Page 49 of The Cul-de-Sac War

This was the problem with being the unmarried, unsettled daughter at thirty-four.

She was twenty-four years old when they started giving her “the look” whenever they spied another single male in her presence. And at first, the list of conditions that had to be met before they gave “the look” was fairly long and rigid. Candidates had to be devoted male friends who made her laugh and clearly had a shining future ahead of them. Everyone knew the type. Med students, law students, dentists.

By her late twenties the standards lowered to charming ushers at church and nephews of esteemed coworkers at Dan’s office.

At thirty-one it was the dad of the Girl Scout cookie girl who came to the house (they bought sixteen boxes and had the father deliver them personally to Bree).

At thirty-two they’d descended to ticket-stub takers whose beards had not entirely overtaken their faces.

At thirty-three she had heard Dan ask the telethon caller from the university if he was a freshman or senior. Then, after confirming he was over eighteen, he found out exactly which Mellow Mushroom he was a server at and pledged fifty dollars. Because he had a “strong voice.”

Now, if anyone so much as looked at her, they gave her “the look.”

Not that she didn’t date. She did date. She’d dated plenty of people over the years. Loads. She’d even gone out with the Girl Scout dad once or twice.

But can you fault a girl for not settling? Honestly, while every other parent in the world challenged their daughters to stay strong, to not settle for any Joe Blow walking up their sidewalk with a bouquet of flowers, her parents were the opposite.

If she declared she met a guy across the country online the night before and they’d decided to elope, there’d be no demands to meet him. No background checks. No serious discussions regarding the weight of marriage. What would there be?

A plane ticket pushed into her hands and a teary wave at the security gate.

Bree walked back into the living room carrying two cups of steaming not-so-out-of-stock tea.

“Ah. Wonderful,” her mother said, stepping back into the living room from the hall bathroom and taking the mug in hand. “How about you open the green one first?”

So Bree opened the presents as they jumped from topic to topic, revealing a sweater as Dan effused about the new egg beater drill he bought for his shed, three crocheted pot holders for her nonexistent cooking life while her mother talked about the new gym she just joined, and one rather stunning little black dress for all the dates her parents were scheming up with her archenemy neighbor.

All in all the gifts, and the conversation, were lovely.

Finally, with crumpled wrapping paper around Bree’s feet and the mugs dry, Bree’s mother reached inside her purse.

“We have just one more for you, dear.”

Her mother held out a simple square box wrapped in gold foil. A red bow, like the kind a child gets on a new bike, was planted on top.

Somehow, the way her mother held it out, and the way Dan beamed as though knowing something she didn’t, made Bree hesitate.

Slowly, she reached out and took it. “Y’all are making me nervous,” Bree said.

They only smiled back, which didn’t help.

She popped off the bow and pulled off the wrapping paper.

It was a nondescript white box.

She lifted the lid, then her brow rose as she looked up.

“A . . . key?”

Her mind flew through the options while she picked it up and turned it in her hands. She hadn’t seen it before, surely? And this wasn’t one of those magical “Look outside! It’s your new Mercedes!” keys reserved for teenage country club kids. No, it looked more like a house key, or a shed key.

Oh no. Surely Dan wasn’t about to say he was sharing the contents of his shed with her. Of course, she’d always sounded enthusiastic about tools for his sake, but honestly. Could anyone really care that much about tailpipe cutters?

“It’s to the house.”

Bree’s thoughts came to a grinding halt. Her eyes shot from the key to her mother. Then to her stepfather. And back to her mother. “I have a key to Nana’s house already. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” her mother said slowly, her smile growing, “that we want to give you our portion of Nana’s house.” She paused. “With conditions.”