Page 4 of The Second Dance

I came into this meeting with a lot of expectations. Rich white ladies. They carry a reputation.

I didn’t expect to be drawn to this woman the way that I am. And I did not expect the sorrow on that face to hit me so hard.

Heather glances at me and laughs. “Girl, look at you. Cheer up. We should be celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

She leans in, grinning like a kid with a big secret. “Celebrating the eighty acres of Thorne county dirt I’m about to dedicate to the Songbird Foundation.”

I blanch.

My dad is an accountant in Thorne county. I know exactly how much one acre of land is worth in that black-dirt, water-rich county.

I came in here hoping to walk away with a check for ten thousand. Maybe twenty-five.

Eighty acres. I do the math in my head.

That’s almost 1.1 million dollars.

Heather laughs at my expression. “This is in honor of my husband, who is a magnificent piece of shit.”

She holds her drink up until I belatedly lift mine, clinking the rim of my glass against hers.

She laughs to herself. “This will drive him crazy.”

3.

Bo

“Son of a bitch.”

My dad has always been known to swear, but there’s a heat to those words this time that catches my attention.

I set the coffeepot back down, holding my mug in both hands.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a letter in his hands.

“Fuck. Fuck it all.” He tosses the letter down. I watch him pace like a caged lion before he turns and grabs his empty coffee mug. He reels back, momentarily looking like a quarterback again, before throwing it with a beautiful spiral.

It shatters against the cabinets.

Well, fuck me. I survey the damage before glancing back at him. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

He huffs, somewhat deflated. Turning back to the counter, he grabs the letter and hands it to me.

It comes on legal letterhead. I skim the contents, looking up at him with pure confusion on my face. “What the fuck is the Songbird Foundation and why did you commit eighty acres?”

He gives me a sour smile. “Ididn’t. That’s the Warton eighty.”

My stomach drops. Of all the acres we own, that little patch of ground is hands down my favorite. Ever since I was twelve years old, I’ve occupied my mind by imagining the house I’m going to build out there one day. The pond I’m going to stock with bluegill.

“What’s this mean? Did we sell it?”

“No. Your mother committed it to the Foundation.”

“So, let’s uncommit it.”

“We can’t. That’s legally binding. She owns that land, Bo. She got it in the divorce.”