Page 41 of Timid (Lark Cove 2)

“Hi. Want some help?”

“Sure! I didn’t realize these had grown so much these past two weeks. I’ve been so focused on getting the strawberry patch in the front yard under control.”

“It’s okay. I just step around them.”

“I think we’d better trim them back.” She picked up a yellow petunia that had been trampled, probably by one of Jackson’s boots.

I laughed. “You’re probably right.”

I picked up the watering can that I used every day to water the flowers and went to the faucet to fill it up. I watered quickly, then found another pair of scissors to help Mom.

It didn’t take us long to work our way up the stairs, trimming until we could actually see the stairs again. When we got to the top, Dad came out from around the garage.

He was wearing his standard khaki chinos, short-sleeved shirt and loafers. The only thing different about his summer attire and his school-year attire was the lack of a tie. He still styled his light blond hair like he was going to work. And he starched and ironed his slacks every morning.

“You girls ready for dinner?” he asked.

“Almost,” I told him, tying up the garbage bag we’d filled.

Saturdays were also my night to eat dinner with my parents. We’d started the ritual after I’d moved into the garage three years ago, so instead of going on dates or meeting friends, I spent my Saturday nights with Mom and Dad.

With the work done, Mom and I descended the stairs, meeting Dad at the bottom.

Mom pulled off her garden gloves and tossed them on a step. “I’m ready.”

“You’re wearing your visor and clogs to dinner?”

She shrugged. “It’s just pizza at the bar.”

“The bar? I thought we were going up to Kalispell.” I wasn’t mentally prepared to go to the bar for dinner. Or adequately dressed.

I normally wore dresses in the summer, except for jeans a couple times a week on days I’d spend outside exploring with the kids at camp. I never went to work without taming my hair and applying some makeup.

But today I’d made no effort. My face was bare and my hair hadn’t been washed—or combed for that matter. It was just pulled back in a messy braid. I was wearing raggedy, olive-green shorts with a black tank top that sometimes doubled as a pajama top. The straps of my yellow bra were showing.

“We don’t want to be driving around if we’re drinking,” Dad said.

“I can be the designated driver.”

He shook his head. “No way. We’re celebrating tonight! We’re so proud of all the work you put into finding someone to buy the camp. Now it’s safe for, hopefully, another fifty years, we want to toast to a job well done with our daughter. Besides, we haven’t been to the bar in ages. I’m craving pizza.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Can I have ten minutes to change?”

“You look beautiful.” Mom took my hand and tugged me behind her down the driveway. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

“But—”

“Oh, Willa,” Dad said, catching up. “You look beautiful.”

And that was how I ended up at the bar on my Saturday night with Jackson coming my way.

“Hey there, Nate. Hi, Betty. Long time no see.” Jackson shook both of my parents’ hands, then came to stand behind me at the table we’d chosen in the middle of the bar.

I scooched my chair in toward the table, trying to put a little more space between Jackson and me, but he wasn’t having it.

He put both hands on the back of my chair, then leaned in close. “Hi, Willa.”

“Uh . . . hi.” I shivered at the heat from his chest on my bare shoulders.