’s filled with great memories from my childhood, and I’m not ready to sift through those yet.

I spend the afternoon dragging stuff into the driveway and separating it into piles. There are three: toss, keep, and sell. The toss pile is the biggest, which isn’t a surprise. The garage is basically full of all the things no one wanted in the house anymore but couldn’t be bothered to take to the dump. Or maybe Grammy Bee thought it would be useful to someone. Regardless, it makes for a lot of full black bags.

I’ve started tossing the bags into the bed of Grammy’s ancient truck—which I’m stunned still runs, considering it’s from the sixties and is rusted out in places—when I get a call from my buddy. We went to college together and have stayed close ever since. I’ve talked to him a couple of times since I arrived in Pearl Lake. He’s aware of the dumpster dive my life has done.

“Hey, Frankie, how’s it going?” I put him on speakerphone and heft another bag into the truck.

“Good, good. How’s the backwoods treating you? You doing okay, man?” The clickety-clack of his keyboard comes through the phone.

I glance to the right, where Dillion’s trailer is barely visible beyond the trees. Is my life a mess? Sure. But at least I’m not in Chicago in the direct line of fire. According to my dad, the media is all over the story, so staying here is better than being there. “As well as can be expected.”

“That’s fair, all things considered. Getting day drunk would be completely within reason.”

I laugh, although I’m not sure he’s joking. “Reliving my college days, while fun, wouldn’t be particularly good for my brain cells.” I’m also not sure I can afford to pick up a bad habit at the moment. “Everything okay with you?” I toss another bag into the back of the truck, and it lands with a metallic thunk.

“Yeah. Just wanted to check in on you. You busy with something? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not a bad time. Trying to keep myself occupied, you know? I’m cleaning out the garage, getting rid of stuff that should have been tossed a couple of decades ago.”

“Productive is always a good thing.” There’s a brief pause in the typing. “Don’t want to let the small-town work ethic rub off on you, otherwise you might get stuck at the bottom of the ladder. Gets tough to climb your way back up.”

“I don’t know that the work ethic around here is all that low.”

“You know what I mean. Small-town life equates to small aspirations. You were on your way to the top. You can get back there.”

“Is this a good news call, then?” Frankie is a well-known recruiter in Chicago, always looking for the newest hot commodity and then placing them in high-performing companies. He’s excellent at what he does and was the one who hooked me up with my previous employer. I’ve only been out of a job for a short time, but I’m already getting antsy about not having a steady income. I want to get the ball rolling and start applying for new jobs, but with this scandal hanging over my head, I’m not so sure it’s going to be easy to convince anyone to hire me.