The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(27)

“It’s their claim to fame,” I answer.

And not THAT much weirder than the Alligator Festival in Anahuac Texas, where they ring a bell every time someone traps a gator. Or the Poteet Strawberry Festival, Irving’s Zestfest, or the Wurstfest in New Braunfels.

Have I been to a disproportionate number of these festivals? Yep. But never The Sheet Cake Festival. I suspect that’s about to change.

“So, the town can’t be totally dead,” Chase says.

“Just mostly dead.” I refrain from making a Princess Bride joke because Collin anticipates it and gives me a look like Just try it and see what happens.

“We could ask Thayden to look at whatever paperwork he signed. Maybe he could find an escape clause,” Chase says.

Thayden has become the go-to lawyer for us after marrying Harper’s friend Delilah. This makes him one degree from family. I honestly feel a little embarrassed how much business we’re sending his way. I mean, not that we’re all in legal trouble. But it seems like every other day, someone is like, “better call Thayden” or “Thayden will handle it.”

I’m not sure if he’s glad or sad he met us. His bank account is probably happy.

“Patrick,” Collin says. “Could you really see this working?”

Ah, the million-dollar question.

I scoot back in my chair, gazing off at the velvety night sky as I picture the main drag of Sheet Cake. The quaint architecture and the empty—but charming—streets. The diner and Mari’s best-ever migas. I can picture myself on one of the balconies, looking down to the end of the street toward the silos, where lights have been strung up outside. I hear the faint strains of live music playing.

I’m not alone. My arm is slung over a thin set of shoulders—too thin—but I’m working on that by feeding her good food and keeping her well slept. Her chestnut hair tickles my neck as the wind blows and the scent of strawberry lip gloss and mint is like a drug hitting my system.

Inside the loft apartment sleeps a little girl who may not be mine by blood, but whom I love just as deeply.

“Pat? Come on, man. What do you think?” Collin asks.

“Yeah,” I say after a long pause, “I could see it.”

And it’s so close, so real, so powerful I can almost taste it.





Chapter Eight





Lindy





The library is usually one of my happy places. The building looks essentially like every historic library in a movie: high ceilings and tall shelves crammed with books, rich wood floors, and a curved staircase leading up to the second floor. For the Ladies Literary and Libation Society meetings, it’s lit solely by candles—electric, because libraries and real candles don’t mix.

Val has told me more than once she finds the library after-hours creepy, but I think it’s amazing. Jo and I discussed moving in after she read From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. We won’t. Probably.

But tonight, not even the library’s ambiance can work a miracle on my mood. I feel like the heroine in an old cartoon, tied down to a set of tracks just waiting for the train to run me over.

“Are you okay, kiddo?” Val asks, giving my knee a squeeze.

My friends and I have our own corner, next to the glass case of historic photos, when our town was glorious and hopeful. It’s like the little kids’ table at a holiday meal. We don’t mind, since we can make snarky, whispered comments and the other ladies, most of whom predate us by at least a decade, can pretend they don’t hear.

“Fine,” I say, giving her the best version of a smile I can manage.

Val isn’t buying it but knows me well enough not to press me. Which is good. Because one good push is all it will take to have me spilling the news about Pat showing up today. And I am not ready to have this conversation, even if I promised Mari I’d tell my best friends.

I will. I will. But I can already guess how they’ll react—Val feeling like it’s fate, and Winnie wanting to know where Pat is now so she can give him several pieces of her mind. Before I can sort through their opinions, I need to know how I feel. And right now, that’s just overwhelmed and confused.

From my other side, Winnie eyes me, like her keen gaze has the power to see my thoughts. We not-so-jokingly call her the scalpel, both because of her keen insight and her aversion to anything but honesty. With Val’s soft questioning and Winnie’s sharp eyes, it’s hard to keep this secret. Especially when sandwiched between my two best friends.

I’m the perpetual middle of us, the medium setting in almost every way. My boring brown hair lands between Val’s black and Winnie’s golden; my olive skin is in the middle of Winnie’s pale cream and the rich sepia Val shares with Mari. Val runs full-tilt in terms of her words and her emotions, while Winnie is like a tight fist of control, wrapped up in snark. I am—you guessed it!—right in the middle.

I also fit somewhere between the two of them style-wise with what I call Texas casual chic. My usual uniform is cowboy boots paired with simple dresses or jeans. The forest-green Dickey’s coveralls Val has on tonight are one of her fashion staples, with multiple layers of paint across the knees and splatters on the chest. On most women, this utilitarian-artist look might not work, but not even coveralls can hide Val’s curves.