The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club Read Free Page A

trees. If he’d been a trial lawyer instead of a tax and estate planning attorney, he’d have been a terror in the courtroom. His James Earl Jones–like tone would carry every argument. As it was, every self-respecting squirrel within earshot ought to have been shaking in its little rodent boots. “You must have driven all night.”
    â€œThe car seemed to know the way and I didn’t feel like stopping.” Lacy had a fear of bedbugs, so hotels held zero charm for her, even if she could have afforded a higher-priced room, which she couldn’t. And besides, once she was horizontal, it was anyone’s guess whether she’d sleep. Bradford’s face had a nasty habit of hovering at the edges of her vision just as she started to drop off.
    â€œHow’s the Volvo running?”
    Gas mileage and odd knocking sounds in her motor were topics of intense interest to her dad. To Lacy, they had the charm of being safe to discuss, so she gave him the latest report. That way, she didn’t have to revisit the reason she’d run home like a scalded dog. Besides, if Dad wanted more details, he’d be sure to ask.
    â€œCoffee’s on.” Dad unloaded her suitcase from the trunk and led the way into the house.
    The home Lacy grew up in had been built in the 1920s. It was a lovely two-story Colonial with decorative dentils under the eaves, a carved wooden pineapple on the newel post at the foot of the stairs, wainscoting in the dining room, and crown molding throughout.
    Really good bones.
    Unfortunately, it was filled to the rafters with stuff . Not quite at hoarder levels yet, but every room in the place was crammed with furniture of various vintages ringing the walls. It would be hard to find space on those walls for even one more eight-by-ten photo. Occasional tables jutted into the hallways and every horizontal surface was covered with bric-a-brac, collectibles, and doodads.
    Mom never met a garage sale she didn’t like.
    Lacy followed her dad into the kitchen and perched on one of the bar stools at the island. He poured her a cup of vile, dark liquid and, like a good penitent, she drank.
    Her dad’s coffee was a cross between Starbucks on steroids and about six Red Bulls. Even though she’d been driving for thirty-some hours, the cobwebs in her brain began to dissolve.
    Dad took a sip and made a face. “Well, that’ll make a grown man tremble. Brewed it a might stout today, even for me. Let’s sweeten it a bit.” He took down a bottle of Bailey’s from the top shelf and liberally dosed both their mugs. The creamy liquor emitted pleasantly alcoholic fumes. “Don’t tell your mother.”
    Dad was of the opinion that the apostle Paul’s admonition to Timothy to “take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake” extended to distilled spirits as well. Mom was a more literal theologian. They argued the point on a regular basis, but without a definitive winner.
    Lacy was the pragmatist of the family. Anything that made her dad’s coffee drinkable was aces in her book.
    â€œSo how did you leave things back east?” he asked.
    â€œI sold everything. The matter is settled to the DA’s satisfaction.” At least, she hoped it was.
    â€œDid you have to take on some serious debt, daughter?”
    What? Did he have some sort of weird dad-radar that pegged out when one of his kids got in over her head? She wasn’t about to tell him that as part of the deal that kept her from being indicted along with the absent Bradford, the district attorney had required her to liquidate all she owned to make reparations. When that wasn’t enough, she had taken out a huge loan for the rest with no idea how she’d pay it back.
    â€œI’m OK, Dad,” she said, more to convince herself than him. She’d had no choice really. It was accept the loan that almost miraculously became available from the O’Leary brothers or