Free Paris Rose by Dawn Douglas Page A

the outdated kitchen, wanting to cry.
    Dexter barked sharply.
    She nodded and blew her nose. “You’re right,” she said softly. “I can’t give up, can I? There’s way too much at stake.”
    The mustard yellow shag pile carpet in the master bedroom tickled Lucy’s toes as she changed into work clothes, afraid that if she didn’t begin work immediately she’d be overcome with doubt and lethargy. Dexter stared as she donned a pair of sturdy work boots.
    “I can do this,” she whispered fiercely, not sure if she was referring to her angry ex-husband or the neglected house she’d purchased. Downstairs, she began to rip up the cracked, greasy linoleum in the kitchen, not allowing herself to stop until darkness fell outside and she ached all over. At midnight she showered, then fell into bed, telling herself this would all be worth it in the end. An image of Nick floated into her head, and he was smiling at her tenderly, madly in love with her again. Eyes on the prize, Lucy thought. Eyes on the prize.
    Three weeks later, her mood had improved considerably. Sleek, glowing wood floors replaced the shag pile in the bedroom and the linoleum in the kitchen, the house sported a brand new roof, and Lucy had started receiving estimates for kitchen remodels. Dexter seemed to approve of the yard, which Miss Norwood had taken a lot better care of than the interior of the home. There were three rose bushes with peach-colored buds, an apple tree, and lots of Marguerite daisies.
    She’d stocked the battered old avocado fridge with wine and soda and spent evenings relaxing on the concrete patio after hours of scrubbing at the ceilings or scraping off orange and brown wallpaper. There she pored over decorating books, her head filling with ideas, glad she’d taken time off work to get a start on this project.
    There’d been two further encounters with Nick. Each time she’d called out a tentative “hi.” The first time he’d ignored her. The second time he grunted. Lucy, an eternal optimist, treasured that grunt. It meant she was making progress. Of course it was going to take time. But she was a very patient woman.
    Smiling, she grabbed a bottle of water and headed outside, inhaling the aroma of freshly mown grass and deciding to enjoy some downtime after a Saturday morning spent heaving sacks of old Library Journal magazines up from the basement and dumping them in trash bags. Dexter shot ahead of her, yapping wildly.
    The sounds of music and voices floated from Nick’s yard, and Lucy wondered if her ex had friends over. The aroma of barbecuing meat made her nostrils twitch.
    Dexter noticed the commotion, too. There was a weak area at the bottom of the fence, a place where the wood had broken, and the intrepid Yorkie charged to the hole determinedly, scratched at the dirt beneath it to make more space for his body, and wriggled through.
    “Dexter—no!” Lucy yelled, but he’d accomplished the feat in a matter of seconds and disappeared next door.
    “Shit,” she muttered, running to the fence and peering over.
    Nick’s family gaped at her. Sylvia, his mom, was seated in a lawn chair chatting to Nick’s twin sister, Angie. Tom, his dad, presided over the barbecue wielding a large spatula, while Nick stood beside him, glaring at her. Kieran, Angie’s little boy, was chuckling as Dexter dashed around as if he were on speed.
    Sylvia rose to her feet, looking amazed. “Lucy? What are you doing here?”
    Nick suddenly strode toward Dexter, seized him up, and began to march over to the fence. “Here,” he said, thrusting the dog at her, his expression grim.
    “What are you doing next door?” Sylvia inquired again, coming over.
    “I—I just bought this house,” Lucy stammered. When she’d had the bright idea of buying up Miss Norwood’s old place and somehow winning Nick back, she had failed to take into account the fact that she might encounter her ex in-laws. They’d surely guess what she was up to. Lucy’s face