“Put me down, you pig!” I yelled and smacked him on the back of his head.

He laughed, a deep guttural laugh, his entire body pulsating, bouncing me up and down with the rhythm.

Once back on my feet, I straightened my shoulders, narrowing my eyes and pursing my lips.

“You should clean up that knee,” he said ignoring my look of disdain. All amusement was gone from his voice but his eyes still danced with delight. “Hate to see those sweet long legs get an infection.”

I rolled my eyes for the twentieth time this morning. What the hell was happening to me? I looked away and muttered, “Whatever. Thanks for the lift, I guess.”

He turned around and headed down the driveway without another word.

Inhaling a deep, much needed breath that was not accompanied by Logan’s delicious unfamiliar scent, I let it out just as I heard him call out.

“Thanks for the view this morning, sweetheart. It was magnificent.”

I looked over to see him standing at the end of the drive, smirking. I was getting used to that look.

Yeah, he was definitely behind me too long on my jog.

Never again.

From now on, I’d run in the evening.

Chapter Three

Oliver

After showering and bandaging my knee I spent the remainder of the day inside, blasting my favorite tunes to help block out the commotion going on next door.

Without any air conditioning, I was forced to open the windows in order to survive the intense heat wave that decided to hit right after lunch. I managed to remain busy to keep from replaying the morning events.

I dusted, vacuumed, and started a load of wash before climbing the tiny ladder in the hall ceiling to pull down more of my grandparents’ treasures tucked away in the attic.

When I first moved in, Hilary helped me empty most of the old furnishings to make way for newer items more to my taste. It hurt to watch the house slowly empty but I kept some of their art and knickknacks, and had yet to replace the curtains in a few of the rooms. It was beginning to feel more like home with the love of my grandparents built into the walls, wrapping me in a warm embrace.

After my grandfather died four years earlier, my grandmother slowly faded away. His death was unbearable for her to deal with. It didn’t help matters that her only child—my father—disappeared years ago and didn’t bother to show up for the funeral.

Every year my father sent me a birthday card with a hundred dollar bill and no return address. That was until my eighteenth birthday when the card not only had an address on the outside but it also had a phone number written under his usual closing, ‘love you always, Daddy.’

I never called, but like the many others cards before it, I stacked it in a small box and tucked it under my bed with the cash still inside…untouched.

It was only a couple months later that my grandfather died. I asked my mother if anyone had heard from Martin, my father, but the look in her eyes told me no. He set himself up to be unreachable to everyone but me.

I felt the burden on my shoulders when my grandmother collapsed in her living room the night after she lost her husband. She needed her son, so I pulled out the child sized shoebox and dialed the number.

A man answered on the second ring and all I felt was sadness, no anger. I asked if Martin Clarke was there and he said ‘speaking.’

Moment of truth. I could pour out all my frustration and buried resentment at his ability to up and leave, but by this point, it didn’t matter. My mother did her best to raise me and I loved her for that. I wasn’t one to hold a grudge. He was Martin Clarke, not my daddy.

I only had one thing to say that day.

“Your father died last night in his sleep. The funeral is this Sunday.”

I hung up feeling proud for doing my part. Not for me, but for my grandmother.

I never told anyone I made that phone call or that the number even existed. I debated telling my mother but didn’t want to let anyone down if he didn’t show up. My mother’s parents died before I was born, a car accident, but Martin’s father treated her like a daughter. Even more so with the disgrace of their son leaving her with a young child to raise on her own.

The day of the funeral came and went with nothing but tears and happy memories of my grandfather’s long life. No one spoke about Martin, nor did he show up.

That was the final straw. I packed up all the cards with the crisp bills inside and sent them to the return address from the last birthday card.

My grandmother died five months later in her sleep, on my grandfather’s side of the bed, clutching a picture of her husband and son during happier times.

I didn’t call the phone number that time. I no longer had it and like before, he never showed up to the funeral.

So now, sitting in the hallway with a box filled with my father’s childhood mementos it made it easy to carry it outside and throw it on the burn pile.

By the time the sun was beginning to set, I had a spotless house and a few less items in the attic. It felt good. I sat on my back porch finishing a plate of pasta I made for dinner, smiling at the beautiful array of colors in the sky.

Everything about that backyard was a happy memory.

I sighed, completely relaxed.

My nearly dry wash hung on the line swaying in the breeze. The neighbor’s horde of workers had retired for the evening and my new patio chairs were comfortable enough to fall asleep in.

The view of my property was nothing but a straight line of trees leading into the mammoth forest. My first and best childhood memories were made here looking out at those trees. On the far left side of the lawn sat a tree fort my father and grandfather built for my sixth birthday. They had been grinning with excitement when my mother walked me out there, blindfolded, and they all yelled surprise.

I still took the time to climb it every spring and fall to sweep the cracked wood floor, dust away the spiderwebs, and make any necessary repairs.

My grandfather’s tool shed was the one part of the house I never attempted to clean out. It was packed full of everything anyone could possibly need, not that I knew how to use ninety percent of his collection. However, give me a screw gun or hammer and nails and I’m your girl.

Feeling suddenly nostalgic, I set down my ice-cold glass of lemonade, and began heading to my home away from home perched in the fattest tree in the yard.

Glancing over at Logan’s house, I scowled. The pool was destroyed, leaving a taste of contempt toward Logan’s female friend for ordering it to be done.

He seemed overly flirty this morning, leaving me to wonder exactly what his relationship with the woman was. She could have been his decorator for all I knew. There was no ring on his finger, which nowadays, didn’t mean much.

Lost in my musings, I heard a crack sound out from the tree house followed by an ear-piercing scream.

Adrenaline shot through me, pushing me to run full speed at the tree and up the rickety ladder.

“Get em’, get em’, get em’!” The small boy inside shrieked, crouched in the corner.

I took a deep breath, relieved nobody was hurt and followed his gaze to the corner, across the tiny room.

“I tried scaring him away with that,” he explained pointing at a broom.

The boy began to stand, he was no taller than four feet and his mop of curls made it impossible not to smile. I picked up the broom.

Stiff with anxiety as to what he was trying to scare away, I leaned down to find a small brown mouse, trembling in the corner.